Portable Soup

From the 'In Case You Didn't Already Feel Fucking Old' Department

2006-01-30T13:36:00.000-06:00

Baby Jessica marries.

Enough said. But at least it spawned this bit of comedic genius. (Crap, that's just something else to make me feel old: remembering when The Simpsons was actually still funny. Damn, that's a long time ago, too.)

The King of All Media

2006-01-24T13:46:00.000-06:00

Howard Stern? Not even close. Oprah? Too altruistic. Think nerdy. (Mark Cuban? Dear God, not that freakin' nerdy.) Think iPods. Think Steve Jobs.

Yes, thanks to an almost-inked deal between Disney and Pixar, Mr. Jobs is set to become the largest individual shareholder of Disney and have a seat on the Disney board. Leader of the personal computer revolution, leader of the digital music revolution, leader of the computer animation revolution . . . now the undisputed King of All Media.

I just hope he's better at the job than our other king.

A Letter to the Speaker

2005-11-08T14:23:00.000-06:00

Dear Rep. Hastert:

When I first read the news that your office was suggesting a Congressional investigation into the secret U.S. interrogation centers abroad, I naturally assumed that you wanted Congress to get to the bottom of how such a program, if true, could have been sanctioned by the U.S. even as it flies in the face of every international standard of human rights.

Imagine my surprise to read further and discover that you are instead advocating the investigation of the leak of these centers' existence. On the contrary, whoever leaked this information to The Washington Post should be the recipient of the Congressional Medal of Honor, not the subject of an investigation.

I strongly agree that the protection of our freedoms and the safeguarding of our homeland from terrorist attacks should be among our highest priorities, and I'm not naive enough to believe that questionable covert activities don't take place every day in the interest of protecting those freedoms. But for the U.S. government to sanction, even in secret, the existence of centers designed to torture confessions out of enemy combatants is not only inexcusable, but immoral and illegal under international law.

For your personal benefit, I would strongly suggest you reconsider this "investigation" because I'm afraid it may shine the harsh light of day in some places that the Congress will later wish were allowed to remain in darkness. But proceed at your own risk—although I think it will surprise you that the American people, interested though they are in protecting their own security, will still prefer not to sink to the level of terrorists in the process.

Kind regards,

Cardinal Biggles

Hardly News

2005-08-03T08:58:00.000-05:00

Brain-dead woman gives birth to baby.

Big fucking deal. A brain-dead man has been running the country.

Top that, lady.

As God Is My Witness, They've Never Gone Hungry

2005-04-27T16:47:00.000-05:00

And also as God is my witness, I will never, ever get on one of these fucking things unless they are shipping my cold, dead body in the cargo hold.

I especially liked this phrase:

A cabin designed around a large sample of today’s real passengers providing more space regardless of class of ticket, wider seats and aisles.

Translation: "We got out a fucking huge tape measure and were shocked to discover that most of our passengers—but especially those sitting in the cheap seats—were horrifyingly obese, so we had no choice but to build this big goddamn plane to accommodate their ridiculously large asses."

Sadly, this is just another in a long string of "accommodations" for the insanely obese—a trend which I for one am getting a little sick of. I don't want to seem insensitive to the plight of the overweight, but I do resent paying more for just about every product and service I use because it had to be re-engineered for this growing (no pun intended) group. Lay off the fucking McDonald's, people.

A Random Musing

2005-03-22T15:45:00.000-06:00

Okay, to dispel the rumors that I'm dead, herewith one, lone, pitiful excuse for a blog entry:

Whilst waxing apoplectic today about the Terri Schiavo debacle (and although I use that word with no disrespect to this poor woman or her family, at least from a political standpoint it is exactly that), it suddenly occurred to me to think a bit about her last name. Though you'd certainly not realize it from the Americanized pronunciation "SHY-voh," it's really a perfectly good Italian word. And I suppose the pronunciation disparity is one reason that its wholly ironic meaning in Italian, where it's pronounced "ski-AH-voh," never leaped to mind.

It means, quite appropriately I think, "slave."

We Can Make the World a Whole Lot Brighter

2004-11-26T15:35:00.000-06:00

With apologies to The Brady Bunch, the title of this afternoon's post refers to my dear friend Cardinal Fang, who, perhaps buoyed by a little extra Turkey (of the Wild variety), recently epiphanied all over himself.

Seems that dear Fang has come to the realization that he is "destined to change the world for good." That got me to wondering: How many famous people, either in interviews, essays, books, or what have you, said that they, too, felt that they were destined to make the world a better place? With thanks to our good friends at Google, herewith a short list:

'Nuff said.

My Personal Physician and Counselor Intercedes

2004-11-26T13:15:00.000-06:00

Those of you who read my last blog entry are already aware that the esteemed Dr. Ubah Anyadiegwu of Lago, Nigeria, has contacted me by email regarding the settlement of the estate of one late Eng. Walter Dietrich. I commented in my last entry that my dear friend and fellow denizen of the blogosphere, Dr. Polymer Noyz, had recently toyed with a similar Internet scammer, with hilarious results.

I jokingly suggested that perhaps the esteemed Dr. Noyz would care to respond to Dr. Anyadiegwu on my behalf, given his prior experience in such matters—certainly not expecting him to take me up on this offer, as the good Doctor is a very busy man, indeed. However, the good Doctor rarely does the expected, and so this morning I was gifted with his most delightful reply to Dr. Anyadiegwu on my behalf, which I include here for your amusement and enlightenment.

I must say, if this is what it means to have a "personal physician, counselor, and friend," it does not suck in the least.

Dear Dr. Anyadiegwu,

Although I realize I am risking violating one of my most sacred vows and breaching the confidentiality that exists between a man and his doctor, I feel as though current circumstances warrant my immediate intervention.

Which is not, by any means, to suggest that the ends justifiy the means. However, the ends you suggest imply the justification of a great quantity of means, if you get my meaning sir. As I have no doubt you are a man of business I am certain that you do.

I am writing to you on behalf of a one of my patients, the esteemed Mr. Dietrich. I am his personal physican, counselor, and friend.

You recently contacted him via electonic correspondence and communicated information regarding the accidental death of and the estate of the late Engineer Walter Dietrich.

The late Engineer Walter Dietrich is the estranged father of my client.

One can only presume that the woman to whom you refer to as "his wife" was the late Engineer Walter Dietrich's mistress and his maid's daughter. They both disappeared in 1989. At that time it became known to the first Mrs. Dietrich through a series of photographs and videotapes that Mr. Dietrich's relationship with both the maid and her daughter had degenerated into a different type of professional relationship. The maid was pimping her daughter.

Local law enforcement authorities reminded Mr. Walter Dietrich that the girl was only fifteen and of the illegal, immoral, and unhealthy aspects of sodomy. The couple fled the country with the aid of false documents purchased from a cross-eyed Swiss forger with one arm. Mr. Walter Dietrich has been neither seen nor heard from since.

The younger Mr. Dietrich became despondent. Not only had he lost his father, but he was also grief-stricken by the loss of what he referred to as a "sweet piece of tail". Apparently he had also monied up the maid to diddle the daughter.

He descended into a hellish cycle of over the counter cold remedy abuse (OCCRA). He has been in my care for the treatment of this malady for the past few years. OCCRA is a very damaging and difficult condition to cure. The treatment of OCCRA is most delicate. I fear that your recent correspondence containing the tragic news of his father's untimely demise may provide a psychic push to cause the younger Mr. Dietrich to again begin the nightmare of suda-freaking and bena-downing.

Mr. Dietrich is eager to resolve the matter of his father's estate in an expeditious fashion. However, at this time it is my professional opinion that his current mental state is much too fragile to handle complicated legal affairs.

It is his request that you direct future correspondence on this matter to me, The Good Doctor Polymer Noyz, his personal physician, counselor and friend.

I have little doubt that we can reach a swift conclusion that is equally beneficial and agreeable to all involved parties. I wait further instruction and I look forward to your response.

Sincerely,

Dr. Polymer Noyz

As for me, must dash; I'm running low on Sudafed and I'm not nearly tweaked enough yet to face such a bright, sunshiney day.

Why Are All Dead Rich Relatives Named Walter?

2004-11-22T08:30:00.000-06:00

Those of you who have followed the saga of our friend Dr. Polymer Noyz and his dear departed (and hitherto unknown) Uncle Walter probably share my fond memories of how Polymer so masterfully toyed with one Mr. Colin Fritz, allegedly of the Hong Kong and Shanghai Banking Corporation.

Sadly, I don't have the time or inclination to screw with Dr. Ubah Anyadiegwu in the same fashion—although dear God, that is fun to say. However, I couldn't help but notice that my own dearly departed rich relative is also named Walter. I'm not quite sure what to deduce from that, other than the possibility that, in the entire African subcontinent, the only American first name that is known is, apparently, Walter.

I also find it curious that Dr. Anyadiegwu spells his name with two A's in his letter, but there is only one A in his email address. I point this out just in case Dr. Noyz desires to write back to Dr. Anyadiegwu on my behalf; it might be wise to address any emails to both spellings. :)

Dr. Ubah Anyadiegwu.
Assistant Deputy Director,
Credit and Control office
International Trust Bank Plc.
ICON House, 6th Floor, Idejo Street,
Victoria Island, Lagos, Nigeria.
Email:dr_ubahanydiegwu@yahoo.fr

Dear Dietrich,

I am Dr. Ubah Anaydiegwu, Assistant Deputy Director, Credit and Control with the International Trust Bank Plc. I was personal account manager to one late Engineer Walter Dietrich, of your country, who till his death was a contractor with Impressario Nigeria Limited, Moenier Oil & Gas Consult and Nigerian Ports authority.

On the 28th of November 1999, Engr. walter, his wife and their two children were involved in a car accident along Gwagwalada express road and all occupants of the vehicle unfortunately lost their lives. At the time of his death, Walter had a deposit of $15.6 Million which was proceed of a contract work he just concluded with the Nigerian Ports authority. The payment was made with an Ecobank cheque which I personally cleared.

Unfortunately, till this moment no one has come as his relation for his deposit with us. My colleagues and I humbly request your attention to this matter so that we can present you as his next of kin or beneficiary to his deposit. It is not a very difficult thing to do especially as you share the same last name with him and it will not take time too. All we need is to change the name and particulars of his next of kin to yours in our computer database and we file in an application for the release of the fund through the Probate Office in your name.

It does not necessarilly mean that you must be here to conclude the deal, we may request that the money be sent to Europe or even the United States for payment. Please contact me as quickly as possible on phone 234-80-356-55193 or email;dr_ubahanydiegwu@yahoo.fr, We will talk about the sharing ratio as soon as you get in touch with me.

PLEASE MAKE SURE THAT YOU USE GIVEN EMAIL ADDRESS ie;dr_ubahanydiegwu@yahoo.fr}

Kind regards,

Dr. Ubah Anaydiegwu

Can't wait to get the money, Ubah.

Goodbye To You

2004-11-12T09:11:00.000-06:00

Congratulations today to my dear friend Cardinal Fang on what will, we hope, be his last day of corporate slavery ever. If only his beloved soon-to-be-former employer knew how many screenplays, novels, short stories, blog entries, polemics, treatments, sitcom scripts, essays, rants, and emails had been composed on their time, typed on their computers, and printed on their printers . . .

On second thought, no. It's definitely better if they don't know.

Good luck, my boy.

Norman? Stop Groping that Woman! Norman!!

2004-11-11T10:57:00.000-06:00

In a less deadly but perhaps no less psychotic turn on the archetypal Tony Perkins role, a West Virginia man has developed a novel strategy for indulging his penchant for feeling boobies. Posing as his own mother, man places ad in paper seeking home health workers to change her retarded adult son's diapers. Women respond to ad. Man, dressed as his own mother, interviews and hires two of the women. Women report for work. Man, now drooling and clad only in his nappies, proceeds to fondle their breasts while they change his diaper.

Who said American ingenuity was dead?

Go for the Green

2004-10-26T14:35:00.000-05:00

As much as it always pains me to admit it, it seems that my good friend Fang just might be on to something once again. Of late, he and the lovely Mrs. Fang have enjoyed quite the romantic affair—with the humble tea leaf. (Fang always has been partial to the Asians, though.) Beyond the nascent snob appeal of tea—which, it seems, is now the new olive oil, which itself a couple of years ago was the new wine—now we hear from reputable scientists that tea might just slow down the progression of Alzheimer's disease.

Seems that although black tea has some effect, you have to go for the green if you want balls-out protection. Makes sense, since the fermentation process applied to the black variety is already known to break down one of the key organic compounds (epigallocatechin gallate, or EGCg) that makes green tea so healthy. Previously it was discovered that the by-products of EGCg breakdown, theaflavins and thearubigens, gave black tea many of the same health benefits as green tea. But this latest study is really the first to show that there is a good reason to drink green tea, if not to the exclusion of black tea, at least in addition to it.

Of all the reasons that this makes me happy, perhaps the most heartwarming is that it minimizes the chances that one day, far in the future, I will have to confront a demented Cardinal Fang, sitting in his own excrement, drooling, and mumbling paranoid rants about how the police are out to kill us all . . .

On second thought, maybe it's already too late. :)

Lock Up Your Daughters

2004-10-04T09:06:00.000-05:00

It seems that lately the President has been getting his ideas on the medical profession from David Cronenberg rather than that genial Dr. C. Everett Koop of Web site fame. It's times like these that I'm glad all I have to do is turn my head and cough. (Windows Media Player required, and turn up your sound even if you're at work. It's not embarrassing, I promise— except to Dubya.)

Of course, maybe it's just not the fairer sex who should be frightened to live in today's America, for it seems that Shrub is planning to turn the full resources of the government against us all.

The Passion of the Bush

2004-10-01T11:36:00.000-05:00

For those of you who missed the first presidential debate last night, it unfolded pretty much as one might suspect. Mr. Kerry acquitted himself well, although perhaps not as admirably as one might reasonably expect of a Yale star debater, whilst Mr. Bush, when cornered by his opponent, resorted to repeating the same mantra ("That's not how a commander-in-chief acts") ad nauseam (literally so; I was unable to finish my second Earl-on-a-tortilla).

The Democratic National Committee has thoughtfully distilled the most entertaining portions of the evening—by which I mean Mr. Bush's facial expressions—into a short video montage that it quite accurately calls "Faces of Frustration." Bush campaign spinista Nicolle Devenish said after the debate that Mr. Bush's facial gymnastics merely showed his strong level of engagement. "The president reacted honestly. It showed the president really believes in his convictions," Devenish said.

Far more likely, at least to this observer, is that Mr. Bush was stifling an almost uncontrollable urge to begin speaking in tongues, channeling Jesus himself to answer the more complicated questions for him. Sure, you can laugh—but read this item first, in which estimable New York Times theatre-critic-turned-gadfly Frank Rich explores a new DVD entitled George W. Bush: Faith in the White House. (See, it's a double meaning.)

I think one of the questions asked by the moderator at any presidential debate, from now until Armageddon, should be, "Do you believe that God wants you to be President?" And if the answer is yes, well, we all know what to do then, don't we?

An Observation

2004-09-24T09:59:00.000-05:00

I've noticed the oddest phenomenon lately. If I give an article to my self-described liberal friends, they read it regardless of its viewpoint and then make informed criticism. If I give an article to my self-described conservative friends, they read the first paragraph and then say either, "This is right on the mark—I love it" (if they agree with it), or, "I'm not reading garbage like this" (if they don't). But in neither case do they ever seem to actually read the whole thing.

I think that tells you everything you need to know about what's wrong with our democracy.

"I believe my right paw is on your left breast."

2004-08-19T11:14:00.000-05:00

At least they had the forbearance (no pun indended) not to mention the part where he had anonymous sex with a really ugly female bear.

Human Stupidity: An Example

2004-08-17T14:17:00.000-05:00

Part of my official policy re: workplace relationships is "the less info, the better." So when my new coworkers ask where I'm living after relocating to town, my stock response is to cite a particular bridge well known for its extensive and diverse homeless population. The reality is, though, that I'm renting a room from a longtime college friend.

Now, said college friend has her own set of quirky sensibilities that lead to some rather interesting behaviors at times, one of which is that when the yard man whacked the telephone wires on the side of the house with a WeedEater(tm)-brand lawn trimmer, she left her home phone in a non-working state for some nine months while continuing to pay her home phone bill. Too lazy to call the phone company to come fix it—and precious little incentive in that direction when her overly generous employer pays for all her personal cell calls.

Being the good roomie that I am, though, a couple of weeks ago I pulled out a screwdriver and the wire strippers (my very least favorite kind of stripper) and reconnected the phone line. Total time investment: 4 minutes. Money paid to phone company for nine months of non-existent phone service: $576. Stupidity of homeowner: Priceless.

However, the downside of reconnecting the phone is that, well, now it has this annoying habit of ringing—and of course we know in advance that it can't be anyone she actually knows, since all friends have long since abandoned use of the dead-end landline number and simply call her cell. What to do when every call you receive is a telephone solicitation? (I should point out at this point that the brilliantly designed Chinese-made phone she owns has no "ringer off" setting, since apparently phones are so new in rural China that people haven't yet imagined a scenario in which they would not want the phone to ring.)

I struggled with the ringer dilemma for a more than a week—but then a few days ago I impulsively decided to try a new tack. Rather than ignoring the phone, which seems to only cause it to ring again an hour later, presumably with the same persistent party on the other end, I now answer the phone and say hello. The person on the other end then proceeds to identify himself or herself as representing some widget distributor or timeshare company or police charitable organization du jour. My response is, "I'm sorry, you've reached a non-working telephone number," followed by silence.

Number of calls so far: 12. Number of people who've said, "I'm sorry," and hung up: 12. A front-row seat for the parade of human stupidity: Priceless.

One of the Great Ones . . .

2004-08-13T10:01:00.000-05:00

Today is a very sad day for those of us who share a passion, not merely a love, for food, wine, and friendship. The grande dame of the American kitchen and the woman who singlehandedly introduced a nation raised on Swanson frozen dinners to the simple glories of coq au vin and pate choux, Julia Child, died Thursday in her sleep at her home in Santa Barbara at the age of 91.

Julia, you will be missed. And just for the record, I never made your last name plural.

How Come Airline Pilots Always Get So Much Pussy?

2004-08-10T11:18:00.000-05:00

I'm eternally hopeful that someday we won't have to suffer through at least 10 news stories every day that are about either 9/11, the "War on Terror," Iraq, Halliburton, or some other issue centrally or peripherally related to what an ass-faced fuckwit we didn't elect back in 2000. We got over Watergate, we got over Vietnam, we even got over Crystal Pepsi. Surely we can get over this, too?

Until we do, I had to chuckle at the news du jour on the terror front. First, it seems that poor Mohdar Abdullah, close friend of two of the 9/11 hijackers, is rather highly exercised over having the 9/11 commission talk trash about him. It seems that Mr. Abdullah feels that the commission's characterization of him as "perfectly suited to assist the hijackers in pursuing their mission" is grossly unfair, untrue, and derogatory. I hate to be seen as taking his side, but I feel compelled to point out that the main reason cited in the report for concluding that Mr. Abdullah was just a Koranic verse or two away from hijacking a plane himself is that he "is fluent in both Arabic and English."

Let this be a lesson to all you kids out there: Don't learn to speak two languages! It can only make you seem suspicious later in life. And Mr. Abdullah's take-away from all this should be that you shouldn't associate with lowlifes if you don't want the media to assume you are one, too. Just ask Brian "Kato" Kaelin . . .

And in other news, we see that a commercial flight between Brussels and Vienna had to make an emergency landing yesterday when a cat, who had escaped from its cage and begun wandering around the plane, slipped into the cockpit when the flight attendant opened it to serve meals to the flight crew and scratched the co-pilot rather severely.

Are you listening, Mr. Abdullah? Who needs boxcutters when you can train cats to subdue the flight crew for you! (Forgive me if I just gave Al-Qaeda some ideas.)

This Little Piggy Had None

2004-07-15T13:01:00.000-05:00

You might have heard about the tiger that escaped from near a West Palm Beach residential neighborhood earlier this week and unfortunately had to be put down when it rushed a police officer. But you might not have heard about the hapless woman who offered to let police twist her pig's tail in hopes that the squealing might attraact the tiger and facilitate its capture. (Should have used a tape of Kim Cattrall in "Porky's," but that's another story . . .)

In any case, it seems that now the thoughtful pig owner is being charged with animal cruelty because, in the process of bringing the pig to officers at the scene, she transported it in her 140+ degree trunk. The woman was nonplussed at the allegations.

"I can't believe they have the gall," she said. "I was just trying to help the tiger find his way back home." She added that the trunk of her Cadillac is air conditioned, and she was planning to eat the pig when it is full grown.

Pause a moment to ponder that last phrase: She was planning to eat the pig when it is full grown. I wasn't aware that planning to eat something eventually was justfication for abusing it as much as you like in the meantime, but I'm glad to have the info.

Mr. Bush, I plan to eat you when you are full grown.

Pardon My Face

2004-07-09T10:50:00.000-05:00

One of the downsides to moving to that bastion of liberality, Austin, is that you have to put up with a little bit of bullshit now and then. Nonetheless, I am still amazed that in a town where the cops won't cite a woman for walking around topless (which would be gender-based discrimination, since men don't have to cover their breasts), you apparently can't wear a ski mask into a convenience store.

I think what's most telling here is the crime he was charged with. "Making a terrorist threat"? Ah, the Patriot Act, very nice. Does this mean that citizens may no longer cover their faces in public if they so choose? Have we completely given up any presumptive right of privacy in this country? Can a Muslim woman wear her hijab into a convenience store? Is a ski mask a terrorist threat, but a Halloween mask is not? How about one of those Zorro masks that only covers your eyes? What about blackface?

And I won't even touch the irony that a clerk named "Atif Akhlaque" thought that a skinny white guy in a ski mask was a terrorist.

Let 1,000 Journals Bloom

2004-06-16T00:57:00.001-05:00

As I have already told my dear friend Fang, I am now somewhere between the fourth and fifth circles of Hell, or at least between whichever circles don't contain the sodomites. (Apologies for not remembering my Dante in more detail.) It seems that I awoke one morning this week to find that I am back, once again, working for The Man. I'm still not entirely sure how it happened, but I don't think it was by design. In any case, I had forgotten what it was like to be awake at 6:30 a.m. (Well, that's not entirely true—I was often awake at that hour, but rarely awakening at that hour.) And clothing is certainly more constricting than I remember. (I mean, I did wear clothing working at home, too, but rarely dress slacks and a 2-ply button-down long-sleeve pinpoint Oxford. It takes a toll on one after 9 hours or so.)

Enough ranting. Now, I know this isn't much of a blog post, but in honor of the 100th anniversary of Bloomsday, I offer this similarly peripatetic art project for your enjoyment. Take 1,000 writing journals, give them to various artists to decorate, and then spread them all across the world to random people. Tell them to write in them and pass them on to someone else, and track the whole thing on the Internet so you know where all the journals are (except for the lost ones). Take a look—it's pretty cool.

And by the way—if you have the option, try to avoid having a job. I don't recommend it. And I think Leopold Bloom would back me up on that.

Why We Love the French, Why the Japanese Disappoint

2004-06-09T13:05:00.000-05:00

I realize that I'm probably going to offend someone by saying this, but if you have one of those disingenuously named "sport-utility vehicles," I've probably already wished some unspeakable evil upon you. I'm not opposed to conspicuous consumption, mind you, but I just wish for it to be confined to food, wine, and clothing—in short, things that don't ruin the environment while getting in my way on the road.

For those of you who already love the French, this will be just one more justification for your ardor. And for those of you who don't, I'm sure it will reinforce your small-minded, provincial thinking. Yes, the French have proposed to ban SUVs in Paris-centre. (Click here if you only read English.) I swear, I love these people.

As for the Japanese, things there are rather more disappointing. It seems the same food-science Einsteins who brought us the square (actually cubic) watermelon now offer poison-free fugu. Fugu, as you might recall from "The Simpsons" ("Poison... poison... poison... tasty fish!") is that deliciously daring delicacy that is mesmerizingly yummy when prepared by an expert sashimi chef—and irreversibly posionous when cut with even the slightest imprecision. Think of it as the Russian roulette of fine dining.

Now, it seems to me that the whole point of eating fugu is that it might actually kill you, but you hope (and probably believe) that it won't—sort of like maraschino cherries or Tater Tots. But take out the possibility of toxin, and you might as well eat Mrs. Paul's fish sticks. (Wait, bad analogy...)

Can We Twist the Nuts, or Just Squeeze Them?

2004-06-09T12:10:00.000-05:00

One thing you can say for President Reagan is that when he made a treaty with a foreign power, he more or less stuck with it, how ever unpleasant the later consequences. Clearly the current administration isn't hamstrung by such traditionalist thinking. Whenever Mr. Bush doesn't understand something—which as you might imagine is somewhat frequently—he can always count on his good friend Mr. Ashcroft for interpretive assistance. Pesky foreign treaties like the Geneva Convention getting in your way when you want to torture someone? Don't worry, says Mr. Ashcroft, they "may be unconstitutional" when applied to the President.

Now let's think about this for a minute. The U.S. signs a treaty, the Senate ratifies it, and the world community expects (or at least, used to expect, until now) that the U.S. would abide by it. Now along comes Mr. Ashcroft to advise Mr. Bush—certainly no great Constitutional theorist himself—that such pesky restrictions couldn't possibly apply to the President. Silly rules just apply to the country, not to its chief executive! (Perhaps Mr. Ashcroft solicited his opinion from Ken Lay or Bernie Ebbers?) One imagines that this is just the sort of "above the law" thinking that Mr. Bush likes to hear.

Herewith a snippet from the Justice Department's rather chilling idea of what it is "permissible" for the President to authorize:

In the view expressed by the Justice Department memo, which differs from the view of the Army, physical torture "must be equivalent in intensity to the pain accompanying serious physical injury, such as organ failure, impairment of bodily function, or even death." For a cruel or inhuman psychological technique to rise to the level of mental torture, the Justice Department argued, the psychological harm must last "months or even years."

The gist of this is that, short of, say, cutting into your lower abdominal cavity and ripping out a kidney, it's probably not impermissible torture.

Thank goodness this sort of thing only applies to the nasties and not to faithful Americans like you and me. But don't feel too left out. All that's necessary is for the President to find that you are an "enemy combatant," and you too can be dragged around on a leash by a skanky Appalachian chick while your best friend is forced to lick your balls in a humiliating (for at least one of you) fashion.

Ah, but you protest, surely there is some due process that would protect a U.S. citizen from such arbitrary treatment. It can't be as easy as the President and Justice Department just saying that you're an enemy combatant, can it? Surely they'll clear all this up at your hearing, right? Sorry, Jack—you don't get no stinking hearing. You just get to rot in jail with no lawyer until, if you're lucky, Mr. Bush et al. get voted out of office.

Bush's "Con"voy

2004-06-07T13:48:00.000-05:00

Those of us who frequently make the jaunt up or down the second-most-dangerous deathtrap in Texas, IH-35, know all too well how hard it is to find that Zen-like speed that allows you to go slowly enough to avoid ramming into the back of the 18-wheeler in front of you while going fast enough to keep the 18-wheeler behind you from delivering a chrome enema.

Into that already treacherous environment, we now may add the tens of thousands of Mexican trucks that our safety-conscious President and Supreme Court have now given free reign of our highway system. I'm as shocked as you are that I'm quoting anything from Phyllis Schlafly and her generally frightening Eagle Forum, but I think it's important for people to realize the danger that is posed by the double-threat of poorly maintained, poorly inspected vehicles shooting up and down our interstates under the control of drivers who may, or more likely may not, have any familiarity with U.S. traffic laws or sufficient command of English to read traffic signs and warnings.

Don't get me wrong; I'm all for free trade, and I'm not standing in opposition to this incredibly stupid decision because of trade issues or job-loss concerns or any of that. I just don't want a 20-ton rattling deathtrap bearing down on me at 85 mph—or worse yet, pulling away from me as random parts fall off of it to the complete oblivion of the driver. I know, you're thinking, "Typical liberal, making up shit to scare people." Well, why don't you ask the Rev. Scott Willis how he feels about that?

If Only They Would Dress Like Simon

2004-05-31T23:06:00.000-05:00

Those of you who know me already know that I don't sleep particularly well at night, if at all, and thanks to the Los Angeles Times, now I won't be able to sleep on airplanes either. It seems that an inordinate number of passengers are "outing" federal air marshals by announcing their presence loudly to other passengers. How, you might ask, can an untrained civilian passenger instantly identify an undercover federal agent on a plane? Simple: They look too good.

Federal regulations require air marshals to wear suits and ties, have no facial hair, and have smartly polished lace-up dress shoes. Passengers boarding through the first-class section can't help but notice them since they look about as discreet as drag queens in a monastery—and eliminating the unlikely possibility that they are Mormon missionaries traveling with upgrades, passengers make the quick and logical assumption: These are federal air marshals.

Now, common sense might dictate a simple solution: have the air marshals dress like ordinary passengers. But remember, this is the federal government, so common sense is a rare commodity. The federales tell us that the target-on-your-chest outfits are necessary because "professional demeanor, attire and attitude gain respect." But what's more important—being respected by the guy next to you flying to a conference in Chicago, or keeping your cover so that Akbar doesn't take you out like a shooting gallery duck in the first two seconds of a terrorist attack? As one air marshal paints his nightmare scenario:

"This is what I foresee," said one marshal, a two-year veteran. "Two of us get on the plane and we've been under surveillance the whole time. There's a minimum of four bad guys…. My partner goes to the bathroom and they come after me with a sharp pen, stab me in the neck or in the brain and take my weapon," he continued. "When my partner comes out, they shoot him. Then they've got 80 rounds of ammunition and two weapons."

Seems eerily simple, doesn't it? So what's Uncle Sam's brilliant solution? Prosecute passengers who point out the air marshals to other passengers. Yes, you read that right—rather than simply allowing the marshals to dress to protect their cover, we're just going to arrest people who point them out. It's already happened to numerous observant and overly chatty passengers.

So my advice to you is this. If you're at the airport, and you see a passenger exhibiting any or all of the following behaviors:

showing the ticket agent a large, leather-bound credential case with a holographic photo
entering the security area through the exit door rather than through the metal detector
wearing a suit and tie when everyone else is in Wal-Mart Bermuda shorts
boarding the plane before everyone else, even the wheelchair passengers

. . . just remember the first rule of air travel in the new century: Keep your fucking mouth shut. Oh, and don't dress too well yourself, either—you don't want to be the guy they stab in the neck with a pen.

Friday Frivolity

2004-05-28T12:03:00.000-05:00

Well, so far nothing has pissed me off too much today. So in the spirit of the holiday weekend, I offer you . . .

The World's Smallest Pac Man Game

Enjoy.

Officer, Is That Your Night Stick?

2004-05-27T14:33:00.000-05:00

Only in San Francisco could two law-enforcement officers star in a porn film and not lose their jobs. You can say what you want about that place; it still rocks. The two officers took a star turn in "Bus Stop Whores," an adult film circulating on the Internet that I suspect probably didn't conform to the official guidelines for police department film production in San Fran. Quoth the San Francisco Chronicle:

In one scene, the 29-year-old [Officer Kelly] Francisco -- who goes by the name Mira in the video -- solicits a sex act for $500. She and [Officer Daryl] Watts, 27, then vigorously proceed to demonstrate a variety of full cavity search techniques not found in the standard police manual.

Jessica Cutler, if that book deal falls through, go here: SFPD Recruitment Drive.

Because Clown College Was Easier Than the Seminary, That's Why

2004-05-26T19:36:00.002-05:00

News sources reported today that a man working under the professional name "Spanky the Clown" was arrested Friday on charges related to a child pornography investigation (insert your own joke here). It seems that Mr. Clown (or Thomas Allen Riccio, according to his arrest report) was allegedly foolish enough to use his credit card to purchase kiddie porn. Poor Spanky. Didn't he know that in Mr. Ashcroft's America, it doesn't take much for the government to find out what you're buying on the Internet? (I shouldn't limit my rant to the U.S., of course—just ask rocker-turned-pedophilia-researcher Pete Townshend.)

Granted, such governmental vigilance might be a good idea if what you're buying is a case of plastique, or a magazine from Belarus called "Super Pedomania," but gets a little more troubling when you just want to buy a nice dildo from the fine folks at Adam and Eve. Is that something that Mr. Ashcroft really needs to know about? It's people like him—and Spanky—who really give clowns a bad name.

Abu Guh Boo Boo

2004-05-25T17:53:00.000-05:00

Those who know me are aware that I’ve never had particularly high expectations of the current administration, but just when I thought Mr. Bush could sink no lower, he somehow succeeded in letting just a bit more water out of the pool. I’m referring to last night’s rather uninteresting speech at the Army War College in which Mr. Bush attempted to convince a skeptical U.S. and an even more skeptical Iraq that he did, in fact, have something resembling a plan for getting U.S. troops out of there before the next millennium.

I’ll leave discussion of the finer points of the speech to the political pundits, but I can’t help but comment on Mr. Bush’s almost comical attempts to pronounce the name of the prison at the center of the recent abuse scandals: Abu Ghraib. As any social anthropologist will tell you, one of the hallmarks of a society that views itself as superior to everyone else is its complete lack of interest in attempting to pronounce foreign words and names in any manner remotely approaching the “native” pronunciation. Certainly this strategy was exploited to great effect by the colonial Brits during their empire-building phase, who to this day still make no attempt to pronounce French (or any other language) properly.

Now, I would have thought that if there were any single phrase in the Monday speech that Mr. Bush would have attempted to get right, it would be “Abu Ghraib,” if only to demonstrate that he was more than passingly familiar with the notorious prison. I wasn’t expecting him to pronounce it as an Arabic speaker would (where the second word would come out something like a very guttural “GHRebb”); I was fully prepared to settle, albeit wincingly, for the sanitized Newspeak version (“Abu GRABE”) that one commonly hears on television and radio.

But instead, the first time Mr. Bush came across the name, the best he could squeak out was an embarrassingly halting “Abooguh . . . rape.” Not to worry—he had two more chances coming up. The second time, Mr. Bush more bravely gave us “Abooguh-RONE.” Well, better—but still not quite. On his last attempt, Mr. Bush almost got there with “Abu Guh-RAH.” (Rah, indeed!)

The more important point is that Mr. Bush looked very much like a man who’d never seen this name before. I’m sure that’s not the case, but it would have certainly helped our standing in the Arab world if he’d looked more like someone who knew what was going on, and less like a detached, uninterested mouthpiece vomiting out a speech he didn’t even understand.

An Apology

2004-05-23T15:11:00.000-05:00

Portable Soup wishes to apologize unreservedly for its recent comparison of Capitol Hill slut-turned-media-darling Jessica Cutler to Sarah, Plain and Tall. She does not appear to be tall after all. Portable Soup regrets the error. Just not quite as much as we regret living in a culture where someone can snag a six-figure book deal by getting paid to take it up the ass.

Latka? Are You In There?

2004-05-22T02:29:00.000-05:00

A couple of weeks ago, a few full-page newspaper ads appeared inviting "the believers" to a "return celebration" for comedian Andy Kaufman. Kaufman, as you may remember (or have learned from the Milos Forman film Man On the Moon), died 20 years ago this month, but not without promising to return on the 20th anniversary of his death—the greatest performance-art stunt of all time.

Well, friends, it appears that Andy is—at least in the dimensionless ether of the Internet blog format—back.

Now, before you get too excited, it is prudent to remember that Kaufman ally, fellow comedian, and writer Bob Zmuda frequently portrayed Kaufman's lounge-lizard alter ego Tony Clifton in performances before Kaufman's death (the joke being that Kaufman always claimed not to be Tony Clifton, and having Zmuda on stage as Clifton when Andy would do a walk-on was "proof" that they weren't the same person). Score one for the possibility that the mystery blogger is Zmuda.

Still, there does exist a fairly compelling discussion of the various theories about Andy's death, or lack thereof, as well as a rather creepy site maintained by a Hollywood animation professional on behalf of a man he does not know and has never met in person named "Enrique P." Enrique writes in a question-and-answer format that is notable for his lack of any attempt to provide "evidence" that Kaufman faked his death, as you might expect your average conspiracy-theorist lunatic to do on a Web site. Indeed, the more you read Enrique's disquietingly philosophical musings, the more you think that Enrique might actually be Kaufman himself.

But back to "Blogger Andy." Certainly he could just be Zmuda horsing around, or someone else entirely trying to capitalize on the 20th anniversary of Kaufman's death. But in any case, you should check it out; it's either proof of the greatest stunt in history, or the dangerous ramblings of an insane mind—or possibly both.

Butt Sex in the Unemployment Line

2004-05-21T17:26:00.000-05:00

Unlike the estimable Cardinal Fang, I've tried to steer largely clear of the Washingtonienne controversy, but I will admit being more than passingly curious as to what this modern-day Christine Keeler might actually look like. Well, color me disappointed.

For those not in the know, "Washingtonienne" is the nom de plume of a Capitol Hill staff assistant who blogged her anal-sex-for-cash proclivities into Congressional superstardom and a sphincter-colored termination slip over the past few weeks. Speculation as to her identity has been all the buzz on the Hill of late, but she has at last been outed, complete with picture, as Syracuse University alumna Jessica Cutler.

The jury is still out as to whether she is the smartest or dumbest person ever to work on Capitol Hill (that will depend on the value of the book deal, personal appearance contracts, celebrity butt-plug endorsements, etc., that are sure to follow), but I must say how disappointed I am. I guess after reading her oh-so-juicy postings, I was just expecting something, I dunno, a little more Legally Blonde and a little less Sarah, Plain and Tall. Can you blame me?

Please, Sir, May I Have Another (Verbal Bitch-Slap)?

2004-05-21T08:29:00.000-05:00

Just when I think that I can't possibly be any more appalled by the comments that come out of this President's mouth, he manages yet again to surprise me. This week's stupidity was courtesy of his incredibly patronizing, condescending remarks made to Congressional leaders regarding the impending handoff of power in Iraq at the end of June:

"He talked about 'time to take the training wheels off,'" said Rep. Deborah Pryce, R-Ohio. "The Iraqi people have been in training, and now it's time for them to take the bike and go forward."

"Take the training wheels off"? How incredibly fucking insensitive can a person be? Here we are, supposedly waging a campaign to win the hearts and minds of the Iraqi people, and all our President can do is toss off remarks that make it abjectly clear to Iraqis that the highest levels of our government view them as mewling, puking toddlers who can barely wipe their own asses? If that's how we're going to "win them over," then let me suggest a list of additional metaphors to which the President is welcome to refer whenever he wants to further flatter our Iraqi friends:

"trade in their Pampers for Pull-Ups"
"lose their sippy cups"
"switch from Barney to Nickelodeon"
"straighten out their Krazy Straws"
"cut the feet out of their Dr. Denton's"
"put away the Candy Land and buy a G.I. fuckin' Joe"

I'm not sure if Sally Hemm..., er, I mean, Condi Rice reads Portable Soup every day, but if she does, maybe this list will get put to some good use.

Don't Mention the War . . . Especially During the FA Cup Final

2004-05-20T13:35:00.000-05:00

You have to hand it to those Brits. When planning an "Emergency Demonstration" for this Saturday in London, the fine folks at the Stop the War Coalition had the foresight to realize, "Oy, mate—but inn't that the same time as the Cup Final then?" Yes, nothing is more important than stopping the war in Iraq—unless of course it's watching Manchester United and Millwall fight to the bitter end in Cardiff. Protest organizers graciously altered the time of the London demonstration to ensure that all anti-war protesters would be able to make it back to the local pub in time for the match.

"We realise that the Cup Final is a major event," Stop the War Coalition organizer Andrew Burgin told a news conference. "We expect the rally to be finished by three o'clock so people can get back to watch the match." It's nice to know that in a world filled with chaos, some people still have their priorities straight. Now we just need to hope the match isn't decided on penalty kicks . . .

I had to chuckle when I read that a Stradivarius cello valued at $3.5 million was nearly made into a CD rack this week in Los Angeles. Seems the absent-minded player from the Los Angeles Philharmonic who had custody of the symphony-owned instrument forgot it near his car on the porch when he got home from rehearsal, and in the wee hours of the morning an enterprising boy on a bicycle nicked it and drove it a few blocks before heaving it into a dumpster. A young nurse found it the next day and decided it would make a bitchin' CD rack, so she gave it to her boyfriend to work on. Fortunately the man was not highly motivated in the DIY project department, and so the cello, one of only 60 ever made and the only surviving example with the original label still intact, sat in their back bedroom for more than a month before they saw a news report that tipped them off to the fact that this Stradivari fellow who had his name in the cello might be somebody important. It's not their fault, I suppose; I'm sure they tried calling every "Antonio Stradivari" in the phone book . . .

Wag the, Umm, Head

2004-05-19T13:47:00.000-05:00

I will admit that I had no intention of ever watching the online video of Nick Berg's decapitation in Iraq that was all the rage among depraved Internet cognoscenti of late, but after the conspiracy theory buzz hit a fever pitch last week, I decided that I would have to look at a few frames to see for myself if these amateur Oliver Stones were on the right track.

The verdict? Realizing in advance that I am risking a severe ass-thrashing from my good friend Cardlnal Fang for encouraging this behavior, I can say with some certainty that if you do choose to watch said video, you are by no means watching the decapitation of a live individual—and I have some serious doubts that you are watching a real decapitation at all. In either case, you are certainly not watching Muslim extremists: these "executioners" are most clearly American.

I will spare you the frame-by-frame analysis in this forum, since many other bloggers and writers have already advanced their own exhaustive theories, but if you are the least bit curious (and you should be), I suggest starting here, here and here. I will, however, highlight what I felt were some of the more compelling arguments:

In the opening frames, Nick Berg is seated in a white plastic chair that is identical to one in which Army PFC Lynddie England is shown seated in a photo from the notorious Abu Ghraib prison—where Berg himself is known to have done some work on a communications antenna in recent months. The wall against which Berg is filmed is also the same color and texture as the walls in Abu Ghraib.

Berg is wearing the same U.S.-issue orange prison jumpsuit that can be seen crumpled on the floor in the background of many of the photos showing naked Iraqi prisoners in Abu Ghraib. It would surprise me greatly if Al Qaeda extremists routinely clothed their hostages in U.S.-made orange prison garb.

The "executioners" are highly problematic. The one on the far left appears, from movement and body language, to be a woman—and from looking at their hands, they are certainly the "whitest" Arabs I've ever seen. One is wearing white athletic shoes that look suspiciously like those seen in an image of a U.S. soldier at Abu Ghraib. All of the men sport U.S.-style bulletproof vests of the type worn almost obsessively by U.S. troops, but rarely (if ever) worn by Al Qaeda. And, let's face it—these guys are, if not fat, certainly far more healthy and rotund than we would expect Muslim insurgents to be after months in hiding.

Two of the men touch their nose and face with their left hands—something that an Arab and devout Muslim would never do, as the left hand is of course the "sanitary hand" one uses for cleaning one's backside.

The terrorist identified "conclusively" by the CIA as Abu Musab al-Zarqawi, the one who allegedly beheads Berg in the video, clearly does not sport the three green dots that al-Zarqawi is known to have tattooed on the back of his left hand. He also appears quite nimble for a man who is known to have an "ill-fitting" prosthetic leg that renders him "almost incapable of walking, except with a very pronounced limp."

Near the end of the video, for about 10 frames (or one-third of a second), the back of the head of an individual pops into the lower right corner of the frame: a white-skinned, Western head, sporting a very short military haircut, and a brown U.S. Army style t-shirt.

It is the opinion of a number of medical doctors who have viewed the video that there is simply no way that the decapitation of a live person is being depicted. When the carotid arteries of a living person are cut with a knife, blood spurts out with such force that it routinely sprays six to eight feet or more. A careful review of the video shows no spurting blood, no blood on the hands of the "executioner," no blood on the floor, and no blood dripping from the severed head when it is held up on display. To assert that it is possible to sever the head of a living person with a rather short-bladed knife and not get a drop of blood on one's hands is, to say the least, fanciful.

There are many assertions that the Berg video is "heavily edited" because the visible timecode "jumps around" a lot. This appears to be because there are simply two video cameras in use at the same time with differing timecodes, and these two tapes were later edited together. Still, if one were to want to show the "live" beheading of someone and leave the viewer with absolutely no doubt as to what they had seen, it would seem to me that the singularly most important moment to show with complete clarity would be the actual moment in which the head is severed from the torso. I believe it is no accident that this moment is the only one in the entire video in which there is a one-minute-plus gap in the timecode from a single camera. The so-called executioner spends about 30 seconds miming violent cutting motions (throughout which there is no visible evidence that any tissue is actually being cut), and then there is a quick edit to the head already about four inches away from the torso and being lifted up away from the body. It seems silly to me that in a video that's already more than eight minutes long, it would seem necessary to edit out the crucial, single minute in which the head was actually severed from the body.

I could go on and on, but you're free to read the other inconsistencies for yourself. I don't pretend to know why this video was faked, or by whom, but I do know that I certainly have more questions than answers. We can only hope that some tenacious journalist will work hard to ferret out the truth behind all this, but in the meantime if you want to watch the video, I say, "Watch away." It's no more real than a Friday the 13th movie, and almost as well acted.

The Best Part of Waking Up

2004-05-18T17:32:00.000-05:00

Kudos to the enterprising high school student in Chamblee, Georgia, who switched the daily morning news videotape produced by Chamblee High news class students and instead treated classrooms of bleary-eyed, half-awake students to hard-core pornography. It seems that in the 20 or so seconds that the media specialist left the A/V room unattended to turn on the video feed to the rest of the school, a clever wag made the switch-and voilà, good morning, Ron Jeremy!

Now if that won't get you off (no pun intended) to an interesting start, I don't know what will. Wait, perhaps I do: in the absence of early-morning porn, there's nothing like being lectured by your toilet in a stern, Germanic voice. Just one more step in the continued emasculation of the male gender.

The Sarin Wrap

2004-05-17T14:10:00.000-05:00

Hoo boy, I can just picture the conversation in the Bush bedroom this morning:

"Mr. President? Mr. President? Bushie?"

"Hrmm? Whazzat?"

"It's me, Mr. President, Karl. It's Karl."

"Oh, hey K-man. Mornin'. Aww crap . . . is it raining outside?"

"No, Mr. President, they're just washing the windows."

"Well, that's damn fine. You tell those boys they do a damn fine job on those windows. I damn near walked right through that French door last week it was so clean."

"Yes, Mr. President . . . but actually, I have very good news. I came to tell you: They found it."

"Don't fuck with a man who just woke up, Karl, don't fuck with him. Are you fucking with me?"

"No, sir. The tests came back positive this morning. It was sarin, no doubt about it."

"HOOOOO yah! We got that bearded sumbitch now! HOOOOO YAH! Get Tony on the phone and tell him his job's safe: We got them motherfuckin' Dubya Em Dees!"

Yes, it looks like ol' Dubya was right after all: Saddam did have banned chemical weapons. Of course I should have known this all along. Lots of people doubted the President when he made the rather silly claim that Iraq was awash in banned weapons, since if they existed they must have been better concealed than Bush's own National Guard records. But we should have known better, we should have trusted. After all, this is a man who has a track record of being able to personally sniff out illegal chemicals anywhere in his vicinity (and then ingest them). When a man has that much experience, you ought to give him the benefit of the doubt.

In any case, I'm sure that by tomorrow we'll see a Bush photo-op featuring the President in front of thousands of cheering, smiling troops, backed by an enormous banner the size of Honduras proclaiming, "WMDs Found!" Most mindless newswatchers will probably assume from all the hype that some secret underground cavern, chock full of enough nuclear warheads and anthrax and ricin and sarin and aerosol cheese to destroy the world five times over, was found by tenacious GIs who never gave up the hunt, even in the face of diminishing odds.

Not entirely the case, I'm afraid. What was "found"? One lousy, measly rocket shell, vintage 1980s, probably dating from the Iran-Iraq war, and probably manufactured by Iraq's erstwhile ally, the good ol' U. S. of A., filled with two chemicals that, when detonated, combine to form the deadly sarin nerve agent.

That is to say, they would combine to form sarin--were it not for the fact that said chemicals were further past their expiration date than Apu's Quickie Mart hot dogs. It would be hard to criticize Iraq for not destroying something that was already so old it was no longer a threat, and indeed this particular shell most probably came from a cache of nerve-agent-filled ordinance already identified by the U.N. and marked for destruction in the early 1990s.

And how did our tenacious troops "find" this devastatingly dangerous Weapon (singular) of Mass Destruction? It was tossed at them, of course. The poor fuckers who found it and decided to try to use it to blow up a passing U.S. convoy most likely had no idea that it potentially contained sarin, an assumption that is bolstered by the fact that they also had neither the knowledge nor the equipment to fire the shell, instead making it into a makeshift bomb by wrapping it in Primacord and lighting it.

I'm sure the White House spin on this one will be something to the effect that if there's one, then there must be millions more. I'm sure that thought will re-engergize flagging support for the war in some circles, and certainly breathe new life into the all-but-abandoned search for WMDs. For my part, I would sleep a lot better at night if the President would take every soldier, inspector, and Army Ranger at his disposal and instead order them to secure the dozens of Iraqi nuclear facilities currently left unguarded as a consequence of our brilliantly executed security plan in Iraq.

In today's busy world, a person only has time to worry about so much. And given the choice between worrying about WMDs that might not be there, and nuclear materials that clearly are there--and being stolen by God knows whom--I think I'll choose the known threat over the theoretical one. What I just can't fathom is why the President isn't out telling anyone who'll listen about this frightening nuclear threat. Of course, it's probably because that nuclear threat is of his own making.

Or maybe it's just because he can't pronounce it.

Giving In

2004-05-15T18:31:00.000-05:00

Like Bart Simpson at the blackboard, my mantra of late has been quite simple:

I will not blog.
I will not blog.
I will not blog.

My theory has always been that bloggers are simply people with both too much time on their hands as well as a sadistic desire to torture friends and complete strangers by making them succumb to the reading of their mindless ramblings. (This characterization, of course, does not include such worthwhile bloggers as my dear friend Cardinal Fang.)

But every so often, something so revolting, so distasteful, so singularly disturbing occurs that one cannot help but pray for a forum in which to vent. Today that something happened.

Apple.

Not Apple the computer, Apple the person. Apple the baby. Apple Blythe Alison Martin. Yes, friends, the progeny of the not-welcome-in-Australia Coldplay whiner Chris Martin and the unremarkable Gwyneth Paltrow has burst forth from her uterine Spandau and onto the world stage. What might otherwise be a blessed event is rather marred by the poor child being given what can only be described as the fruitiest prénom since Tiny Tim.

When I was first told this news, I naturally assumed that it was merely an error in the press due to sloppy reportage. Surely no self-respecting individual would name a child "Apple." One is supposed to love one's children, not ruin their lives forever with ridiculous names (Dweezil Zappa excepted). Who on earth, except perhaps Steve Jobs, would name a child "Apple"? One can only assume that poor Apple's publicity-grubbing parents selected the name just to grab a bit more media attention for themselves. Fuck them both for using a defenseless child for their sick, self-absorbed reasons. I'm surprised they didn't harvest the placenta for collagen injections.

The upshot of the whole story came when I read that Apple's birthweight was nine and a half pounds. Apple my ass. She should have named the fucking thing Watermelon.