(Editor's Note: This piece was written during the very first week of Enjoy Every Sandwich, on Friday August 29, 2003. So why is it here on the Sandwich Shop? Because it as a more innocent time, and I was far too stupid to figure out permalinks back then, that's why!
Anyhow, here it is, reprinted with no editing - spelling and grammar mistakes and all - for your dining and dancing pleasure.
-skippystalin, Monday December 26, 2005)
Rolling around the blogsphere, you'll find a general consensus that the war against drugs has failed and should be abdanonded. The same is true, to a lesser extent about gambling. But if you want to get really controversial, bring up prostitution. That will set off all kinds of otherwise well-intentioned and thoughtful people. This is because most people are blind, PC sheep.
I've actually thought about this for a while but couldn't find an excuse to write about it until I came across this article. It appears that the Greater Atlanta Area has a small problem with "massage parlours". I'll fix that problem in a minute. I'm good at stuff like that. First, I'll present my argument.
Most hackeysacking potheads and online poker junkies will tell you that their activities ultimately affect no one other than themselves. And this is true. Every word of it, and this is the ultimate backdrop of libertarian thinking. Social libertarians view all human activities through a very simple prism: "Who gives a fuck?" If your hobbies affect no one other than yourself, who gives a fuck? This is a perfectly logical line of thought.
Or it would be. It isn't because most "social libertarians" have a secret Mommy complex, be it liberal or conservative that prevent them from fully following their own doctrine. Once you actually explore some of these retards arguments, they hedge. You'll hear things like "Well, I'm not advocating the legalisation of cocaine or heroin." Oh really? Why the fuck not? How is it that putting one substance in your body is more socially acceptable to you than another? Because that second substance is "bad for you?" My shooting up affects you in precisely the same way that you're smoking pot effects me. It doesn't. But junkies are unsightly and will affect your property values if they end up in your neighbourhood.The same is true of "libertarian" gambling advocates. The same people who will stand on their "right" to play online poker or piss away a zillion dollars at a casino on an Indian reservation are usually the first people to oppose slots in bars or wide open casino gambling. Why? Because cheap gambling attracts rednecks and welfare queens. And rednecks and welfare queens are unsightly and will affect your property values if they end up in your neighbourhood.
So most "libertarians" are intellectually dishonest. Their interest in "freedom" begins and ends with THEIR preferred hobbies. If YOUR hobbies are deigned to be "icky" to them, they'll outlaw them faster than Fallwell.And this brings us to prostitution. To me, this seems like the ultimate "who gives a fuck" issue.
Some guys will buy a woman a house to put his dick inside her. Others will buy them a $ 4,000,000.00 ring to continue putting their dicks inside them after they are indicted for raping a hotel worker in Eagle County, Colorado. Still others like to economize and will give a massusse a "tip" for a "happy ending". Who gives a fuck?
But then these "libertarian" ideas enter the realm of the most vicious form of politics imaginable, sexual politics.
Sexual politics are as insidious as they are inbred. There is no such thing as "wiggle room" there. It's the ultimate bloodsport. And the indoctrination is unbelievable. All logic goes right out the window. I've had this debate with otherwise thoughtful people and they get completely irrational.The most liberal people I've ever met go to the right of Ashcroft on this issue (and remember, Ashcroft doesn't even believe in dancing). They can bring up the issue that many women are forced into prostitution and when you respond that white slavery, forcible confinement and assault are all already illegal, they respond with "well, it's just wrong. It's a moral issue." This overlooks that libertarianism is inherently amoral in the area of people's personal activities.
Why?
I'm not entirely sure, but I think it has a lot to do with a herd mentality. Maybe these feminist fascists and the pussified men who love them feel that so long as ANY woman is allowed to market her sexuality ALL women will be expected to.
Of course, this is nonsense and I think if these people were halfway honest with themselves they would admit it. If you look around, you'll find it not at all unusual to find people who will passionately defend abortion and euthinasia, which many well meaning people view as murder, go ballistic at the very idea of legalised prostitution.To such people, sexual politics goes much deeper than personal politics. Thus, "freedom's just another word."
From a law enforcement perspective, the argument against freedom is much easier to understand. Cops have "bust quotas". They have to arrest so many people every month. And raiding a massage parlour or a strip joint is much easier than doing something crazy, like solving a murder or stopping armed robberies. Somebody can get hurt doing those things. It's not hard to understand, we've all had jobs where we routinely cut corners. Why should cops be any different? Remember that the next time you read an article about homicide clearence rates in your hometown. Then think of the resources put into stopping something that is nobody's business.
So far as Atlanta's problem goes, I promised a solution and here it is. Legalise brothels and use the zoning laws to isolate the areas in which they operate. Pretty simple, huh? It would eliminate street prostitution tomorrow and raise the tax revenue to educate children into being healthy human beings who don't need whores in the first place. Everybody wins! Of course, it will never happen.
I'm not even sure why I give a shit, anyway. Without a job I can't afford pot, heroin, a hand of poker or a handjob.
Monday, December 26, 2005
Sunday, November 20, 2005
I TOLD HER I LOVE HER AND SHE SAID “QUË?”
(Editor's Note: This was first written for my first blog, I Hate Myself and You Love Me for It, sometime in the summer of 2003. But I can't find it in the archives. Much of that has to do with the fact that I'm exceptionally lazy. There you have it.
To me, this may be one of the most special pieces I've ever written. This one little - what I thought to be throwaway - article managed to piss off not only my girlfriend at the time, but a subsequent one at that. Given that history, you'd think that I'd leave it lost to the ages, lest it annoy subsequent sexual partners. But that just wouldn't be me, now would it?)
-skippystalin, Sunday November 20, 2005
The two most beautiful women I saw today spoke no English. All right, that’s not entirely true, one of them speaks a little. But as with most things in my life, I used the experience to learn a little bit about myself. And learn I did.
I’ve never really thought of myself as having a “type” of woman that I prefer. If you look at the long, sad gallery of women who’ve had the misfortune of having me attracted to them, you’d see a virtual United Nations. All shapes and sizes, all colours and creeds are represented there; white girls, black girls, Asians, Indians. Skinny girls, overweight girls. Large breasts small breasts. Blondes, brunettes, redheads. Tall, short. Christian, Jew, Mennonite and, believe it or not, Jehovah’s Witness. You name it; I’ve fallen in love with it, at one point or another. Many men qualify their preference in a crude objectification of a body type. “Ass man”, “tit man”…. Everyone has their preference. Including me, I’m a “vagina man”. If you have one of those, Apparently we’ll get along just fine.
Today I came to the realisation that I’ve always searched for a type. And I found one.
Girls who don’t speak English.
Firstly, there’s Unnamed Hot Dog Girl. She works at the hot dog stand just outside of one of my buildings every so often. She’s Lithuanian, maybe 5’4”, a tiny girl with a very pretty smile and tits so out of proportion with the rest of her body that they’re just…beautiful. To say she doesn’t speak English isn’t exactly fair. In fact, her English is by far superior to my Lithuanian. But you get my point. With her accent and her tiny, high pitched voiced Unnamed Hot Dog Girl sounds approximately three years old, which for some reason is unreally appealing to a dirty old man like me. The idea of hearing THAT voice come out of THAT body is so right on so many terribly, terribly wrong levels that I know that I’ll never be truly innocent again.
Then comes Unspeakably Beautiful Cleaner. She just started working in one of my buildings and first came across her when she went into a stairwell during her break and didn’t realise that the door locked behind her. So she did what most people would do, she went down a flight a banged really loudly on the door. What she didn’t know was that the floor below her was that that floor belonged to the Executive Suite of the Most Powerful Phone Company on Earth. And of course, representative of Most Powerful Phone Company on Earth…. opened the door. Said representative found the most breathtakingly beautiful girl with the wrong person’s security pass. And she spoke NO English. This is where I come in.
I come up to the Halls of Valhalla and see this…. Goddess, and mange to speak coherently enough to straighten the situation out. Impressive when you consider my heart was in my throat. Granted, I had to call her supervisor up to translate, but I worked it out. I’m a wonderful guy that way.
So, we get Unspeakably Beautiful Cleaner back on her proper floor and her supervisor turns to me and says “Ahhhhhh Skippy, we (her and her assistant) were wondering how long it would take you to notice her!” Okay, I’m not as smooth as I’d like to be, but you need to know that I’m a busy man at work, surrounded by disloyalty and incompetence…kinda like Hitler was in the bunker. I’m usually far too preoccupied with contempt to notice anything else. Would you notice a rose growing in Hell? Not with a red-hot poker in your ass, you wouldn’t. Said supervisor said that Unspeakably Beautiful Cleaner had just moved from Brazil, where she was a lawyer. I asked if this was a step up; y’know, going from lawyer to office cleaner. Apparently it is. Lawyers make NO money in Brazil, I’m told. I learned also that justice actually does live somewhere.
Then I saw Unspeakably Beautiful Cleaner out of her uniform, just being her. And Holy Fucking Christ, she’s even MORE unspeakably perfect. She has the most incredible features one can expect from Brazil, long, almost black hair, deeply tanned skin and these eyes that you can see inside of and see that she’s as beautiful inside as she is out. Plus she has an ass I can imagine eating my wedding cake off of, and to anyone whose read this blog awhile, you KNOW how I feel about marriage And that’s when I knew.
I instinctively realised that the language barrier was my only hope. If she can’t speak English then she can’t know what swine I am…. not for a good long time, anyway. I had finally realised my own darkest secret; I LIKE the idea of someone only knowing how repulsive I am on the outside (and for those of you who absolutely know click here, but don’t say I didn’t warn you). Let the inner ugliness, immediately familiar to women who aren’t ESL wait awhile.
I knew for the first time that foreigners were the way to go.
I should write for Harlequin.
To me, this may be one of the most special pieces I've ever written. This one little - what I thought to be throwaway - article managed to piss off not only my girlfriend at the time, but a subsequent one at that. Given that history, you'd think that I'd leave it lost to the ages, lest it annoy subsequent sexual partners. But that just wouldn't be me, now would it?)
-skippystalin, Sunday November 20, 2005
The two most beautiful women I saw today spoke no English. All right, that’s not entirely true, one of them speaks a little. But as with most things in my life, I used the experience to learn a little bit about myself. And learn I did.
I’ve never really thought of myself as having a “type” of woman that I prefer. If you look at the long, sad gallery of women who’ve had the misfortune of having me attracted to them, you’d see a virtual United Nations. All shapes and sizes, all colours and creeds are represented there; white girls, black girls, Asians, Indians. Skinny girls, overweight girls. Large breasts small breasts. Blondes, brunettes, redheads. Tall, short. Christian, Jew, Mennonite and, believe it or not, Jehovah’s Witness. You name it; I’ve fallen in love with it, at one point or another. Many men qualify their preference in a crude objectification of a body type. “Ass man”, “tit man”…. Everyone has their preference. Including me, I’m a “vagina man”. If you have one of those, Apparently we’ll get along just fine.
Today I came to the realisation that I’ve always searched for a type. And I found one.
Girls who don’t speak English.
Firstly, there’s Unnamed Hot Dog Girl. She works at the hot dog stand just outside of one of my buildings every so often. She’s Lithuanian, maybe 5’4”, a tiny girl with a very pretty smile and tits so out of proportion with the rest of her body that they’re just…beautiful. To say she doesn’t speak English isn’t exactly fair. In fact, her English is by far superior to my Lithuanian. But you get my point. With her accent and her tiny, high pitched voiced Unnamed Hot Dog Girl sounds approximately three years old, which for some reason is unreally appealing to a dirty old man like me. The idea of hearing THAT voice come out of THAT body is so right on so many terribly, terribly wrong levels that I know that I’ll never be truly innocent again.
Then comes Unspeakably Beautiful Cleaner. She just started working in one of my buildings and first came across her when she went into a stairwell during her break and didn’t realise that the door locked behind her. So she did what most people would do, she went down a flight a banged really loudly on the door. What she didn’t know was that the floor below her was that that floor belonged to the Executive Suite of the Most Powerful Phone Company on Earth. And of course, representative of Most Powerful Phone Company on Earth…. opened the door. Said representative found the most breathtakingly beautiful girl with the wrong person’s security pass. And she spoke NO English. This is where I come in.
I come up to the Halls of Valhalla and see this…. Goddess, and mange to speak coherently enough to straighten the situation out. Impressive when you consider my heart was in my throat. Granted, I had to call her supervisor up to translate, but I worked it out. I’m a wonderful guy that way.
So, we get Unspeakably Beautiful Cleaner back on her proper floor and her supervisor turns to me and says “Ahhhhhh Skippy, we (her and her assistant) were wondering how long it would take you to notice her!” Okay, I’m not as smooth as I’d like to be, but you need to know that I’m a busy man at work, surrounded by disloyalty and incompetence…kinda like Hitler was in the bunker. I’m usually far too preoccupied with contempt to notice anything else. Would you notice a rose growing in Hell? Not with a red-hot poker in your ass, you wouldn’t. Said supervisor said that Unspeakably Beautiful Cleaner had just moved from Brazil, where she was a lawyer. I asked if this was a step up; y’know, going from lawyer to office cleaner. Apparently it is. Lawyers make NO money in Brazil, I’m told. I learned also that justice actually does live somewhere.
Then I saw Unspeakably Beautiful Cleaner out of her uniform, just being her. And Holy Fucking Christ, she’s even MORE unspeakably perfect. She has the most incredible features one can expect from Brazil, long, almost black hair, deeply tanned skin and these eyes that you can see inside of and see that she’s as beautiful inside as she is out. Plus she has an ass I can imagine eating my wedding cake off of, and to anyone whose read this blog awhile, you KNOW how I feel about marriage And that’s when I knew.
I instinctively realised that the language barrier was my only hope. If she can’t speak English then she can’t know what swine I am…. not for a good long time, anyway. I had finally realised my own darkest secret; I LIKE the idea of someone only knowing how repulsive I am on the outside (and for those of you who absolutely know click here, but don’t say I didn’t warn you). Let the inner ugliness, immediately familiar to women who aren’t ESL wait awhile.
I knew for the first time that foreigners were the way to go.
I should write for Harlequin.
Tuesday, September 27, 2005
"AND YOU STILL GOT YOUR BABY TEETH" THOUGHTS ON CANADA'S AGE OF CONSENT
This summary is not available. Please
click here to view the post.
Wednesday, January 26, 2005
SOME KIND OF MONSTER
If you're anything like me, you know that This is Spinal Tap is one of the greatest movies ever made. It is the perfect satire of a topic so self-important that it begs for satirization: rock stardom. Steven Tyler of Aerosmith has admitted weeping for days when he first saw Spinal Tap because it so accurately portrayed his life.
Ever since that film, there has been any number of rockers who have inadvertently attempted to create their own version of This is Spinal Tap. Only Metallica has succeeded.
Metallica is the perfect band for such a project. They are, all at once, self-important, stupid and incredibly boring. There is something about large headed, Danish dwarf, Lars Ulrich and monosyballic drunkard James Hetfield that literally begs to be made fun of. And they unintentionally did it to themselves. To think that they spent three million dollars of their own money doing so makes it all the more perfect.
In early 2001, Metallica were not getting along with one another. Tensions in the band were such that simpleton bassist Jason Newstead quit rather than spend another minute in the same room with Hetfield and Ulrich. Racially indeterminate guitarist Kirk Hammett kept his mouth shut, secure in the knowledge that even the obnoxiousness of his partners is better than wearing a paper hat for a living.
When three musicians find it impossible to speak civilly to one another, it logically follows that they should have a film crew recording the proceedings for posterity. After all, what could go wrong? It worked out so well for the Beatles. So, with film crew in tow, Metallica set up camp at the San Francisco Presidio military base to begin recording their new album.
As you might imagine, renting your own military base from the United States government can get pricey. Film crews are also not famous for paying for themselves, either. Metallica prepared for the event by not writing a single song in advance. This leads to barely in tune riffery as the musicians stare blankly at one another. Tension and unproductive, expensive exercises usually leads to people doing two things, drinking and fighting. Metallica does both for a time.
In what may be the ultimate example of rock star self-indulgence, Metallica hired their very own psychotherapist. If you, like me, have ever wondered what stupidity sent to therapy looks like, wait no longer. Some Kind of Monster is the movie for you. That the band and their management seemingly confused retarded self-indulgence with mental illness makes for an even better film.
Ulrich confronts the band's demons by constantly changing his hairstyle. His enormous head is differently coiffed no fewer than 14 times over the course of two hours and twenty minutes.
Metallica paid $40,000 a month to retain their therapist. This may be the wisest investment of your entertainment dollar in show business history. Watching developmentally challenged rockers get in touch with their feelings is hilarious.
Then Hetfield decided that he is a world class alcoholic. Oddly enough, the rest of the world reached this conclusion in 1986. Hetfield then goes to rehab for 11 months. Metallica is left without a songwriter. Sure, everyone pitches in to help write empty-headed lyrics for the poorly conceived music, but no one can achieve the simple-mindedned blathering that Hetfield has turned into an art form.
In Hetfield's absence, Ulrich decides that his quest to be his own best friend will remain incomplete unless he apologizes to those he has wronged in the past. This leads to a highly amusing conversation with former singer/guitarist Dave Mustaine. Mustaine was fired in 1983 for being, simply put, far too stupid to be in Metallica. Being told that you're too stupid for Metallica must be like being kicked out of the Manson family for "being weird." But the spectacle of two egotistical, untalented rock gods getting in touch with one another's inner child is worth the price of the DVD alone.
There is one universal truth about alcoholics. That is that when they quit drinking they become fantastic assholes. Hetfield is no exception. Upon his return, Hetfield makes ridiculous demands, including the band only work between noon and four PM.
Here's an experiment; go to your job today and tell your boss that you need a year off because you are too pickled to perform even the most routine tasks. Then, assuming that you have a job to come back to, inform them that you can only work for four hours a day. Furthermore, if the company decides to do anything at all in your absence, you will bitch and cry. If you still have a job, you might just be a rock star without knowing it.
The completion of of drug and alcohol treatment also leads to another fascinating phenomenon, the patient becomes a rehab junkie. Simply put, one addiction is traded for another. As addicts are generally oral personalities, the bottle is removed from the alcoholic's mouth and is replaced with mindless platitudes. Combine this with the pre-existing condition of stupidity and ongoing group therapy, and Hetfield becomes an unbearable prick. And that is no longer mitigated by the chance that you'll get to find him in a pool of his own urine and vomit.
Obviously, this makes the working relationship even more difficult.
Finally, Ulrich cannot take it any longer and takes all two and a half feet of himself to New York where he gets drunk and sells very unsightly paintings for pornographic amounts of money. We also learn that Ulrich is married to an Amazon. Did I mention that Lars Ulrich is very short?
As the movie goes on (and on, and on), Metallica rediscovers the joy of making unexciting music together and they go on to complete a truly unlistenable album. All they need now is a new bassist. One of the criteria is that their new bandmate not only be as learning challenged as they, he must also look stupid. In the previously anonymous Rob Trujillo, they find their man.
One would think that they live happily ever after at this point, but that would overlook Metallica's quest for insipid melodrama. They then proceed to go to war with their therapist who is reluctant to go away. That this could have been accomplished by withholding the doctor's 40 grand a month escapes the band's notice.
Unfortunately, the therapy ends before the fact that Metallica hasn't done anything worthwhile since 1988 is addressed.
The movie closes with Metallica shooting a video at San Quentin prison. Before performing for the prisoners, Hetfield explains how the power of music kept him from joining them in incarceration. The regret that the prisoners will never have the opportunity to rape Hetfield in the shower is written on their tattooed tear faces.
If you're looking to see what AA and group therapy can do for you, then Some Kind of Monster is the movie for you. It may be the most unintentionally funny movie not starring Ben Affleck of 2004. Its beauty lies in its stupidity. The mathematics are simple; lots of money minus talent and social skills plus a film crew equals comedy gold.
In short, I don't regret for a second paying thirty bucks for Some Kind of Monster.
Oh, I also bought no fewer than five Seymore Butts films last night. Perhaps I'll review them later in the week, if for no other reason than I love saying "Seymore Butts."
Ever since that film, there has been any number of rockers who have inadvertently attempted to create their own version of This is Spinal Tap. Only Metallica has succeeded.
Metallica is the perfect band for such a project. They are, all at once, self-important, stupid and incredibly boring. There is something about large headed, Danish dwarf, Lars Ulrich and monosyballic drunkard James Hetfield that literally begs to be made fun of. And they unintentionally did it to themselves. To think that they spent three million dollars of their own money doing so makes it all the more perfect.
In early 2001, Metallica were not getting along with one another. Tensions in the band were such that simpleton bassist Jason Newstead quit rather than spend another minute in the same room with Hetfield and Ulrich. Racially indeterminate guitarist Kirk Hammett kept his mouth shut, secure in the knowledge that even the obnoxiousness of his partners is better than wearing a paper hat for a living.
When three musicians find it impossible to speak civilly to one another, it logically follows that they should have a film crew recording the proceedings for posterity. After all, what could go wrong? It worked out so well for the Beatles. So, with film crew in tow, Metallica set up camp at the San Francisco Presidio military base to begin recording their new album.
As you might imagine, renting your own military base from the United States government can get pricey. Film crews are also not famous for paying for themselves, either. Metallica prepared for the event by not writing a single song in advance. This leads to barely in tune riffery as the musicians stare blankly at one another. Tension and unproductive, expensive exercises usually leads to people doing two things, drinking and fighting. Metallica does both for a time.
In what may be the ultimate example of rock star self-indulgence, Metallica hired their very own psychotherapist. If you, like me, have ever wondered what stupidity sent to therapy looks like, wait no longer. Some Kind of Monster is the movie for you. That the band and their management seemingly confused retarded self-indulgence with mental illness makes for an even better film.
Ulrich confronts the band's demons by constantly changing his hairstyle. His enormous head is differently coiffed no fewer than 14 times over the course of two hours and twenty minutes.
Metallica paid $40,000 a month to retain their therapist. This may be the wisest investment of your entertainment dollar in show business history. Watching developmentally challenged rockers get in touch with their feelings is hilarious.
Then Hetfield decided that he is a world class alcoholic. Oddly enough, the rest of the world reached this conclusion in 1986. Hetfield then goes to rehab for 11 months. Metallica is left without a songwriter. Sure, everyone pitches in to help write empty-headed lyrics for the poorly conceived music, but no one can achieve the simple-mindedned blathering that Hetfield has turned into an art form.
In Hetfield's absence, Ulrich decides that his quest to be his own best friend will remain incomplete unless he apologizes to those he has wronged in the past. This leads to a highly amusing conversation with former singer/guitarist Dave Mustaine. Mustaine was fired in 1983 for being, simply put, far too stupid to be in Metallica. Being told that you're too stupid for Metallica must be like being kicked out of the Manson family for "being weird." But the spectacle of two egotistical, untalented rock gods getting in touch with one another's inner child is worth the price of the DVD alone.
There is one universal truth about alcoholics. That is that when they quit drinking they become fantastic assholes. Hetfield is no exception. Upon his return, Hetfield makes ridiculous demands, including the band only work between noon and four PM.
Here's an experiment; go to your job today and tell your boss that you need a year off because you are too pickled to perform even the most routine tasks. Then, assuming that you have a job to come back to, inform them that you can only work for four hours a day. Furthermore, if the company decides to do anything at all in your absence, you will bitch and cry. If you still have a job, you might just be a rock star without knowing it.
The completion of of drug and alcohol treatment also leads to another fascinating phenomenon, the patient becomes a rehab junkie. Simply put, one addiction is traded for another. As addicts are generally oral personalities, the bottle is removed from the alcoholic's mouth and is replaced with mindless platitudes. Combine this with the pre-existing condition of stupidity and ongoing group therapy, and Hetfield becomes an unbearable prick. And that is no longer mitigated by the chance that you'll get to find him in a pool of his own urine and vomit.
Obviously, this makes the working relationship even more difficult.
Finally, Ulrich cannot take it any longer and takes all two and a half feet of himself to New York where he gets drunk and sells very unsightly paintings for pornographic amounts of money. We also learn that Ulrich is married to an Amazon. Did I mention that Lars Ulrich is very short?
As the movie goes on (and on, and on), Metallica rediscovers the joy of making unexciting music together and they go on to complete a truly unlistenable album. All they need now is a new bassist. One of the criteria is that their new bandmate not only be as learning challenged as they, he must also look stupid. In the previously anonymous Rob Trujillo, they find their man.
One would think that they live happily ever after at this point, but that would overlook Metallica's quest for insipid melodrama. They then proceed to go to war with their therapist who is reluctant to go away. That this could have been accomplished by withholding the doctor's 40 grand a month escapes the band's notice.
Unfortunately, the therapy ends before the fact that Metallica hasn't done anything worthwhile since 1988 is addressed.
The movie closes with Metallica shooting a video at San Quentin prison. Before performing for the prisoners, Hetfield explains how the power of music kept him from joining them in incarceration. The regret that the prisoners will never have the opportunity to rape Hetfield in the shower is written on their tattooed tear faces.
If you're looking to see what AA and group therapy can do for you, then Some Kind of Monster is the movie for you. It may be the most unintentionally funny movie not starring Ben Affleck of 2004. Its beauty lies in its stupidity. The mathematics are simple; lots of money minus talent and social skills plus a film crew equals comedy gold.
In short, I don't regret for a second paying thirty bucks for Some Kind of Monster.
Oh, I also bought no fewer than five Seymore Butts films last night. Perhaps I'll review them later in the week, if for no other reason than I love saying "Seymore Butts."
Saturday, September 25, 2004
NOTHING SAYS "TEACHER OF THE YEAR"....
Quite like turds.
Yup, it's true.
Is anyone still doubting that we're all doomed?
Because if you're not, you can read an interview I gave here. That anyone would want to interview me, or worse, that someone would read such an interview is troubling. Now, I'm no biblical scholar, but I'm pretty sure that this is one of the signs of the "end times."
Yup, it's true.
Teacher sends feces home with 6-year-old"An unfortunate incident." These are the very same fucking people for start screaming "the time of purification is near" if a 13 year old girl bring Mydol to class, but sending a 6 year old home - chock full of turds - is "unfortunate."
Associated Press
DALLAS -- A teacher is on paid administrative leave after sending a first-grader home with feces in his backpack because the boy went to the bathroom on the classroom floor.
The teacher apparently was frustrated with the 6-year-old student's actions so wrapped up the waste and sent it home with the boy Tuesday along with a note, Dallas school district spokesman Donald Claxton said.
Claxton declined to identify the teacher at Gabe P. Allen Elementary School.
"It generally appears the teacher was trying to help raise awareness with the family," Claxton said. "It's just an unfortunate incident. Unfortunately, she took this course of action."
Is anyone still doubting that we're all doomed?
Because if you're not, you can read an interview I gave here. That anyone would want to interview me, or worse, that someone would read such an interview is troubling. Now, I'm no biblical scholar, but I'm pretty sure that this is one of the signs of the "end times."
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)