This week we're tackling possibly the most heated political debate going right now...immigration. As thousands take to the streets three humble bloggers attempt to sift through the morass and shed a little light on the subject.
First up is me, because it's my damn blog...
John Milton wrote, “Methinks I see in my mind a noble and puissant nation rousing herself like a strong man after sleep, and shaking her invincible locks. Methinks I see her as an eagle mewing her mighty youth, and kindling her undazzled eyes at the full midday beam.”
That’s the vision our Founding Fathers had, a great and glorious experiment in republicanism not seen since ancient Rome, born of defiance and high treason. And it worked; the blood of thousands of British ex-patriots washed away years of oppression and this country, the United States of America, drew its first breath. A bunch of unwashed immigrants built the most impossible and visionary nation the world had ever seen.
And, poetically, it's immigration that now threatens the very fabric of our country. On one side you have those that would welcome 12 million illegals with open arms. On the other side stands the advocates of tighter immigration laws and would have the 12 million undocumented aliens summarily deported. Until recently I was an open-arms kinda guy. But no longer, and let me tell you why.
I had a revealing conversation with my best friend from law school and it was his contention that to not support Bush’s proposed immigration reform is steeped in racism. This is the tenuous logic forwarded by the pro-reform wing, and a convenient leveling of the race card. Not to mention the specious contention that portends the collapse of our economy should illegal immigrants be forced to abide by the law. Neither of these positions holds up under examination. ‘Tis not racist to expect enforcement of our laws. And, depending on which numbers you choose to believe, there are anywhere from 7 million to 35 million jobless Americans who could readily absorb the initial shock of more expensive produce and textiles.
Since Mexicans make up the vast majority of illegals the onus of the attention, both supportive and negative, is directed at them. And to the dismay of precious few there exists within the Hispanic community a hue & cry to retake the Southwestern U.S., including California, Arizona, Nevada, New Mexico, Texas, and Colorado. The claim is this region was stolen from Mexico. What a bunch of crap! There is not a nation on this planet that wasn’t stolen from native populations at some point. And the same goes for Latin America. The Spanish and Portuguese were hardly accommodating to the native South and Central American inhabitants. The U.S. hardly has a monopoly on Manifest Destiny via the barrel of a gun.
As a nation we are only as strong as our populace, our laws, and our borders. Save only plucky British, we have the most resilient citizenry on Earth, so the strength of the people is a given. However, the same cannot be said of our laws and our borders. To take a piece meal approach to law enforcement is suicidal and hypercritical. The most basic cannon of our system of jurisprudence is the ability to predict and anticipate that which is deemed illegal and the potential consequences. If we observe our immigration laws with a surreptitious wink & nudge we strip away the notice that ALL law should provide. This is patently unconstitutional. If our borders become ceremonial then another basic tenet of nationhood is obliterated. Thus our sovereignty is in danger. A nation without borders, by definition, is no longer a nation, and a shadow of our Founding Fathers’ vision.
This is what I propose…
The President’s job is to protect our Constitution and our sovereignty. On the subject of immigration he is doing neither. His proposed reform is essentially an amnesty for those here illegally longer than two years. This in no way enforces current law and is a slap in the face to those who’ve chosen the legal route. It also conveys the message that it is OK to break our laws, so long as you do it effectively and for a sustained period of time. This is a clear violation of his Presidential Oath, an impeachable offense. For the above reasons I move that immigration laws be tighter and that Jr be brought up on articles of impeachment.
Yes we are a nation born of immigrants. Yes it seems hypocritical to effectively turn our back to that heritage. And yes, we should be a country that welcomes others with open arms. But we cannot due so at the sake of that which makes us a sovereign land. To do so would be a perversion of the original intent of our founding.
We need to take back our borders, a reclamation project, if you will. Retake them and enforce them. Only then will we be able to call ourselves a sovereign nation.
Now Morg's take...
I’ve mixed feelings on the immigration issue. I turn on CNN and see crowds of angry illegal immigrants marching in the streets and demanding that we let them stay. I see them taking the American flag down the pole and running the Mexican flag up in it place, a gesture that many Americans consider a slap in the face at best and a threat at worst. One has to wonder why a group that says it wants to be accepted is going out of its way to alienate us. Is it because they know our leaders better than we do?
I see self-serving politicians straddling both side of the fence, acknowledging the need to curb illegal immigration while seeking a way to relax immigration policies. They hope that by the time these immigrants are eligible to vote, they will remember and reward those who let them in. On the other hand, these same politicians are counting on the American voters’ short memory. They’re savvy like that, the politicians, and are betting that by the time the immigrants are eligible to vote, a forgetful American public will have moved on to the next Losing Cause.
Now let me digress here for a minute, though, and admit that I straddle the fence myself on the immigration issue. When I see people screaming about “our” borders and “our” culture, I think back to what this country was like Once Upon A Time, when native Americans watched a more ruthless immigration take over what they considered theirs.
Some chiefs trusted the white-skinned visitors and allowed themselves to be sold out for baubles. They didn’t realize their mistake until they looked at just who they were dealing with and saw the awful results: all the bison killed, children dead after being wrapped in smallpox-infected blankets, their language and culture supplanted, their territories limited to reservations.
Will our leaders be like those sell-out chiefs? Will they likewise fail to also not acknowledge the results until it is too late, when brown faces become the majority? When English language and culture is supplanted?
Could it be that what’s happening now is just a sort of karma?
I don’t know. But I do know that anyone who values the nation needs to do what the Native Americans did not do, and that is greet the newcomers with more skepticism and common sense.
There was a lot of attention given to “No Mexicans” day, when Mexicans stayed home from work or didn’t shop. They said they wanted to show the impact of their contribution to the economy. But for a completely accurate picture, they should have gone further. They should have kept their children out of the public school system, stayed out of American public hospitals or health departments, not applied for WIC or food stamps. They should have committed no crimes, borne no babies who became automatic citizens. A truly accurate picture would have included not just what they give, but what they take.
Back in the day, immigrants came through Ellis Island. They were only allowed in if they were able to work and free of diseases. They considered citizenship an honor, not an entitlement. And while they valued their heritage, when they became citizens, those immigrants vowed loyalty to the United States, and they meant it. They entered this country as gracious would-be citizens, not a conquering horde.
We can’t go back and talk to our ancestors, but we should heed their lessons. We should remember how our ancestors were able to so easily conquer the Native Americans and take their land. We should also learn from the later ones who came to Ellis Island, and what the system of that day required. Having conquered and claimed a land, our ancestors sought to protect it by not letting just anyone in.
The question is, do we have the current national leadership and the will to protect ourselves? Only time will tell.
And finally, Billy D...
Immigration. It used to be a good thing. Now, not so much. See, it used to be, that the majority of folks came here looking for a chance. A chance to prove themselves, a chance to make their way, to live the “American dream” of owning that house in the suburbs, of driving that big Cadillac, having the picket fence; all that.
Now, it seems the majority are only interested in the handouts. No, not the day laborers and the like. They’re only interested in feeding their families, and as long as they exist, there’ll always be cheap, almost slave-like labor for the farmers and contractors of this country.
No, I’m talking about the immigrants who have absolutely NO interest in the American dream, no inclination for doing their part, to contributing to society, only taking, always taking. Free healthcare that the hospitals they are bankrupting. Free education at the schools that are bankrupting the folks paying the bills to keep them open. Free handout from a government with a rapidly rising welfare roll built upon anchor babies.
“They’re only doing the jobs Americans won’t do”, I’m told. Well, they’re also apparently committing the crimes Americans can’t be bothered to commit. In Massachusetts the rate of illegals getting into car accidents is almost epidemic now, with no downturn in sight. Of course, since they’re illegal, they have no insurance either, meaning the victim also gets to pay for their own hospital and repair bills.
And now our “leadership” in D.C. is working on a way to legalize eleven million of them. Of course, eleven million actually means closer to sixteen or seventeen million, once you add on mom and dad, the kids, cousin Carlos and Uncle Freddy.
I listened to Ted Kennedy talk about the illegals, and the fact that they’re “folks who play by the rules, work hard and pay their taxes”. I’m going to call bullshit on that right now.
By definition, illegals are illegal. Therefore, they don’t play by the rules. And they don’t pay taxes. No way am I buying that. They skirt the rules, or just thumb their noses at them, whichever suits the individual. They don’t give a fat shit about this country, or the people of this country.
I’m tired of the politicians pandering to these crimaliens on my dime. Did you know the last immigration reform bill also contained a provision to allow them to have in state tuition in whichever state they decide to go on the lam in? Meanwhile, in my state of NH we’re trying to get a bill passed that would make it mandatory for someone to show identification when attempting to vote, and it’s hitting a wall of opposition. Why? For the same reason this immigration reform act is getting pushed so hard. The left needs voters. Whether they’re actually Americans or not makes no difference, as it’s not Americans the filthy bastards represent anyway, but the rest of the globe.
No, instead of legalization, we need to clamp down hard on this now. Not only build a wall, but build a fifty foot tall wall, then another one maybe fifty feet behind that one. Then fill that gap with water flowing in from the ocean and stock it with plenty of sharks and salt water crocs. Chum it daily and just wait. I think you’d see a pretty steep decline in illegal entry into the country.
Folks, I’m not against immigration at all. If people want to come to this country and work hard, play by the rules, and try to grab the American dream for themselves, I’ve no problem with that and welcome them with open arms. But there are laws, and they’re there for a reason. Follow them, wait your turn, and be ready to contribute, and we’ll get along just fine.
Testicle Tuesday: Vampire Killers
Kate Beckinsale, Sarah Michelle Gellar, and Jessica Biel form the holy trinity of sultry vixenish vampire killers. These three damsels in no distress have been slaying minions of the undead for years, all the while proving women who can handle weapons of mass destruction are dead sexy. Oh to be the target of their destructive energy, I've never wanted to be a hunted nosferatu more in my life.
Until next week...
Happy Easter!
Today is a day for rejoicing. Go, be with your families, hunt for easter eggs, eat loads of Hershey's Kisses, anod most of all, revel in the love of those close to you.
The bet from Hell
Ah the joys of public transportation. As a gimp I get to experience the singular delight that is boarding a conveyance owned by the city. The rapture that ensues when one relies on these coaches of the damned is almost indescribable.
Such was my fate this sunny Friday afternoon. And to compound matters they, meaning metro Denver’s Access-a-Ride program, were 45 minutes late.
My transport motors into my doctor’s parking lot as I’m doing a slow burn and cursing my luck up one side and down the other. The uber van stops and the driver crawls out. Now, picture if you will the human epitome of a hermaphrodite. Got it yet…let me know when you’re there. OK. This driver, presumably female judging from her voice and quite frankly I wasn’t interested in gazing at her face, had a full on pimp daddy mullet, the kind made infamous by Billy *insert single syllable sir name here* Cyrus and the members of Def Leppard. But since she was female ‘twas more of a pimp mamma mullet. Her figure conjured up visions of The March Of The Penguins and her voice was as appealing as finger nails on a chalk board. She was a vision of nightmarish proportions, just truly hideous. Then I got the added joy of listening to her bitch for the hour it took to tote my fat ass home.
Which reminded me of a story from the days of yore…
Once, a long time ago, a group of nine innocents, or scoundrels, embarked on a rousing adventure. You see, this group of n’er do wells had a habit of comparing and contrasting the quality of female company we kept. There were those among us who had better luck than others and didn’t give the less fortunate a moment’s rest. I think it was Q-Tip who initially proposed a wager. We’d each throw in a hundred bucks and whomever had sex with the raunchiest girl won the pot, a cool $900. Yes, we were a bunch of self-absorbed 18-19 year olds, we were not nice people.
The parameters were as such: we had four weeks; we had to meet the girl, woo her, get a picture of the two of us together; the honor system was strictly enforced and no images of a lurid kind were permitted; at least three members of our group had to be eye witnesses at some point prior or post intercourse; condoms were to be used at all times; you had as many opportunities to hook up as you wanted but only your worst/best effort counted; we were restricted to one entry; winner take all. The honor system was something none of us ever tampered with as a violation would warrant a swift beating and prolonged ostracism. And the rationale behind the smut photo prohibition was two-fold; no one wanted to risk getting sued later on, and we had no desire to see each others’ privates or technique.
Thus the stage was set.
A couple members of our merry band took to the challenge with boyish enthusiasm and tried to connect with a veritable gaggle of gruesome girls but most of us were too frightened of the Faustian implications of such practices. So we inevitably singled out one target and dove in.
Spaz, the proverbial loud mouth of the group, found a girl within the first 48 hours of our squalid little contest who had literally just walked out of jail and bore an eerie resemblance to Abe Vigoda. She was in the classical sense a toad. Not toadish but full-on toad. So Spaz was the front runner for a couple weeks.
Then Mullet Man trumped Spaz’s lump. Let me tell you this girl was frighteningly ugly. She was 5’3” and fully 300 pounds. She looked like a globe with feet. And the look on Mullet Man’s face as he showed us the Polaroid from the night before was of utter terror. The previous night MM had called myself, Lurch, and Q-Tip and said he needed witnesses. So I picked up my buds and we made a not-so-subtle appearance at Mullet’s house just as he was cooking fettuccine alfredo and turning on the charm. When we saw Mullet’s conquest we had to stifle the urge to laugh hysterically. Mullet had that look on his face every kid gets just before your crazy aunt Mildred, the one who smells of formaldehyde and has those flabby arms that ripple when she waves, squeezes you and kisses your cheek. I honestly felt sorry for MM and I also got that sinking feeling in the pit of my stomach, that sense of imminent defeat. I cringed at the thought of having to “top” Mullet’s effort. Time was running short, I had four days, and I was broke and desperate.
Two days later I was at a bar here in Denver, a big place downtown known as Thirsty’s, which was eventually torn down to make way for the Pepsi Center. On Wednesdays & Fridays, Thirsty’s had $1 pitchers of swag 3.2 beer. On these nights they didn’t even pass out cups, you just drank from the pitcher. It was a cheep way to get drunk and hook up and I was on a mission. So, Lurch, Mullet, Hollywood, Marky Mark, and myself all piled into M’s Audi with our fake ID’s and about $10 each. Now, when drinking 3.2 beer it’s necessary to do a little “pre partying” unless one wants to spend two hours waiting in the men’s room line. So I’d downed half a fifth of Bacardi and had that perfect buzz going, the buzz where you’re at that I-don’t-give-a-shit stage but not too groggy or hyper. I gave my ID to the bouncer and he gave me the obligatory condescending once over then strapped that stupid plastic band around my wrist, the unmistakable signal I was allowed to drink my balls off.
I had walked literally twenty feet when I felt a pinch on my butt. Thirsty’s was a meat market so such gestures were the norm. I turned around to say some smartass quip towards my assailant. What I saw after I did the ol’ 180 made me literally have to squelch the urge to gag. Standing before me was the most beastly swamp hag I’d ever laid eyes on. I've seen gargoyles with more sex appeal. Mullet, who was the front runner in our bet, was equally repulsed yet disheartened at the same time. When Hollywood, Markey Mark, and Lurch saw her they got that resignation of defeat look, and Hollywood even bowed as if to say “you’re king if you do”. So, I reluctantly turned my gaze to my new found lady friend. There are literally no words that can describe her visage. Looking at her I flashed to Rodney Dangerfield in Caddy Shack, “Last time I saw a mouth like that it had a hook in it.” The woman looked like a haddock. But she was my ticket to victory and I was broke, drunk, and ergo had no conscience. So I swallowed my pride, and four pitchers of beer, had the flower girl who sold roses for $3 a piece and also took Polaroid’s for five bucks snap our picture twice, and consummated our arrangement later on that night.
As the deadline wound down we all convened at Mullet’s house and tallied the results. Our entry pictures were shown and the vote paired down the entries to two finalists, myself and Mullet. I won by unanimous decision and carried the title. Strangely, the $900 was spent on God only knows what, presumably a massive amount of pot and alcohol, and my plan to purchase this ’68 Bronco never came to fruition.
The moral of the story…there is none, just conveying a sordid chapter in the life that was the Shrub, circa 1989. Whatever became of that girl…who knows. Whatever happened to my conscience…I developed one, all be it at a glacial pace. Whatever happened to our merry band of miscreants…scattered to the four winds.
Such was my fate this sunny Friday afternoon. And to compound matters they, meaning metro Denver’s Access-a-Ride program, were 45 minutes late.
My transport motors into my doctor’s parking lot as I’m doing a slow burn and cursing my luck up one side and down the other. The uber van stops and the driver crawls out. Now, picture if you will the human epitome of a hermaphrodite. Got it yet…let me know when you’re there. OK. This driver, presumably female judging from her voice and quite frankly I wasn’t interested in gazing at her face, had a full on pimp daddy mullet, the kind made infamous by Billy *insert single syllable sir name here* Cyrus and the members of Def Leppard. But since she was female ‘twas more of a pimp mamma mullet. Her figure conjured up visions of The March Of The Penguins and her voice was as appealing as finger nails on a chalk board. She was a vision of nightmarish proportions, just truly hideous. Then I got the added joy of listening to her bitch for the hour it took to tote my fat ass home.
Which reminded me of a story from the days of yore…
Once, a long time ago, a group of nine innocents, or scoundrels, embarked on a rousing adventure. You see, this group of n’er do wells had a habit of comparing and contrasting the quality of female company we kept. There were those among us who had better luck than others and didn’t give the less fortunate a moment’s rest. I think it was Q-Tip who initially proposed a wager. We’d each throw in a hundred bucks and whomever had sex with the raunchiest girl won the pot, a cool $900. Yes, we were a bunch of self-absorbed 18-19 year olds, we were not nice people.
The parameters were as such: we had four weeks; we had to meet the girl, woo her, get a picture of the two of us together; the honor system was strictly enforced and no images of a lurid kind were permitted; at least three members of our group had to be eye witnesses at some point prior or post intercourse; condoms were to be used at all times; you had as many opportunities to hook up as you wanted but only your worst/best effort counted; we were restricted to one entry; winner take all. The honor system was something none of us ever tampered with as a violation would warrant a swift beating and prolonged ostracism. And the rationale behind the smut photo prohibition was two-fold; no one wanted to risk getting sued later on, and we had no desire to see each others’ privates or technique.
Thus the stage was set.
A couple members of our merry band took to the challenge with boyish enthusiasm and tried to connect with a veritable gaggle of gruesome girls but most of us were too frightened of the Faustian implications of such practices. So we inevitably singled out one target and dove in.
Spaz, the proverbial loud mouth of the group, found a girl within the first 48 hours of our squalid little contest who had literally just walked out of jail and bore an eerie resemblance to Abe Vigoda. She was in the classical sense a toad. Not toadish but full-on toad. So Spaz was the front runner for a couple weeks.
Then Mullet Man trumped Spaz’s lump. Let me tell you this girl was frighteningly ugly. She was 5’3” and fully 300 pounds. She looked like a globe with feet. And the look on Mullet Man’s face as he showed us the Polaroid from the night before was of utter terror. The previous night MM had called myself, Lurch, and Q-Tip and said he needed witnesses. So I picked up my buds and we made a not-so-subtle appearance at Mullet’s house just as he was cooking fettuccine alfredo and turning on the charm. When we saw Mullet’s conquest we had to stifle the urge to laugh hysterically. Mullet had that look on his face every kid gets just before your crazy aunt Mildred, the one who smells of formaldehyde and has those flabby arms that ripple when she waves, squeezes you and kisses your cheek. I honestly felt sorry for MM and I also got that sinking feeling in the pit of my stomach, that sense of imminent defeat. I cringed at the thought of having to “top” Mullet’s effort. Time was running short, I had four days, and I was broke and desperate.
Two days later I was at a bar here in Denver, a big place downtown known as Thirsty’s, which was eventually torn down to make way for the Pepsi Center. On Wednesdays & Fridays, Thirsty’s had $1 pitchers of swag 3.2 beer. On these nights they didn’t even pass out cups, you just drank from the pitcher. It was a cheep way to get drunk and hook up and I was on a mission. So, Lurch, Mullet, Hollywood, Marky Mark, and myself all piled into M’s Audi with our fake ID’s and about $10 each. Now, when drinking 3.2 beer it’s necessary to do a little “pre partying” unless one wants to spend two hours waiting in the men’s room line. So I’d downed half a fifth of Bacardi and had that perfect buzz going, the buzz where you’re at that I-don’t-give-a-shit stage but not too groggy or hyper. I gave my ID to the bouncer and he gave me the obligatory condescending once over then strapped that stupid plastic band around my wrist, the unmistakable signal I was allowed to drink my balls off.
I had walked literally twenty feet when I felt a pinch on my butt. Thirsty’s was a meat market so such gestures were the norm. I turned around to say some smartass quip towards my assailant. What I saw after I did the ol’ 180 made me literally have to squelch the urge to gag. Standing before me was the most beastly swamp hag I’d ever laid eyes on. I've seen gargoyles with more sex appeal. Mullet, who was the front runner in our bet, was equally repulsed yet disheartened at the same time. When Hollywood, Markey Mark, and Lurch saw her they got that resignation of defeat look, and Hollywood even bowed as if to say “you’re king if you do”. So, I reluctantly turned my gaze to my new found lady friend. There are literally no words that can describe her visage. Looking at her I flashed to Rodney Dangerfield in Caddy Shack, “Last time I saw a mouth like that it had a hook in it.” The woman looked like a haddock. But she was my ticket to victory and I was broke, drunk, and ergo had no conscience. So I swallowed my pride, and four pitchers of beer, had the flower girl who sold roses for $3 a piece and also took Polaroid’s for five bucks snap our picture twice, and consummated our arrangement later on that night.
As the deadline wound down we all convened at Mullet’s house and tallied the results. Our entry pictures were shown and the vote paired down the entries to two finalists, myself and Mullet. I won by unanimous decision and carried the title. Strangely, the $900 was spent on God only knows what, presumably a massive amount of pot and alcohol, and my plan to purchase this ’68 Bronco never came to fruition.
The moral of the story…there is none, just conveying a sordid chapter in the life that was the Shrub, circa 1989. Whatever became of that girl…who knows. Whatever happened to my conscience…I developed one, all be it at a glacial pace. Whatever happened to our merry band of miscreants…scattered to the four winds.
The holidays that must not be
OK, I can die now as I’ve seen it all, and at the tender age of 35.
A man in Germany is suing the Easter Bunny, claiming the maniacal lepus has insidiously waged a campaign to cause addiction to chocolate which leads to heart problems, strokes, and myriad other health concerns.
So, as a public service I’ve compiled a comprehensive list of other holiday icons who should be sued.
Santa Clause-this rotund pagan slinks down our chimneys and puts presents under the tree but not before greedily devouring a plate full of cookies and a glass of milk. This clearly symbolizes gluttony and breaking & entering. Clause is an habitual offender whose wanton disregard for property rights and good dietary habits encourages our youth to ignore the law and ingest massive quantities of bad food all in the name of excess and a false recognition of Christ’s birthday. The shameless pagan.
Cupid-not only is this character half dressed but he shoots people with a bow & arrow in hopes they hook up on Valentine’s Day. More so than any other iconic figure, save Hugh Heffner, Cupid represents idolatry and hedonism. This sexually charged cherub lurks about with his arrows, an obvious phallus, and his bow, a not-so-subtle call to violence, and portends to accelerate sexual chemistry. He’s guilty of promoting sexual promiscuity and violence, thus irreparably harming our society.
Uncle Sam-a symbol of American Independence Day, this nefarious character uses his status as an identifiable trade mark of the United States to promote the illegal purchase and discharge of highly dangerous explosives. Sam would have our children recklessly blowing up whatever and whenever they choose. He also uses his fame to recruit the youth of America into the military, where they’ll get to play with even larger and more deadly explosive ordinance. He might as well be called Uncle Boom.
St. Patrick-this Irish folk hero blatantly promotes the ingestion of massive quantities of alcoholic beverages and the proliferation of useless parades. For weeks leading up to his day St. Patrick’s visage is used in bars and taverns the world over to encourage, nay demand, that the commoners drink Guinness and a number of other frothy intoxicants. As if the Irish needed another excuse, let alone a holiday, to pound more beer.
Father Time & Baby New Year-this devilish duo ushers in the end and beginning of each calendar year, respectively. Father Time is grizzled old gray beard who represents society’s disdain for the elderly; why else would his time wind down as the clock run down to midnight on December 31. Baby New Year supposedly symbolizes the dawning of a new and hopeful year. But we all know what he truly represents…dependency. This infant is a trapping of our society’s ever increasing dependency on the nanny state. Not to mention this little demonic urchin assumedly devours Father Time at the stroke of midnight.
Martin Luther King-this so-called desegregationist undoubtedly serves as a portrait of lawlessness and sedition. King continually thumbed his nose in defiance of the laws of the land. His stance of non-violence was a ruse as his followers repeatedly stepped in the path of speeding bullets and stuck their heads in nooses. The whole disobedient lot should be sued for making it impossible for us law abiding citizens to pay our fines on yet another government sanctioned snooze fest.
George Washington & Abe Lincoln-the two most famous of all American Presidents have conspired together for years to rob the employers and governments of no less than two full work days of productivity. And they do it from their hallowed sanctuary of the 1700’s and 1800’s, clearly in an overt effort to avoid culpability in the dumbing down of the viability of American industry.
The Dead Veterans-this group of miscreants has not one but two official observances/holidays. Clearly this is emblematic of an entitlement mentality. They’re living of the laurels of a few glorious victories, and yes many did fight and defeat Hitler. However, this doesn’t warrant their “Me First” attitude nor does it excuse their practice of greedily taking up valuable government real estate as they lay in rest in dozens of veterans cemeteries. Then they foster this archaic and barbaric ceremonial Twenty-one Gun Salute that brazenly supports gun violence.
Christopher Columbus-this Italian icon gets his own holiday based on a stroke of luck of not sinking or capsizing in the middle of the Atlantic. Such meritless observances act to advance a psyche wherein luck and bravado is rewarded rather than hard work and talent. Plus he was a devout racist who desired to eradicate the native population of North America. Then he gets a parade in his honor, clearly a signal to Native Americans that the genocide inflicted upon them that got its genesis from the sheer luck of a swarthy Italian doesn’t mean a thing in the pantheon of the collective American consciousness.
The Pilgrims-these uptight puritans were so reserved and conservative they were exiled by the British. How can you get more uptight than the British? Their early struggle for survival has been immortalized each year with a gluttonous feast where whole families gather and celebrate the slaughter of innocent livestock. The ceremonial black garb the Pilgrims wore is a tacit acknowledgement of the dark arts and can be construed as heretical in nature. These pilgrims are/were bent on paganism and the wholesale gorging on guiltless flesh.
A man in Germany is suing the Easter Bunny, claiming the maniacal lepus has insidiously waged a campaign to cause addiction to chocolate which leads to heart problems, strokes, and myriad other health concerns.
So, as a public service I’ve compiled a comprehensive list of other holiday icons who should be sued.
Santa Clause-this rotund pagan slinks down our chimneys and puts presents under the tree but not before greedily devouring a plate full of cookies and a glass of milk. This clearly symbolizes gluttony and breaking & entering. Clause is an habitual offender whose wanton disregard for property rights and good dietary habits encourages our youth to ignore the law and ingest massive quantities of bad food all in the name of excess and a false recognition of Christ’s birthday. The shameless pagan.
Cupid-not only is this character half dressed but he shoots people with a bow & arrow in hopes they hook up on Valentine’s Day. More so than any other iconic figure, save Hugh Heffner, Cupid represents idolatry and hedonism. This sexually charged cherub lurks about with his arrows, an obvious phallus, and his bow, a not-so-subtle call to violence, and portends to accelerate sexual chemistry. He’s guilty of promoting sexual promiscuity and violence, thus irreparably harming our society.
Uncle Sam-a symbol of American Independence Day, this nefarious character uses his status as an identifiable trade mark of the United States to promote the illegal purchase and discharge of highly dangerous explosives. Sam would have our children recklessly blowing up whatever and whenever they choose. He also uses his fame to recruit the youth of America into the military, where they’ll get to play with even larger and more deadly explosive ordinance. He might as well be called Uncle Boom.
St. Patrick-this Irish folk hero blatantly promotes the ingestion of massive quantities of alcoholic beverages and the proliferation of useless parades. For weeks leading up to his day St. Patrick’s visage is used in bars and taverns the world over to encourage, nay demand, that the commoners drink Guinness and a number of other frothy intoxicants. As if the Irish needed another excuse, let alone a holiday, to pound more beer.
Father Time & Baby New Year-this devilish duo ushers in the end and beginning of each calendar year, respectively. Father Time is grizzled old gray beard who represents society’s disdain for the elderly; why else would his time wind down as the clock run down to midnight on December 31. Baby New Year supposedly symbolizes the dawning of a new and hopeful year. But we all know what he truly represents…dependency. This infant is a trapping of our society’s ever increasing dependency on the nanny state. Not to mention this little demonic urchin assumedly devours Father Time at the stroke of midnight.
Martin Luther King-this so-called desegregationist undoubtedly serves as a portrait of lawlessness and sedition. King continually thumbed his nose in defiance of the laws of the land. His stance of non-violence was a ruse as his followers repeatedly stepped in the path of speeding bullets and stuck their heads in nooses. The whole disobedient lot should be sued for making it impossible for us law abiding citizens to pay our fines on yet another government sanctioned snooze fest.
George Washington & Abe Lincoln-the two most famous of all American Presidents have conspired together for years to rob the employers and governments of no less than two full work days of productivity. And they do it from their hallowed sanctuary of the 1700’s and 1800’s, clearly in an overt effort to avoid culpability in the dumbing down of the viability of American industry.
The Dead Veterans-this group of miscreants has not one but two official observances/holidays. Clearly this is emblematic of an entitlement mentality. They’re living of the laurels of a few glorious victories, and yes many did fight and defeat Hitler. However, this doesn’t warrant their “Me First” attitude nor does it excuse their practice of greedily taking up valuable government real estate as they lay in rest in dozens of veterans cemeteries. Then they foster this archaic and barbaric ceremonial Twenty-one Gun Salute that brazenly supports gun violence.
Christopher Columbus-this Italian icon gets his own holiday based on a stroke of luck of not sinking or capsizing in the middle of the Atlantic. Such meritless observances act to advance a psyche wherein luck and bravado is rewarded rather than hard work and talent. Plus he was a devout racist who desired to eradicate the native population of North America. Then he gets a parade in his honor, clearly a signal to Native Americans that the genocide inflicted upon them that got its genesis from the sheer luck of a swarthy Italian doesn’t mean a thing in the pantheon of the collective American consciousness.
The Pilgrims-these uptight puritans were so reserved and conservative they were exiled by the British. How can you get more uptight than the British? Their early struggle for survival has been immortalized each year with a gluttonous feast where whole families gather and celebrate the slaughter of innocent livestock. The ceremonial black garb the Pilgrims wore is a tacit acknowledgement of the dark arts and can be construed as heretical in nature. These pilgrims are/were bent on paganism and the wholesale gorging on guiltless flesh.
Point, Point, Point...Porn
We, Morgan the Token Hippie, Billy D, and myself, have gotten together to form a round table of sorts to discuss the latest burning questions confronting America. So, we've all agreed to give each other equal time on our respective blogs and bandy about the topic du jour. Our first edition concerns a topic near & dear to yours truly, pornography. Morg's spiel is up first as her sultry revelation deserves first crack. Enjoy y'all and chime in on the debate on the respective blogs.
Morg's spiel...
Some people download porn. Others view it surreptitiously before clearing their history, lest their spouse find out what they're doing. Still others crusade against it as part of what is Wrong With Society.
I produce it.
I write erotica, which some people consider pornography. The difference is that I don't deal in dirty pictures; I just help people create them in their heads.
It started during a work lull several years ago when - after reading the Sleeping Beauty series I cast it aside in disgust. How many times can you read about some breathless masochist getting spanked and then sexually subjugated before the tiillating kinkiness of it becomes downright ridiculous?
"I can do better than this," I thought. And so I did.
My little sideline occupation may take some by surprise, but it wouldn't if you knew how well it pays. With kids in college and other equally pressing expenses, I can't be too picky, and writing dirty stories has become a growing part of my income. Respected co-workers who know I pen tawdry fare under a variety of pseudonyms are sympathetic when I'm forced to turn down assignments because of my "other work." I've been frank enough to tell them that I'll write more when they can afford to pay enough to make an honest woman of me.
So that's my dirty little secret.
You may wonder if after a few hours of churing out stories of strapping dominant men and wantonly submissive women whether I run to the showers in an attempt to wash away the taint of my profession. Perhaps I would, if I considered what I'm doing to be wrong. I personally do not. You know the old saying, "If it turns you on, it's pornography; if it turns me on, it's erotic."
And therein lies the dilemma. Pornography can be hard to define. To a religous zealot looking to save people from themselves, that art book of tasteful nudes at the local can be objectionable. To the deviant sex addict, the same art book is tame stuff unless it includes shots of a transsexual doing it with two midgets and a Great Dane.
Before you can restrict pornography, you must first define what it is. Who's going to do that? Jerry Falwell? Larry Flynt? To be fair, you'd have to have both opinions represented. If you got such polar opposites together, do you think they could ever agree? Of course not. Hell would freeze over, thaw out and freeze over again before that would happen.
Then there's the issue of the Internet. Even if laws were passed in the U.S., it would be impossible to regulate sites from other countries. Already, many skittish U.S. pornographers - worried about the influence of the religious right here - are moving their base of operations to other countries for that very reason.
Dirty pictures and stories depicting nudity and sex acts between consenting adults should be left alone. Pornographic pictures and stories involving children should - of course - be illegal and anyone trafficking or viewing them should be prosecuted. Same goes for pornographic images depicting people who've been coerced or otherwise forced into compromising positions against their will.
Pornography is a voluntary pursuit. Do people get addicted? Yes. Can people with pornographic obsessions be dangerous? Yes. But so can people addicted to alcohol. And just as we don't restrict alcohol because there are alcoholics, we shouldn't restrict access to pornography because there are dangerous sex addicts. Like social drinkers, purveyors of porn aren't generally dangerous. They're just horny.
If you're against pornography, don't view it. If you're worried about the influence of pornography on your children, install filtering software. Better yet, keep the computer in the family room and watch what your kids are viewing. They're likely to see as much skin on their friends My Space page as they are on any porn site.
But don't try to regulate it. If the wrong - or extreme right - people start calling the shots, you might end up getting excited by the shot of a bare ankle. And that's no fun for anyone, except maybe those guys with a foot fetish.
Now, Billy D...
So what’s wrong with a little porn? Well, quite a bit, in my opinion. Maybe it’s because I have two daughters who I would rather didn’t grace the pages of Playboy, or some seedy internet site.
Optical prostitution is the reality of it. Paying a woman (or a man) to take their clothes off is akin to any other sexual favor for money. This is just without physical contact between the two entities. You’re just using the other person involved for a different means of sexual gratification for money.
Now, before we get too far into this, let me say up front, I’m not a prude in any sort of way. And as far as this conversation goes, let me say this now: I fully support the right of two consenting adults to make their own decisions as to their level, if any, of involvement in pornography. It’s not going away, is a multi-billion dollar business, and I’d much rather have the vast majority be willing participants in it than non. Having said that, that also doesn’t make it right.
It is legal, provided everyone involved is over eighteen, and prohibition hasn’t worked for any other vice it’s ever been tried on, this would be no different. Any attempt to de-legitimize the profession now would only force it underground, where what little control we have left (not much!) over content would be lost.
Now, when I say the word pornography, what comes to mind? A naked woman? Maybe a couple in a film? How about two women totally out of their heads on drugs having anal intercourse with a pair of horses? It’s all porn, it’s all the same, and it’s all available at the tip of your fingers.
How about the negative consequences pornography? What about the effects of it on society as a whole? Many of you reading this right now have children. Do you want your daughters seen as just something to insert a penis into, or an entity only present to satisfy unquestioningly a man’s physical desire no questions asked, regardless of what that may be?
What about those of you with sons? Is this how you want them to view women? Cause, don’t forget, that’ll include their sisters and their mother. (All of these women are someone’s sister or daughter or mother, etc.) Do you want your children growing up with the notion that the things they see in porn films are normal everyday occurrences? I doubt it. Homosexuality, bestiality, multiple partners of both sexes… I won’t even get into the fecapheliacs and the “pee people”.
With but a passing mention of it destroying marriages, or even pre-marriage relationships, think about what it does to a person’s brain. Eventually, they become so desensitized to it, it becomes the norm to them. People become adjusted to the perversion, and eventually their reality becomes that perversion. The “everybody does it” sense kicks in.
Now, all of these reasons listed should be enough to persuade the average person of the “perils of porn” but as a Christian, let me just ask this:
Do you really think this kind of stuff is “OK” with the Lord? I mean really? Committing adultery in your heart on a daily basis is not a good way to show God just how committed you are to your marriage, is it? Is this how you plan to show him how you loved your sisters here in this life? Instead of doing what you could to save one of His daughters from throwing her self-esteem and dignity down a toilet, you paid her to do it? Good luck with that.
Now, my two cents...
As a died-in-the-wool purveyor of porn I get rather incensed at the anti-smut crowd and their clarion call for tighter restrictions on so-called obscenity.
The root of my problem with these fanatics is their definition of pornography and obscenity. New York City Police Detective Raymond Pierce (Ret.) penned a controversial book examining the link between porn and violent crime. In an interview he proffered the following definition for pornography, “For me it's anything written, spoken, printed, photographed or videotaped to elicit a sexual response from an individual.” This definition is at best nebulous; at worst it is vague and indecipherable.
In fact, Pierce states there is no need to differentiate between soft-core and hard-core porn. He sees no difference between Phoebe Cates dropping her top in Fast Times at Ridgemont High and Jenna Jameson showing her private parts in a manner that would make a gynecological exam superfluous.
The Supreme Court has defined obscenity as: 1) That the average person, applying contemporary community standards, would find that the work, taken as a whole, appeals to the prurient interest; AND 2) That the work depicts or describes in a patently offensive way, as measured by contemporary community standards, sexual conduct specifically defined by the applicable law; AND 3) That a reasonable person would find that the work, taken as a whole, lacks serious literary, artistic, political and scientific value.
Therein lies the problem. In order to effectuate a coherent debate one must settle on a tangible set of parameters as a framework. Pierce, et al. aren’t concerned with such niceties, they just want action. Other anti-porn zealots; Steven Baldwin, President Bush, John Ashcroft, Dr. James Dobson, Andrea Dworkin, and Jerry Falwell have led an assault on pornography since the 70’s. Many of these activists display little knowledge of the First Amendment and its protections and fail to forward a coherent standard by which to judge so-called obscene material.
Now, there’s no disputing the fact that obscene material is not protected by the First Amendment’s free speech provisions. Certain types of pornography are, by definition, illegal. Child porn and snuff porn are illegal per se as the act depicted is otherwise illegal. Other forms of porn are highly restricted in a number of states. Beastiality, sexual torture, and depictions of rape are restricted and form the grey area of illegal pornography. Quite literally all other types of smut are OK. The anti-porn cabal would expand the definition of obscenity to include nearly all types of porn. Pierce would advocate for a nearly limitless prohibition on ANY depiction of a sexual act, be it written, photography, or otherwise.
The porn industry in the U.S. generates more revenue than the four major professional sports leagues COMBINED and more than ABC, CBS, and NBC put together, an annual profit of $12 billion, $54 billion world wide. There are currently 4.2 million pornographic web sites, 68 million porn searches, and over 2.5 billion pornographic emails sent every day, 8% of all email traffic. Twenty percent of all males admit to looking at internet porn whilst at work. Fully 40 million adults admit to looking at smut on a regular basis in America. See http://economictimes.indiatimes.com/cms.dll/xml/uncomp/articleshow?msid=203421.
Given the pervasive nature of pornography and the fact that tens of millions access porn each day, saying that porn definitively causes violent behavior is akin to claiming ingestion of Ramen inexorably leads to the same behavior. Pierce and his anti-porn brethren, however, would have you believe that systematic perusal of smut will lead one to commit heinous crimes. This connection is tenuous at best.
Which brings me to my point…if you don’t like porn avert your eyes. Don’t use your bully pulpit to squelch free expression, especially when if one asked 100 different people for a definition of what porn and obscenity is one would get 100 different answers. Barring a definitive proof that smut causes violent and lawless behavior, which as yet is impossible to prove, pornography is and should be protected speech. If you want to see porn related violence, try taking porn away, now were talking violent uprisings. As Charlton Hesston put it, “From my cold dead hands”, just substitute me for Moses and Playboy for the rifle and you’ve got our poster.
So, in this humble blogger’s opinion, to quote a rather famous scene from a famous movie starring Michael Douglass, “Porn is good, porn works.”
Morg's spiel...
Some people download porn. Others view it surreptitiously before clearing their history, lest their spouse find out what they're doing. Still others crusade against it as part of what is Wrong With Society.
I produce it.
I write erotica, which some people consider pornography. The difference is that I don't deal in dirty pictures; I just help people create them in their heads.
It started during a work lull several years ago when - after reading the Sleeping Beauty series I cast it aside in disgust. How many times can you read about some breathless masochist getting spanked and then sexually subjugated before the tiillating kinkiness of it becomes downright ridiculous?
"I can do better than this," I thought. And so I did.
My little sideline occupation may take some by surprise, but it wouldn't if you knew how well it pays. With kids in college and other equally pressing expenses, I can't be too picky, and writing dirty stories has become a growing part of my income. Respected co-workers who know I pen tawdry fare under a variety of pseudonyms are sympathetic when I'm forced to turn down assignments because of my "other work." I've been frank enough to tell them that I'll write more when they can afford to pay enough to make an honest woman of me.
So that's my dirty little secret.
You may wonder if after a few hours of churing out stories of strapping dominant men and wantonly submissive women whether I run to the showers in an attempt to wash away the taint of my profession. Perhaps I would, if I considered what I'm doing to be wrong. I personally do not. You know the old saying, "If it turns you on, it's pornography; if it turns me on, it's erotic."
And therein lies the dilemma. Pornography can be hard to define. To a religous zealot looking to save people from themselves, that art book of tasteful nudes at the local can be objectionable. To the deviant sex addict, the same art book is tame stuff unless it includes shots of a transsexual doing it with two midgets and a Great Dane.
Before you can restrict pornography, you must first define what it is. Who's going to do that? Jerry Falwell? Larry Flynt? To be fair, you'd have to have both opinions represented. If you got such polar opposites together, do you think they could ever agree? Of course not. Hell would freeze over, thaw out and freeze over again before that would happen.
Then there's the issue of the Internet. Even if laws were passed in the U.S., it would be impossible to regulate sites from other countries. Already, many skittish U.S. pornographers - worried about the influence of the religious right here - are moving their base of operations to other countries for that very reason.
Dirty pictures and stories depicting nudity and sex acts between consenting adults should be left alone. Pornographic pictures and stories involving children should - of course - be illegal and anyone trafficking or viewing them should be prosecuted. Same goes for pornographic images depicting people who've been coerced or otherwise forced into compromising positions against their will.
Pornography is a voluntary pursuit. Do people get addicted? Yes. Can people with pornographic obsessions be dangerous? Yes. But so can people addicted to alcohol. And just as we don't restrict alcohol because there are alcoholics, we shouldn't restrict access to pornography because there are dangerous sex addicts. Like social drinkers, purveyors of porn aren't generally dangerous. They're just horny.
If you're against pornography, don't view it. If you're worried about the influence of pornography on your children, install filtering software. Better yet, keep the computer in the family room and watch what your kids are viewing. They're likely to see as much skin on their friends My Space page as they are on any porn site.
But don't try to regulate it. If the wrong - or extreme right - people start calling the shots, you might end up getting excited by the shot of a bare ankle. And that's no fun for anyone, except maybe those guys with a foot fetish.
Now, Billy D...
So what’s wrong with a little porn? Well, quite a bit, in my opinion. Maybe it’s because I have two daughters who I would rather didn’t grace the pages of Playboy, or some seedy internet site.
Optical prostitution is the reality of it. Paying a woman (or a man) to take their clothes off is akin to any other sexual favor for money. This is just without physical contact between the two entities. You’re just using the other person involved for a different means of sexual gratification for money.
Now, before we get too far into this, let me say up front, I’m not a prude in any sort of way. And as far as this conversation goes, let me say this now: I fully support the right of two consenting adults to make their own decisions as to their level, if any, of involvement in pornography. It’s not going away, is a multi-billion dollar business, and I’d much rather have the vast majority be willing participants in it than non. Having said that, that also doesn’t make it right.
It is legal, provided everyone involved is over eighteen, and prohibition hasn’t worked for any other vice it’s ever been tried on, this would be no different. Any attempt to de-legitimize the profession now would only force it underground, where what little control we have left (not much!) over content would be lost.
Now, when I say the word pornography, what comes to mind? A naked woman? Maybe a couple in a film? How about two women totally out of their heads on drugs having anal intercourse with a pair of horses? It’s all porn, it’s all the same, and it’s all available at the tip of your fingers.
How about the negative consequences pornography? What about the effects of it on society as a whole? Many of you reading this right now have children. Do you want your daughters seen as just something to insert a penis into, or an entity only present to satisfy unquestioningly a man’s physical desire no questions asked, regardless of what that may be?
What about those of you with sons? Is this how you want them to view women? Cause, don’t forget, that’ll include their sisters and their mother. (All of these women are someone’s sister or daughter or mother, etc.) Do you want your children growing up with the notion that the things they see in porn films are normal everyday occurrences? I doubt it. Homosexuality, bestiality, multiple partners of both sexes… I won’t even get into the fecapheliacs and the “pee people”.
With but a passing mention of it destroying marriages, or even pre-marriage relationships, think about what it does to a person’s brain. Eventually, they become so desensitized to it, it becomes the norm to them. People become adjusted to the perversion, and eventually their reality becomes that perversion. The “everybody does it” sense kicks in.
Now, all of these reasons listed should be enough to persuade the average person of the “perils of porn” but as a Christian, let me just ask this:
Do you really think this kind of stuff is “OK” with the Lord? I mean really? Committing adultery in your heart on a daily basis is not a good way to show God just how committed you are to your marriage, is it? Is this how you plan to show him how you loved your sisters here in this life? Instead of doing what you could to save one of His daughters from throwing her self-esteem and dignity down a toilet, you paid her to do it? Good luck with that.
Now, my two cents...
As a died-in-the-wool purveyor of porn I get rather incensed at the anti-smut crowd and their clarion call for tighter restrictions on so-called obscenity.
The root of my problem with these fanatics is their definition of pornography and obscenity. New York City Police Detective Raymond Pierce (Ret.) penned a controversial book examining the link between porn and violent crime. In an interview he proffered the following definition for pornography, “For me it's anything written, spoken, printed, photographed or videotaped to elicit a sexual response from an individual.” This definition is at best nebulous; at worst it is vague and indecipherable.
In fact, Pierce states there is no need to differentiate between soft-core and hard-core porn. He sees no difference between Phoebe Cates dropping her top in Fast Times at Ridgemont High and Jenna Jameson showing her private parts in a manner that would make a gynecological exam superfluous.
The Supreme Court has defined obscenity as: 1) That the average person, applying contemporary community standards, would find that the work, taken as a whole, appeals to the prurient interest; AND 2) That the work depicts or describes in a patently offensive way, as measured by contemporary community standards, sexual conduct specifically defined by the applicable law; AND 3) That a reasonable person would find that the work, taken as a whole, lacks serious literary, artistic, political and scientific value.
Therein lies the problem. In order to effectuate a coherent debate one must settle on a tangible set of parameters as a framework. Pierce, et al. aren’t concerned with such niceties, they just want action. Other anti-porn zealots; Steven Baldwin, President Bush, John Ashcroft, Dr. James Dobson, Andrea Dworkin, and Jerry Falwell have led an assault on pornography since the 70’s. Many of these activists display little knowledge of the First Amendment and its protections and fail to forward a coherent standard by which to judge so-called obscene material.
Now, there’s no disputing the fact that obscene material is not protected by the First Amendment’s free speech provisions. Certain types of pornography are, by definition, illegal. Child porn and snuff porn are illegal per se as the act depicted is otherwise illegal. Other forms of porn are highly restricted in a number of states. Beastiality, sexual torture, and depictions of rape are restricted and form the grey area of illegal pornography. Quite literally all other types of smut are OK. The anti-porn cabal would expand the definition of obscenity to include nearly all types of porn. Pierce would advocate for a nearly limitless prohibition on ANY depiction of a sexual act, be it written, photography, or otherwise.
The porn industry in the U.S. generates more revenue than the four major professional sports leagues COMBINED and more than ABC, CBS, and NBC put together, an annual profit of $12 billion, $54 billion world wide. There are currently 4.2 million pornographic web sites, 68 million porn searches, and over 2.5 billion pornographic emails sent every day, 8% of all email traffic. Twenty percent of all males admit to looking at internet porn whilst at work. Fully 40 million adults admit to looking at smut on a regular basis in America. See http://economictimes.indiatimes.com/cms.dll/xml/uncomp/articleshow?msid=203421.
Given the pervasive nature of pornography and the fact that tens of millions access porn each day, saying that porn definitively causes violent behavior is akin to claiming ingestion of Ramen inexorably leads to the same behavior. Pierce and his anti-porn brethren, however, would have you believe that systematic perusal of smut will lead one to commit heinous crimes. This connection is tenuous at best.
Which brings me to my point…if you don’t like porn avert your eyes. Don’t use your bully pulpit to squelch free expression, especially when if one asked 100 different people for a definition of what porn and obscenity is one would get 100 different answers. Barring a definitive proof that smut causes violent and lawless behavior, which as yet is impossible to prove, pornography is and should be protected speech. If you want to see porn related violence, try taking porn away, now were talking violent uprisings. As Charlton Hesston put it, “From my cold dead hands”, just substitute me for Moses and Playboy for the rifle and you’ve got our poster.
So, in this humble blogger’s opinion, to quote a rather famous scene from a famous movie starring Michael Douglass, “Porn is good, porn works.”
Testicle Tuesday, with flava
Today's theme comes from one of my most loyal and cherished readers. Seems he's got jungle fever, that has potentially progressed to full on plague status. So, I bring you Sexual Chocolate Testicle Tuesday.
Deny if you will but black women are dead sexy. They've got curves upon curves upon curves. Some of the most gorgeous, yet over looked women of our time are sultry and black. As a devout desegregationist I felt it necessary, upon rquest, and because I've got a massive crush on these three cocoa godesses, I give you Vivica Fox, Queen Latifah, and Gabriel Union. You will not find many women finer or even equal to these tasty little morsels.
Tune in next week kids.
Deny if you will but black women are dead sexy. They've got curves upon curves upon curves. Some of the most gorgeous, yet over looked women of our time are sultry and black. As a devout desegregationist I felt it necessary, upon rquest, and because I've got a massive crush on these three cocoa godesses, I give you Vivica Fox, Queen Latifah, and Gabriel Union. You will not find many women finer or even equal to these tasty little morsels.
Tune in next week kids.
Hugs, hugs for everyone
This was too juicy to pass up…
Seems a moratorium has been declared on hugging in Boston. Go figure.
So, as a public service I’ve devised the perfect anti-hugging letter for these dastardly 5-year olds, the freakin’ pervs.
Dear *insert name here*,
I’m sorry for hugging little *insert name here*. It won’t happen again.
Since I now have some free time, no hugging in my life anymore, I did some research into the perils of a fervent embrace.
The hug is a ritualistic salutation, typically to express intimacy, wherein a person wraps their arms around another and squeezes for an undisclosed duration. The duration depends a number of different factors: 1) female breast size; 2) body chemistry, particularly the elements that compose body odor; 3) any perfume or cologne worn by the participants; 4) arm length musculature; 5) height differential; 6) breath odor; 7) complexion; 8) penis size and/or the presence of an erection.
Many people think the hug originated with the Huguenots during the Protestant Reformation in France, circa 1500. Not so. The hug dates back to hallowed antiquity, as far back as the Stone Age. The Neanderthals would huddle together and hug in an effort to warm them or garner comfort before the big kitty cat ate them whole. Around the time of Christ the Romans used the hug after hard fought victories as a sign of fellowship.
It wasn’t until the Spartans that the hug took a turn towards the salacious. From the age of seven Spartan males were made to exercise in the nude. Around the age of twenty the men were admitted into military academies. Older men were encouraged to have sexual relations with the younger men, the elders were eispnelas, "inspirer," and for the younger beloved, aitas, "hearer."
From there the hug degenerated into an erotic right. Napoleon had Josephine as his wife even though she was much taller. Assumedly this was for the purpose of having his face resting on her dirty pillows while they hugged.
Then the sexual revolution of the 1960’s ushered in an era of wanton depravity wherein hugs were doled out to the nearest passer-by. In the ‘80’s the hug was symbolic of the fight for gay rights and was a catalyst for the spread of the AIDS virus.
Even now American pop culture does continually portray the hug in a most sensual and despicable manner. One of the most popular movie franchises in history, Lord of the Rings, portrayed the hug as a homo erotic gesture of perverse fidelity. No one can argue that the relationship between Frodo and Sam was an undoubtedly a homosexual metaphor as they shared countless hugs.
Those with the word hug in their names are indeed pernicious influences and peddle in depravity: Hugh Jackman, Hugh Heffner, Howard Hughes, Baby Hughey, John Hughes.
The hug has reached iconic status as National Hugging Day was founded on January 21, 1986, by Reverend Kevin Zaborney.
The hug has pierced the veil of the church and American society. We, the chaste, need to stand up and stop this madness, stop the proliferation of homo erotic messages, and stop the hugging.
Seems a moratorium has been declared on hugging in Boston. Go figure.
So, as a public service I’ve devised the perfect anti-hugging letter for these dastardly 5-year olds, the freakin’ pervs.
Dear *insert name here*,
I’m sorry for hugging little *insert name here*. It won’t happen again.
Since I now have some free time, no hugging in my life anymore, I did some research into the perils of a fervent embrace.
The hug is a ritualistic salutation, typically to express intimacy, wherein a person wraps their arms around another and squeezes for an undisclosed duration. The duration depends a number of different factors: 1) female breast size; 2) body chemistry, particularly the elements that compose body odor; 3) any perfume or cologne worn by the participants; 4) arm length musculature; 5) height differential; 6) breath odor; 7) complexion; 8) penis size and/or the presence of an erection.
Many people think the hug originated with the Huguenots during the Protestant Reformation in France, circa 1500. Not so. The hug dates back to hallowed antiquity, as far back as the Stone Age. The Neanderthals would huddle together and hug in an effort to warm them or garner comfort before the big kitty cat ate them whole. Around the time of Christ the Romans used the hug after hard fought victories as a sign of fellowship.
It wasn’t until the Spartans that the hug took a turn towards the salacious. From the age of seven Spartan males were made to exercise in the nude. Around the age of twenty the men were admitted into military academies. Older men were encouraged to have sexual relations with the younger men, the elders were eispnelas, "inspirer," and for the younger beloved, aitas, "hearer."
From there the hug degenerated into an erotic right. Napoleon had Josephine as his wife even though she was much taller. Assumedly this was for the purpose of having his face resting on her dirty pillows while they hugged.
Then the sexual revolution of the 1960’s ushered in an era of wanton depravity wherein hugs were doled out to the nearest passer-by. In the ‘80’s the hug was symbolic of the fight for gay rights and was a catalyst for the spread of the AIDS virus.
Even now American pop culture does continually portray the hug in a most sensual and despicable manner. One of the most popular movie franchises in history, Lord of the Rings, portrayed the hug as a homo erotic gesture of perverse fidelity. No one can argue that the relationship between Frodo and Sam was an undoubtedly a homosexual metaphor as they shared countless hugs.
Those with the word hug in their names are indeed pernicious influences and peddle in depravity: Hugh Jackman, Hugh Heffner, Howard Hughes, Baby Hughey, John Hughes.
The hug has reached iconic status as National Hugging Day was founded on January 21, 1986, by Reverend Kevin Zaborney.
The hug has pierced the veil of the church and American society. We, the chaste, need to stand up and stop this madness, stop the proliferation of homo erotic messages, and stop the hugging.
What to write, oh what to write
Thursday night, hmmmmmmmmmmm, what to write about.
Should I examine the immigration debate that we’ve heard at nauseum the last few days? Nope.
What about the sublimely ridiculous Cynthia McKinny and her run in with DC police? Nope, too easy.
What about the debate between Ward Churchill and David Horowitz taking place tonight at George Washington University and the sordid display that followed on Hannity & Colmes? Promising but ultimately boring.
Then there’s the war in Iraq…No.
Education…Huh?
What about the two samaritan New York City police officers who were convicted of murder today? Now we’re talking but there’s little satirical fodder there.
What about the three ski patrol members who fell into a volcanic fissure at Mammoth Mountain Resort in California? The best yet but a bit raw to mock/lampoon.
I could talk about the papers Scooter Libby says prove Bush leaked or OK’d the leaking of Valerie Plame’s true identity…hell no.
Then there’s this little gem. A 65-year old unmarried Russian man has devised a way to take his porn stash with him when he shuffles his mortal coil…Bingo!
I love a good story that revolves around obsession for smut. It makes me all tingly and giddy.
Inspired by my new hero, Vladimir Villisov, I bring you my coffin, complete with a way to take my porn with me…
The outside is a muted gray with metallic flakes and is adorned with a Denver Broncos sticker, a Colorado Avalanche picture (preferably Joe Sakic), a Colorado Buffaloes logo, and a “Do not Disturb” placard. The casket is lined with purple velvet to denote my position as King of My Domain (you Seinfeldniks should be chuckling right about now), and a tasteful white pillow to show of my golden locks. In the lid will be a drop down plasma screen TV that will show streaming video of Super Bowl XXXII, Mary Carry’s Greatest Hits, and The Holy Grail (the scene where Lancelot storms the castle of the virgins will be on a continual loop). A video game consol will be graveside so those who mourn my passing can play Madden or Halo while they pay their collective respects. Captain Morgan & Coke will flow freely from a tap perched majestically atop my headstone. As a pis det resistance my epitaph will read either, “Ouch! Your standing on my head shit-for-brains!”, or, “What the hell are you looking at?”, or, “Is it a skoch drafty in here?”, or, “Damn, I can see right up her skirt!”
Should I examine the immigration debate that we’ve heard at nauseum the last few days? Nope.
What about the sublimely ridiculous Cynthia McKinny and her run in with DC police? Nope, too easy.
What about the debate between Ward Churchill and David Horowitz taking place tonight at George Washington University and the sordid display that followed on Hannity & Colmes? Promising but ultimately boring.
Then there’s the war in Iraq…No.
Education…Huh?
What about the two samaritan New York City police officers who were convicted of murder today? Now we’re talking but there’s little satirical fodder there.
What about the three ski patrol members who fell into a volcanic fissure at Mammoth Mountain Resort in California? The best yet but a bit raw to mock/lampoon.
I could talk about the papers Scooter Libby says prove Bush leaked or OK’d the leaking of Valerie Plame’s true identity…hell no.
Then there’s this little gem. A 65-year old unmarried Russian man has devised a way to take his porn stash with him when he shuffles his mortal coil…Bingo!
I love a good story that revolves around obsession for smut. It makes me all tingly and giddy.
Inspired by my new hero, Vladimir Villisov, I bring you my coffin, complete with a way to take my porn with me…
The outside is a muted gray with metallic flakes and is adorned with a Denver Broncos sticker, a Colorado Avalanche picture (preferably Joe Sakic), a Colorado Buffaloes logo, and a “Do not Disturb” placard. The casket is lined with purple velvet to denote my position as King of My Domain (you Seinfeldniks should be chuckling right about now), and a tasteful white pillow to show of my golden locks. In the lid will be a drop down plasma screen TV that will show streaming video of Super Bowl XXXII, Mary Carry’s Greatest Hits, and The Holy Grail (the scene where Lancelot storms the castle of the virgins will be on a continual loop). A video game consol will be graveside so those who mourn my passing can play Madden or Halo while they pay their collective respects. Captain Morgan & Coke will flow freely from a tap perched majestically atop my headstone. As a pis det resistance my epitaph will read either, “Ouch! Your standing on my head shit-for-brains!”, or, “What the hell are you looking at?”, or, “Is it a skoch drafty in here?”, or, “Damn, I can see right up her skirt!”
Me sad, very sad
I’m distraught, overcome with sadness. A profound tragedy has rocked the very foundation of my existence. It’s almost too tragic for words but I must share my sorrow in the hopes that a compassionate hand will reach out and help me as I feel the urge to collapse. There’s a poem called Footprints that describes immeasurable sorrow and how God will carry one through. Now, more than ever I need his help. I now know the pain of true loss, the loss of something precious and dear. But how can I go on when the death of joy has touched my life? As I type this tears roll down my face and I scream at the heavens, “Why?!”
One of my best friends informed me today that one of the vestiges of my ritualistic existence has been unceremoniously taken away. He informed me I will no longer be able to purchase my beloved Denver Bronco season tickets from him any longer.
Who will weep for this lost soul? I sign off now a broken man. Pray for me.
One of my best friends informed me today that one of the vestiges of my ritualistic existence has been unceremoniously taken away. He informed me I will no longer be able to purchase my beloved Denver Bronco season tickets from him any longer.
Who will weep for this lost soul? I sign off now a broken man. Pray for me.
Testicle Tuesday: Retro babe
This weeks theme was inspired by Rachel Hunter and Waterboy, who astutely drew a here-to-for unseen paralel...
Every guy who grew up in the 80's knows what a spankfest many of the most revered movies of the decade were. And no scene was as memorable as Phoebe Cates seductivey strutting pool side as she shed her bikini top whilst Judge Rhinehold choked his chicken. Fast Times at Ridgemont High was a classic not only for Sean Penn's greatest work but for Phoebe Cates shattering the innocence and underwear of every adolescent male priviledged enough to see this scene. Cates' swimsuit is a carbon copy of the one worn by Rachel Hunter in the Stacey's Mom video. Thanks for connecting the dots Waterboy.
Every guy who grew up in the 80's knows what a spankfest many of the most revered movies of the decade were. And no scene was as memorable as Phoebe Cates seductivey strutting pool side as she shed her bikini top whilst Judge Rhinehold choked his chicken. Fast Times at Ridgemont High was a classic not only for Sean Penn's greatest work but for Phoebe Cates shattering the innocence and underwear of every adolescent male priviledged enough to see this scene. Cates' swimsuit is a carbon copy of the one worn by Rachel Hunter in the Stacey's Mom video. Thanks for connecting the dots Waterboy.
Prankaplegic
The following is an insight to my whimsical nature. I give the best practical jokes I ever pulled.
One day my mom came home in an especially vile mood. She kicked off her shoes and yelled for me to take them, along with another pair sitting by the door, upstairs and put them in her closet. Both pairs of shoes were identical except one was black and the other navy blue. I dutifully put mi madre’s shoes away but in inverse order. So, I arranged them blue-black-black-blue. I knew she’d grab either the pair on the right or the ones on the left ensuring she’d have to walk around all day in miss-matched footwear. She didn’t disappoint.
Me and Leonard were driving down a busy street here in Denver one morning around 3 a.m. when we passed a local liquor store that frequently had those massive inflatable beer bottles perched on the front lawn. Much to our surprise the proprietors of the store just deflated the bottles and left them out front. So being the enterprising little scamps that we were we designed to pilfer the deflated bottle. We stopped, removed the mooring straps from the stakes embedded in the ground, rolled up the bottle, and stowed it in the back of L’s truck. We’d seen similar giant inflatable stuff before and knew it required a big ass fan to blow the thing back up but none was in sight. It appeared we had been stymied in our attempt at the joke hall of fame. My bladder was near the bursting point as a twelve pack of Coors light will do that so I hid in a nearby trash enclosure to drain the main vein. Eureka! The dumbasses at the liquor store had stowed the fan behind the dumpster. Our plan was nearing fruition. We took the bottle, fan, and another twelve pack to the roof of L’s school where we proceeded to inflate the giant bottle of Bud. The principal at L’s school was greeted that Monday morning by a most unusual sight, a thirty foot tall beer bottle turned on its side.
In high school we had this letch of a teacher named Mr. O. We all hated him. He coached the girls’ cross country team, ostensibly to ogle their goodies as they bounced during the daily 5-10 mile jaunts around the neighborhood. So, one day after school whilst he was at practice and the school was nearly deserted myself and several mischievous friends devised a most sadistic joke. Mr. O’s prized possession was his 1965 yellow VW Bug. Now, anyone who’s ever owned one knows they’re insanely easy to break into. So, we popped open his door, took the Bug out of gear, and pushed it next to the gymnasium wall which jutted out about forty feet and was thirty twenty feet tall and had a set of double wide entry doors. We pushed his car into the middle of the gym and closed the door. Here’s the kicker, our basketball coach/head gym teacher, Mr. G, was watching. His reaction was of utter disbelief. You could see the look on his face. Next thing we saw was Mr. G head around the corner then we heard him explode with laughter. Mr. O never found out who violated his sanctity as Mr. G was an impossible nut to crack.
There was an unwritten rule at our high school that states never be the first to get drunk and pass out at our parties. Many people went home with fairly vile and embarrassing tokens scribbled in magic marker all over their bodies. Some even had their hair dyed a different color or were stripped of all clothing save a strategically placed bear can, box, or plastic grocery bag. We were not nice people. Now, if you were the first to pass out and were disliked by a large portion of the onlookers you were screwed. One night this kid whom I’d developed a stern disliking of was the first to pass out. I chimed up to everyone to let me go take a wiz and contemplate his fate. Everyone knew I hated the guy and also knew of my reputation for creativity and inventiveness. They all laughed as I went off to do my thing. I was drunk as shit and when I’m like that I have a tendency to do bizarre stuff. After I’d emptied my bladder I started snooping in the medicine cabinet. Sweet mother of God if I didn’t find the perfect tool of torment. I reappeared and a hush fell over the crowd as they could see I was holding something behind my back. I donned a shit-eating grin and revealed…a bottle of Nair. This kid looked like a young Jason Voorhees come Monday morning.
After I broke my neck in 1990 I spent six months at Craig Hospital here in Denver. After two months in I was paired up with Zorba the Greek in room 308. We developed a tight friendship and all the staff and our fellow gimps knew it. One day we acquired the the number by which you could access the hospital intercom from any phone in the building. Nick insisted we use this to play a joke on the patients and staff. Zorba held the phone, dialed 483, and I announced, “Attention Craig Hospital patients and staff. We would like to announce a change in the education protocol. Disabled sexuality and driver training will now be taught in the same car.”
Please let me know what your best practical jokes were and I’ll start a Hall of Fame. Leave as detailed accounts as you can possibly remember. Later.
One day my mom came home in an especially vile mood. She kicked off her shoes and yelled for me to take them, along with another pair sitting by the door, upstairs and put them in her closet. Both pairs of shoes were identical except one was black and the other navy blue. I dutifully put mi madre’s shoes away but in inverse order. So, I arranged them blue-black-black-blue. I knew she’d grab either the pair on the right or the ones on the left ensuring she’d have to walk around all day in miss-matched footwear. She didn’t disappoint.
Me and Leonard were driving down a busy street here in Denver one morning around 3 a.m. when we passed a local liquor store that frequently had those massive inflatable beer bottles perched on the front lawn. Much to our surprise the proprietors of the store just deflated the bottles and left them out front. So being the enterprising little scamps that we were we designed to pilfer the deflated bottle. We stopped, removed the mooring straps from the stakes embedded in the ground, rolled up the bottle, and stowed it in the back of L’s truck. We’d seen similar giant inflatable stuff before and knew it required a big ass fan to blow the thing back up but none was in sight. It appeared we had been stymied in our attempt at the joke hall of fame. My bladder was near the bursting point as a twelve pack of Coors light will do that so I hid in a nearby trash enclosure to drain the main vein. Eureka! The dumbasses at the liquor store had stowed the fan behind the dumpster. Our plan was nearing fruition. We took the bottle, fan, and another twelve pack to the roof of L’s school where we proceeded to inflate the giant bottle of Bud. The principal at L’s school was greeted that Monday morning by a most unusual sight, a thirty foot tall beer bottle turned on its side.
In high school we had this letch of a teacher named Mr. O. We all hated him. He coached the girls’ cross country team, ostensibly to ogle their goodies as they bounced during the daily 5-10 mile jaunts around the neighborhood. So, one day after school whilst he was at practice and the school was nearly deserted myself and several mischievous friends devised a most sadistic joke. Mr. O’s prized possession was his 1965 yellow VW Bug. Now, anyone who’s ever owned one knows they’re insanely easy to break into. So, we popped open his door, took the Bug out of gear, and pushed it next to the gymnasium wall which jutted out about forty feet and was thirty twenty feet tall and had a set of double wide entry doors. We pushed his car into the middle of the gym and closed the door. Here’s the kicker, our basketball coach/head gym teacher, Mr. G, was watching. His reaction was of utter disbelief. You could see the look on his face. Next thing we saw was Mr. G head around the corner then we heard him explode with laughter. Mr. O never found out who violated his sanctity as Mr. G was an impossible nut to crack.
There was an unwritten rule at our high school that states never be the first to get drunk and pass out at our parties. Many people went home with fairly vile and embarrassing tokens scribbled in magic marker all over their bodies. Some even had their hair dyed a different color or were stripped of all clothing save a strategically placed bear can, box, or plastic grocery bag. We were not nice people. Now, if you were the first to pass out and were disliked by a large portion of the onlookers you were screwed. One night this kid whom I’d developed a stern disliking of was the first to pass out. I chimed up to everyone to let me go take a wiz and contemplate his fate. Everyone knew I hated the guy and also knew of my reputation for creativity and inventiveness. They all laughed as I went off to do my thing. I was drunk as shit and when I’m like that I have a tendency to do bizarre stuff. After I’d emptied my bladder I started snooping in the medicine cabinet. Sweet mother of God if I didn’t find the perfect tool of torment. I reappeared and a hush fell over the crowd as they could see I was holding something behind my back. I donned a shit-eating grin and revealed…a bottle of Nair. This kid looked like a young Jason Voorhees come Monday morning.
After I broke my neck in 1990 I spent six months at Craig Hospital here in Denver. After two months in I was paired up with Zorba the Greek in room 308. We developed a tight friendship and all the staff and our fellow gimps knew it. One day we acquired the the number by which you could access the hospital intercom from any phone in the building. Nick insisted we use this to play a joke on the patients and staff. Zorba held the phone, dialed 483, and I announced, “Attention Craig Hospital patients and staff. We would like to announce a change in the education protocol. Disabled sexuality and driver training will now be taught in the same car.”
Please let me know what your best practical jokes were and I’ll start a Hall of Fame. Leave as detailed accounts as you can possibly remember. Later.
Of God & Woman on a sunny Sunday morning
There are certain universal questions that we ask ourselves as human beings…Is there a God? Why are we here? The answer to these is as fleeting as a falling star and as difficult to grasp as eating Jell-o with chop sticks.
Maybe a different approach is in order. Maybe we need to fall back and reevaluate the premise that there is a tangible answer or explanation to these questions.
Alfred Lord Tennyson once wrote, “I am a part of all that I have met.” Yet another luminary, Louise Bogan, said this, “The initial mystery that attends each journey is: how did the traveller reach his starting point in the first place?” And on introspection another wise person exclaimed, “No journey carries one far unless, as it extends into the world around us, it goes an equal distance into the world within.”
The one mutuality we all share is the desire to know that our presence on this Earth has somehow effected and impacted those around us. But how do we measure the impact of our own existence? Simple, we don’t. The power is not ours and it will never be. We are no more capable of measuring the force of our life than the fish is capable of measuring how much water it displaces as it swims through the ocean. How do we measure the impact our lives have had on the human condition? We don’t, that power belongs only to our creator, to God.
The singular pursuit of being human should be that of creation and imagination. To build cathedrals in the sky, to fly on the wings of passion and imagination, to dream what was once thought impossible. To feel, if but for one fleeting moment, that we have been touched by the finger of God. And as a man the touch of the Almighty can be found in one place, a woman’s heart.
Men of America here this...women are perfect. For all their maddening idiocyncracies and illogical tendencies women are and always have been God's most sublime creation. The big guy up above was certainly at the top of his game when the fairer sex was molded. Michaelangelo chiseling the statue of David, Da Vinci painting the Last Supper, and the literary works of Shakespere are Earthly examples of inspired creation but they all pale by comparison to the divine female form. Women are possessed of a rare combination of beauty, intelligence, and an unfathomable capacity for caring and nurturing. The soft curves of the female body belie the inner strength and dignity these creatures possess. God brought his A game to the table the day Woman was created.
Before my grandfather had passed away in 1993, he knew the love of a good woman. He was so devoted to his wife of 47 years he chose to die at home close to my grandmother as cancer ravaged his body. Hospice was not an option. Nursing homes are too sterile. Hospitals too impersonal. Besides, he wouldn't have been able to spend his last days with the woman he loved. He died literally in his wife's arms and breathed his last breath on my grandmother's cheek. We should all be so lucky to spend our final days engulfed by the love of a good woman.
The history books are filled with men paying the ultimate tribute for a woman's love. Edward VIII gave up the throne of England. The Trojan War was fought over Helen of Troy, the face that launched a thousand ships. Marc Anthony paid the ultimate price for his love of Cleopatra. The ancients had it right. Women should be cherished as the precious jewels they are.
The hand of a woman is a man's greatest gift. In this day and age of fifty percent divorce rates, Hollywood marriages measured by stop watches, and a perceived increasing willingness by men to take women for granted, trends must be stopped. We need to take marriage more seriously. We need to respect women. We need to treat them as equals and not like trophies or brood mares the way too many men do.
If indeed it is true that woman was created from a part of man, they got the best part of us. It's time we men stand up, salute, and pay tribute to the opposite sex. After all, they deserve it.
Maybe a different approach is in order. Maybe we need to fall back and reevaluate the premise that there is a tangible answer or explanation to these questions.
Alfred Lord Tennyson once wrote, “I am a part of all that I have met.” Yet another luminary, Louise Bogan, said this, “The initial mystery that attends each journey is: how did the traveller reach his starting point in the first place?” And on introspection another wise person exclaimed, “No journey carries one far unless, as it extends into the world around us, it goes an equal distance into the world within.”
The one mutuality we all share is the desire to know that our presence on this Earth has somehow effected and impacted those around us. But how do we measure the impact of our own existence? Simple, we don’t. The power is not ours and it will never be. We are no more capable of measuring the force of our life than the fish is capable of measuring how much water it displaces as it swims through the ocean. How do we measure the impact our lives have had on the human condition? We don’t, that power belongs only to our creator, to God.
The singular pursuit of being human should be that of creation and imagination. To build cathedrals in the sky, to fly on the wings of passion and imagination, to dream what was once thought impossible. To feel, if but for one fleeting moment, that we have been touched by the finger of God. And as a man the touch of the Almighty can be found in one place, a woman’s heart.
Men of America here this...women are perfect. For all their maddening idiocyncracies and illogical tendencies women are and always have been God's most sublime creation. The big guy up above was certainly at the top of his game when the fairer sex was molded. Michaelangelo chiseling the statue of David, Da Vinci painting the Last Supper, and the literary works of Shakespere are Earthly examples of inspired creation but they all pale by comparison to the divine female form. Women are possessed of a rare combination of beauty, intelligence, and an unfathomable capacity for caring and nurturing. The soft curves of the female body belie the inner strength and dignity these creatures possess. God brought his A game to the table the day Woman was created.
Before my grandfather had passed away in 1993, he knew the love of a good woman. He was so devoted to his wife of 47 years he chose to die at home close to my grandmother as cancer ravaged his body. Hospice was not an option. Nursing homes are too sterile. Hospitals too impersonal. Besides, he wouldn't have been able to spend his last days with the woman he loved. He died literally in his wife's arms and breathed his last breath on my grandmother's cheek. We should all be so lucky to spend our final days engulfed by the love of a good woman.
The history books are filled with men paying the ultimate tribute for a woman's love. Edward VIII gave up the throne of England. The Trojan War was fought over Helen of Troy, the face that launched a thousand ships. Marc Anthony paid the ultimate price for his love of Cleopatra. The ancients had it right. Women should be cherished as the precious jewels they are.
The hand of a woman is a man's greatest gift. In this day and age of fifty percent divorce rates, Hollywood marriages measured by stop watches, and a perceived increasing willingness by men to take women for granted, trends must be stopped. We need to take marriage more seriously. We need to respect women. We need to treat them as equals and not like trophies or brood mares the way too many men do.
If indeed it is true that woman was created from a part of man, they got the best part of us. It's time we men stand up, salute, and pay tribute to the opposite sex. After all, they deserve it.
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