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Saying “The ‘Rona” Ain’t Funny At All

I’ve been acting like a jerk on the internet. Again. Reflexively chastising friends on Facebook for breezily referring to 2020’s viral villain by its trendy sobriquet, “the ‘Rona.” Because I hate that crap like Indiana Jones hates Nazis. Don’t get me wrong; I hate Nazis too. I have a big enough heart to hold more than enough seething rage and disgust for both–with plenty left over for the current political administration. But I digress.

After taking one of my pals to task for her dismissive ‘Rona-quote yesterday she replied, “why do you hate that name so much? And what could be the alternative Nick-name?

Fair enough. I spewed out a quick and bile-tinted response along the lines of this:

You’ll be sorry you asked, but: just Covid-19. No nickname. No pseudonym. No alias. No tag. No hashtag. No handle. Just Covid-19 or, if you must, “severe acute respiratory syndrome coronavirus 2 (SARS-CoV-2)”–the scientific equivalent of a mom who has had it up to here bellowing her child’s name off the back porch, brandishing full name like a k-bar with which she intends to eviscerate the guilty. “Elizabeth! Cora! Habersham! Get your sorry ass home RIGHT NOW.”

You know the tone. And we all know that Covid-19 has been a very bad girl. Not bad in the garters and bustier sense of the word, but bad like the Burgermeister Meisterburger or Dick Cheney. Joy-killing, breath-stealing, vomit-inducing bad.

There is nothing funny or cute about it. The virus posesses no sentience to pique with mockery, and no lighthearted irreverence will make anything better. It is serious as a blow to the back of the head with a lead pipe. When I hear that term, “Rona” used I think of mask-less, cheese-eating high school boys chortling around a keg of Coors Lite, shrugging non-nonchalantly over 1,712,818 (and counting) deaths and, even worse, the very real chance of becoming viral carriers. I think of thoughtless ass-hats who don’t give a damn.

We’re roiling in a dark shit-pit of death and despair mostly because a significant portion of our neighbors are either too ignorant or too selfish (I’m talking to you, you backwards freedom monkeys whining about your “consteetootshanal rights” to kill the rest of us) to take the virus seriously. You got us here. The very least you can do is not joke about it, no matter how much it shades that deeply felt and forcefully denied sense of utter fear and helplessness that haunts your every breathing moment. Call it by its name.

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Commentary

D.A.H.O.F: Jamie Gilt

D U M B – A S S   H A L L   OF   F A M E   N O M I N A T I O N

I shouldn’t need an excuse to circle back around to my poor, mistreated, attention-starved blog–or the millions, thousands, hundreds, dozens of eager readers who breathlessly await my oracular musings. Nevertheless, when life gives you lemons…

Okay, so no lemons. Instead, we got Jamie Gilt, the outspoken Florida horse mommy who loves her guns. A profuse poster of pro-firearm propaganda and fetishist rhetoric, who had reportedly been bragging of late about her 4-year-old son’s proficiency at the shooting range, Ms. Gilt recently threw this bit of wisdom up on the internet:
Screenshot(7)

Silly rabbit. A few days ago, this upright, outspoken, patriotic (these colors don’t run, dammit!) saw her worst feats come to light when she was brutally gunned down…by said 4-year-old, who capped her from the backseat of their moving vehicle while she was driving and he was playing with her .45 automatic in the back seat.

Doh! Ms. Gilt gets automatic acceptance into the Dumb Ass Hall of Fame.

http://www.dailymail.co.uk/news/article-3484064/Pro-gun-poster-girl-shot-four-year-old-son-driving-Florida-boy-pistol-seat-truck.html

Gun Rights Advocate Jamie Gilt Shot by Child?

http://www.jacksonville.com/news/20160817/jamie-gilt-gun-advocate-shot-by-her-4-year-old-son-remains-infamous-six-months-later

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Trump: The Joke That Keeps on Giving

So much for being the most powerful man on earth, the Great Yuge Orange One has irrefutably become nothing more than a laughingstock the the other leaders in the world, a punchline to the kind of not-really-funny dirty joke that just makes folks wince.

Here are Lars Lokke Rasmussen, Juha Sipila, Bjarni Benediktsson, Erna Solberg and Stefan Lofven, the prime ministers of Denmark, Finland, Iceland, Norway and Sweden respectively, getting their goof on at the USA’s expense.
Sweden's PM Lofven with his counterparts Rasmussen of Denmark, Solberg of Norway, Sipila of Finland and Benediktsson of Iceland hold a soccer ball during their meeting in Bergen

And here is more, just they never old. Not ever.

 

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meme Uncategorized

DeVos Confirmed; Wildlife Scatters

Too bad our children are sitting ducks for this cash-saturated wannabe.

75457489

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Commentary

Johnny “Football” Manziel Throwing It Away

The cops knocked on another door last night and guess who answered? If you said Johnny anbjlqcxm3qr5fgleyqrManziel, the pride of Texas, you’d be right, although the odds were pretty much stacked in your favor.  Something like 67% of all police calls these days involve the ubiquitously undisciplined (soon to be ex-?) Cleveland Browns quarterback.

If you’ve ever wondered what it would be like to watch a guy shovel money into a shredder, or turn gold into compost, Johnny Football gives you the chance.  I simply cannot recall a situation where someone with such promise has so methodically thrown away wealth that folks were literally scrambling over each other to deliver. The only thing he is squandering faster than his future is the goodwill of the people–rich, powerful people who don’t enjoy having noses thumbed in their direction, and who sign his checks. Not only that, but he could have owned Cleveland (like the Steelers do!), a city so desperate for even the promise of success that his inevitably slow development would have been patiently accepted. They’re dying for a hero in Browns’ country.

I’m forced to wonder if he’ll be so cavalier when he’s drawing $32,850 as an assistant football coach at some Division 2 college way out in the sweaty part of Missouri.

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Commentary

F*ck Donald Tr*mp

donald-trump-hairNot long ago I decided that I would enter the same comment beneath every article, essay, or blog post that mentions his name, no matter how humorous or interesting or disgusting Three short words that echo his nuanced, thoughtful response to the great issues of our day:

F*ck Donald Tr*mp.

It’s short, it’s sweet, it’s as straight to the point as a giant wall in the desert.

F*ck Donald Tr*mp.

Try it. The sensation is a little heady, a little intoxicating, like four shots of smooth, cheap Canadian whiskey poured over a couple of ice cubes in a cool, wide highball glass.

F*ck Donald Tr*mp

You really want to get in on this, to be part of this movement from the ground floor. Imagine a world in which every media mention of him was followed by a cacophonous roar of

F*ck Donald Tr*mp.

It would be just like every day was Christmas, and what a wonderful world that would be.

and here I go:.Fuck Donald Trump. In fact, I”m going to make a post of it, maybe try to start a movement….

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Commentary Funny and/or Strange nostalgia

Another Yellowstone Tourist Thumped By Bison? Go Figure.

I spent a few summers working in the tourist industry in Wyoming a few centuries ago, and I’m looking forward to taking my kids there to see the sights and meet some of my great co-workers for a reunion this summer.  It’s good to see some things haven’t changed–like killer nachos and tourists doing really, really stupid things that could–and inevitably do–get them killed. Bison attacks are perhaps the most ridiculous–in almot all cases, the 1500lb+ animals are standing around, like cows, chomping on grass, while tourists get closer and closer and closer.  The bison snort, their nostrils flare, they scuff the ground with their hooves…and the lady with the camera says “get a little closer….”

Yellowstone bison attack seriously injures Australian man, second park tourist hurt in 3 weeks

I’m curious.  What parts of this are unclear?  Anybody?  (Note the blood on the bison’s horn, and the splatter from the touron’s thigh–a nice, subtle, artistic touch, I think.) When I was young, these were handed out to everyone who entered the park–unless I’m wrong, strong english reading skills aren’t required to get the gist.

whoops!

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Commentary

I Wonder What Chet Hanks Thinks of The Word “Douchebag?”

Chet Hanks, the rapper son of Oscar winner Tom Hanks, not only repeatedly used the slhus6k1jxiegmgavvquN-word on social media but defended its use because he believes it “unifies the culture of hip-hop across all races.”

“He also factored free speech, the civil rights movement, Jim Crow and “a racist” justice system into his lengthy contention for universal use of the term….”

Because, as the son of a many-millionaire super-celebrity, Chet knows these things.

What a douchebag–and I mean that in a way that brings us all closer together.

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Commentary Funny and/or Strange Uncategorized

D.A.H.O.F. Spreadsheet Sex Guy

I suppose by now everyone on the internet has heard about the Spreadsheet Guy, which is the downside of having a weekly feature on a blog–some stuff just isn’t going to be timely.  Be that as it may, for those of you still unenlightened, Spreadsheet Guy is the hurt and resentful husband who kept a spreadsheet recording all of the sexual overtures he made to his wife over a couple months, detailing acceptance, rejection, and–in the case of rejections, his wife’s reasoning. He then proceeded to email it to her on her way out of town on a business trip, then refuse to answer her replies. His wife, not to be outdone in the immaturity department, took the matter–and the spreadsheet–to Reddit.com.  It’s really worth looking at this close up.

o-IMGUR-facebook

 

I cannot be too happy about this.  First, it makes my week two DAHoF inductee a no brainer, but it also proves I’m not the most hopelessly obtuse and inconsiderate husband in the world and gives me a belly laugh in the process.

In no way should that be interpreted as approval for the wife’s actions, though I can sympathize. That’s a lot of pestering and whining to put up with.  My question is how did this guy ever decide on “anger and humiliation” as a marital therapy tool?  Of course, I’m even more surprised by the battalion of equally frustrated men who have leapt to this guy’s defense, all but crying out “how dare this woman keep her vagina to herself?!”

Sheesh. Have they all forgotten when we were teenagers and sex was a magical land, carefully and scrupulously guarded, the key to which inspired us to unending quests, humiliating gestures, and most of our pride and limited wealth?  Man, we’d do ANYTHING–at least, I would have–to visit that wondrous land, and yet somehow these guys have gotten to a place where they best they can do is make half-assed passes while their wives are watching old episodes of Friends?  Again: sheesh.  As Bill Cosby used to say: these guys are like a baseball team during a thunderstorm: NO GAME.

I’m not talking about that mysogenist singles-bar pickup bullshit, but regular old relationship maintenance. For the love of god, man: wash the frakking dishes, pal. Run the vaccuum.  Do a load of laundry. Fully half the foreplay I’ve been part of,  over the past 33 years that I’ve been sexually active (is that TMI?) began with a domestic chore–and I’m good at announcing the “man stuff” I do that might otherwise go unnoticed. “I just changed the furnace filter” or “I added a quart of oil to your car and checked the tires–they looked low.”  It amazes me how many men are too dull-witted, or too stubborn, to actually do the things that make their women happy.  Even an old (beloved, admittedly) bumpkin like Waylon Jennings can offer up some valid insight.

So, here’s the thing.  My wife is kind of hot, and I’m regularly asked if I plan to start dressing up as Santa for the poor kids one of these Christmas seasons–I totally have that whole “bowl full of jelly” thing going on, and the last time I was at the Hair Salon the girl who cuts my hair–and knows me away from work as well–asked me if I got the senior discount.  The Senior Discount.  I’m 48.  Mrs. Junk is certainly not into me for looks–although we can’t discount a bit of Stockholm syndrome after more than two decades together, and it’s not my sense of style: some of my clothes are older than my teenage children, but still.  Or my money: I majored in Literature in College, which is actually a negative mark on most job applications, like answering “yes” to the “have you ever been prosecuted” question.

Does my wife loathe the sight of me sometimes?  Yes; quite often, I suppose.  Does she ignore me when I’m muttering about tire pressure and furnace filters?  Almost certainly.  Does she ignore me to the point that I call her out, specifically to hurt her, with attached documentation.  No, because I’m not a dickhead.

Guilt doesn’t make someone want you, and incessant begging and whining and moaning doesn’t make a woman growl like a panther and whisper “Got to have me some of that.”  Folding the napkins does, though.  A lot of guys on that Reddit page would probably tell me it’s reverse sexist to expect the man to dance for his dinner, so to speak, and to them I would boldly demand: “So, what’s your point?”  Women are soft and warm and they smell nice–that’s worth working for.  And, while you’re at it: make a point to tell your woman you love her twice a day, and let her know you think she’s hot just as often–and do it with more than a slap on the ass and a rude suggestion (though, occasionally, if you’re careful, a little lechery can go a long way).