Superman Is an Asshole

NB: If you have a hard time reading these illustrations, please try clicking on them. Thanks!

Has it ever occurred to you that Lois Lane, ace reporter, would have to be a moron to miss the fact that Clark Kent is Superman?


Did you ever detect a homosexual undertone in Archie Comics?


Did it ever seem to you that Superman was a little heavy-handed with his so-called friends?


Did you ever wonder if there was anything going on between Batman and Robin?


How about Batman and the Joker?


In Mythology, Alex Ross plays with the notion of superheroes and gods. He uses his art to explore how the golden age comic book heroes constitute America's Mount Olympus, expressing both our ideals and our weaknesses. The flip side of this equation is Superdickery , a website that uses hundreds of golden age comic book images to show how our nasty little subconscious leaks out, often in the pages of comic books. If you get a chance, wander through this website. You should especially check out the subliminal homosexuality in "Seduction of the Innocent." For me, it was fun to discover that my golden heroes sometimes had secrets hidden inside those faaaabulous costumes.

Stickin' It to the Man

Every so often, I come across a group of people who make me proud to be a human. My friend Alex told me about this site. It features this organization (in the loosest sense of the word) named "Improv Everywhere." Apparently, they gather small groups of people and perform guerilla improv in highly inappropriate places.

On this one, they got 80 people to dress up in blue shirts and khaki pants. These people then wandered into a Best Buy store, where they wandered around randomly helping strangers. This, of course, completely wigged out the store staff, who were convinced that the group was planning a heist, a la The Thomas Crown Affair, protesting something or other, or showing their allegiance to a religious cult.


What really interests me is the incredibly negative spin that the Best Buy management put on the whole thing. Granted, this store was located in New York City, and store managers in urban centers can benefit from a little paranoia. However, the managers' inability to look beyond their narrow conclustions, even when it became clear that the improv people were there to have fun, ended up creating some real problems. There's a point where paranoia becomes its own punishment, and these pinheads seemed to tromp right past that line.

On this one, they synchronized the ringers on a whole bunch of phones, turned them in to the bag check at the Strand, a huge bookstore in New York, and then proceeded to call the phones in certain patterns. Ultimately, it yielded a cellphone "symphony" that amused many of the employees and customers, but caused a manager to go ballistic.

I think that what I love about this group is the beauty that they bring into the world, combined with the fact that this beauty, in turn, becomes a Rohrshak test for its audience.

Another Logic Problem

A couple of weeks ago, I offered the first ever (as far as I know) pornographic logic problem. The winner was Will, from Kiss Yourself Goodbye. His prize was a packet of "Wacky Packages" stickers, scourge of my '70's childhood:


The runner-up was Glamourpuss, of The Pole Affair; Puss mastered the puzzle, but Will was a little faster.

Thank you both for playing!

This week's puzzle involves groupies. Last night, the European rock sensation Tin Monkey played in Happytown. Of course, all the young girls had had their tickets for weeks, but a few of them wanted something more memorable than just a band t-shirt. They wanted a night with the band.

The lads, of course, were more than happy to oblige. This time, though, they decided to spice it up a bit. They decided to have a contest to see who could have sex the fastest. The groupies, of course, were eager to join in the fun. Unfortunately, though, the boys in the band were a little drunk, so they weren’t too particular about their partners. One of them actually hooked up with a nun! Also, in their haste, each of them made a serious mistake. One even had unprotected sex with a girl who was sporting a cold sore!

The next morning, none of the boys could remember who had sex with who, but each recalled some small details of the evening. Based on these details, can you help them figure out what happened? If you do it fast enough, maybe they’ll let you tour with the band!


1. The bandmember with the Jehovah’s Witness took exactly 30 seconds longer to finish than the one who inadvertently had sex with the groupie’s belly button, who took exactly 15 seconds longer to finish than the one who had unprotected sex with the girl with a cold sore.

2. Ian took exactly 30 seconds longer to finish than the band member who “pleasured” the girl in the kilt and fishnet stockings. The kilt fetishist, on the other hand, took longer than Rick.

3. The band member who had sex with a nun, who somehow ended up with carpet burn, took exactly 15 seconds longer than Izzy, who paired up with the Jehovah’s Witness.

4. The band member who accidentally ended up with a bloke took exactly fifteen seconds longer to finish than Wrongo, who hooked up with the girl whose clothes were covered with band patches.

Homemade Advertisements

Okay, today I'm making two embarassing admissions. First, I mallwalk. Yes, it's shameful, but true--in an attempt to lose some of the weight that I gained after quitting smoking, I wander aimlessly around the mall, making friends with the octegenarians who, inevitably, outpace me as I push my daughter's stroller around. Don't you dare judge me...

The second admission is that my local shopping center, the New River Valley Mall, is a little run-down. It contains a lot of locally-owned non-franchise businesses. In fact, the devotee of Mallrats might refer to it as "the dirt mall." Still, I like it, and the locally-owned businesses make for some interesting advertisements.


The local pretzel store, Pretzels Plus, is a small chain. Most of their advertisements seem like something right out of the 1970's. They're badly arranged, the colors on the photographs are off, and the slogans are cheesy. In an attempt to enter the 1990's, Pretzels Plus is now selling an iced-coffee beverage, that they advertise in bright blue tones. While I admire their attempts to diversify, I have to note that "Ice Rage" sounds like something that happened to the Donner party, not something that you'd want to put in your mouth.

Across from Pretzels Plus, there's a nail salon. I like it alot, particularly given the amazing amount of character that it displays. It's run by a Vietnamese family that has a flair for Buddha-influenced interior design and a laissez-faire approach to the English language. Outside the store, the neon sign reads "Nail Trix":


Of course, on the window to the left of the entrance, it reads "Nails Trix":




Inside, age and an unwillingness to pay for replacement letters has produced this interpretation of the word:




The overall effect is stunning:





The local martial-arts studio specializes in self-defense in real-life situations. They have a nice term for it:




You just keep fighting reality, boys.

Finally, one local kiosk has chosen a pretty impressive name for itself:



Not to be a prick (I know--too late), but is there anything less "stylin" than the word "stylin"? Of course it doesn't help that this is a cell-phone cover store:



And one last image for you:



I try to avoid mocking the mall people because, well, it isn't nice. But this is a special circumstance. In case you can't read it, the man in this picture is playing "Silent Scope." This is a particularly fun, and realistic, first-person shooter game. In it, one shoots various enemies with the help of a scoped sniper's rifle.

I love this game, and don't have any problems with people playing it. But take another look at this man. No jewelry. Woodland camouflage. Relaxed posture.

He's not playing. He's practicing.

And on that note, I bid you a good evening.

Contrarian

My wife and I have discovered a new nemesis: the lotion people.

In the mall, there's a cart that sells lotion--it's called mystic flame, or eternal spark, or something like that. At any rate, it seems to be peopled by low-paid exchange students with bright, shiny personalities. Seriously, these kids have the kind of creepy, in your face happiness that one usually expects from Mormons and Hare Krishnas. They're like Moonies, but they aren't selling god, and I can't understand how they can be so buoyant when they're just foisting lotion on total strangers.


Actually, I don't mind the over-the-top, saccharine happiness all that much. What I really hate is the fact that they feel obliged to attack passers by with lotion and the exact same sales pitch:

Bright-faced young person from Latin America or Eastern Europe: "Excuse me, Sir, do you mind if I ask you a question?"

Me: "No, go ahead."

Bright-faced young person from Latin America or Eastern Europe: "Have you finished your Christmas shopping yet?"

Me: "Not completely."

Bright-faced young person from Latin America or Eastern Europe: "Good, because you might want to try our new...blah, blah, blah...made with cow placenta...yackety-shmackety...incredibly rich...yadda, yadda, yadda...would bring Lenin himself back from the dead..."


The other possibility is that the smiling young moisturizer zombie approaches me with an open tube of lotion, asking if I want to try a free sample. Of course, I wouldn't mind lotion, but I have absolutely no intention of buying a tube of the crap. More to the point, I feel a little weird about people entering into my comfort zone with what is, essentially, lube. I know that this is probably my problem, but it doesn't change my irritation. What I REALLY want to do is make an incredibly rude suggestion, in the hopes that the kids will take their lotion elsewhere. However, my wife keeps telling me that unzipping my fly and shouting "Grease it up, Svetlana!" will probably get me kicked out of the mall and possibly arrested.


These kids have turned the middle of the mall into an official no-fly zone. I now find myself staring at walls, the floor, ANYTHING, in order to avoid eye contact. I'm not sure how, but this live-action Bennetton ad has made me feel like I'm wandering through a tent village, circa 1933. I don't want to make eye-contact, lest they ask me if I've got a dime. Ugh.


Manufactured emotion tends to affect me this way. When I listen to Christmas Carols, I can't help it--I have to critique the orchestration, the singing, and the questionable lyrics. When I see frighteningly earnest, disturbingly cheery kids, I immediately think about cults. When I see inspirational posters, my mind travels to Despair, Inc. It's not that I'm opposed to inspiration, or honesty, or Christmas Carols. Rather, I just get an itchy feeling in my colon when someone tries to manipulate my emotions. It ends up making me behave poorly, which makes me resentful.

Mostly, I just wish the little bastards would keep their lotion to themselves.

Probing the Mystery Hole

For about a year, my wife worked for a publishing company in Roanoke. There were numerous problems with her job, including massive disorganization, an editor-in-chief who was a raging alcoholic, and various people who were perched on the narrow edge between insanity and homicidal insanity. However, there were also good points.

One of my favorite things about her job was the access it gave us to various weird tourist attractions. As I've mentioned before, I'm a big fan of home-town tourism, and the people at my wife's work had made a living out of finding strange and unique places to visit. One day, my wife burst through the door, yelling that she'd found a place we just had to visit.

"What is it?" I asked.

Her smile widened. "The Mystery Hole."

After I determined that she wasn't coming on to me (she can be a little oblique sometimes), we immediately made plans to go. On Saturday, we woke up at the crack of 10, gassed up the car, got some bottled water, and pointed ourselves toward West Virginia. It was a beautiful day, and we relaxed into the drive. It's about an hour and a half from our house to Anstead, West Virginia, where the Mystery Hole is, and much of the drive follows the path of the New River, which is, oddly enough, the second oldest river in the world.

As we passed into West Virginia, the mountains became sharper and more defined. It was absolutely gorgeous. However, as much as we enjoyed the twisty highway and beautiful scenery, we were happy when we finally got to the Hole. The roads in West Virginia are very steep, and my old Mustang wasn't really enjoying the extra exertion. Added to this, my wife suffers from about a billion different allergies and, as much as she enjoyed driving with the top down, she was starting to have a hard time breathing.


Even before we took our tour into the unknown, the Mystery Hole was worth the trip. It was encased in an old quonset hut with a broken VW bug poking out of the side. A row of American flags decorated the top of the hut, and the walls were painted with flashy slogans and various flourishes. It looked like both sides of the sixties--the hawks and the doves--had staked their claim to the building.

The audience was almost as exciting. It was a mix of kids and adults, locals and out-of-towners. John Deere caps mingled with dreadlocks; maybe it was the garish painting and the carnival air but, for a moment, everyone looked like a freak. We went inside to catch our breath, buy our tickets, and look through the gift shop.

The tickets were a couple of bucks each, but the store was out of T-shirts, which was a real bummer, as I really wanted a shirt that said "I've been inside the Mystery Hole!" or something similarly tasteless. It would have been really cool if I could have gotten it in prison orange. Anyway, we bought our tickets and waited with a growing crowd of kids in the parking lot for the next tour into the hole itself. This gave us time to peruse the signs warning people with heart problems from taking the tour. In spite of ourselves, we started to get a little excited.

Finally, it was our turn. As we walked down a long flight of stairs, the tourguide kept up his patter, a story about the "discovery" of the Mystery Hole that seemed to owe equal parts to oral storytellers and circus sideshow barkers. As we went deeper into the hole, we passed the little scares and visual jokes that are part and parcel of any good house of horrors. Yes, brothers and sisters, there was a blacklight room and wood carvings. There were mannequins and skeletons. And, yes, it looked like a 16-year old's room, circa 1978. Suffice to say, it was a total blast.


In time, we found ourselves in the Mystery Hole itself. And, as much as I'd like to be a smartass and tell you that it was all cheesy and ridiculous, there were times when I had to stare at a fixed point because my sense of balance started to get out of whack and my heart sped up. I saw water flow uphill and a chair, with a woman in it, balance on a wall. I saw plumb bobs stick out of the wall at me. And, although I knew how it was done, it still freaked me out a little.

When it was all over, we were pretty hungry, so we went to Tudor Biscuit World, a chain restaurant that sells fast-food Southern Cafe cooking. It had real ham biscuits and proper southern string beans, overcooked to perfection. My wife got the pot roast and I seem to remember pie for dessert. I decided, then and there, that fast-food Southern cooking was a brilliant idea, and that I was glad I didn't live within sixty miles of a Tudor Biscuit World, as I'm not sure my waistline could take the punishment.

So there you have it. If you ever find yourself in Anstead, West Virginia, be sure to drop into the Mystery Hole. Hopefully they'll have T-shirts in stock when you come by. Even if they don't, you still won't regret the trip.

Loading Mercury With a Pitchfork

Okay, I really didn't intent to write about poetry two days in a row, but Richard Brautigan's been on my mind. He's one of my favorite poets, partially because a lot of people think that he wasn't really a poet at all. Basically, his poems sound like prose, and his prose sounds like poetry. Here's one of my favorite Brautigan poems:

FUCK ME LIKE FRIED POTATOES

Fuck me like fried potatoes
on the most beautifully hungry
morning of my God-damn life.

Kinda hits you hard, doesn't it? Even if it's not your favorite kind of poetry, it really gets to the heart of things. In a few lines, he just plain nails the intensity of sex, the way it can be so sustaining.

Here's another one:

EVERYTHING INCLUDES US

The thought of her hands
touching his hair
makes me want to vomit.

Not the prettiest poem ever; again, though, it really hits that feeling you get when a relationship ends. The nausea, the hurt, the feeling that you really want to let it go, but can't.

While we're on the subject of relationships,

IMPASSE

I talked a good hello
but she talked an even
better good-bye.

You ever been there? I can't imagine a better way to put that feeling.

Okay, here's one more:

Lighthouse

Signalling, we touch,
lying beside each other
like waves.
I roll over into her
and look down through
candlelight to say,
"Hey, I'm balling you."

That one just makes me laugh.

Anyway, all of these come from one of his collections, Loading Mercury with a Pitchfork, but you can find many of his poems here. Maybe, like me, you won't enjoy him at first, but will find that he sticks in your brain, like a catchy commercial or one of Barry Manilow's songs. You might find yourself playing with his words and giggling at his intensity. I hope so.

Giving Thanks

After a Thanksgiving dinner that couldn't be beat, I was wandering around a couple of my favorite blogs today and I took a peek at Claudia's. She put up a copy of Alice's Restaurant, by Arlo Guthrie, and it relaxed me, brought back some good memories, and generally put a smile on my face.

It also reminded me of a couple of my favorite American poets. One of them is Shel Silverstein. If you only know him from Where the Sidewalk Ends and The Giving Tree, then you're really missing out. Silverstein was also a prolific lyricist (he wrote "A Boy Named Sue"), and writer of adult poetry, much of which was published in Playboy. If you're interested in reading some of his adult offerings, click here. You should particularly check out "The Devil and Billy Markham"; although it's lighthearted, I think it ranks with "Young Goodman Brown" and "The Devil and Daniel Webster." Best of all, it's funny as hell. Funnier, actually.

In the meantime, here's one of my favorites. I hope you have a wonderful Thanksgiving!

"Father of a Boy Named Sue"

Yeah, I lef’ home when the kid was three.
It sure felt good to be fancy free
Tho I knew it wasn’t quite the fatherly thing to do.
But that kid kept screamin’ and throwin’ up
And pissin’ in his pants til I had enough
So just for revenge I went and named him Sue.

It was Gatlinberg in mid July
I was gettin' drunk but gettin' by
Gettin' old and going from bad to worse
When thru the door with an awful scream
Comes the ugliest queen I’ve ever seen
He says my name is Sue. How do you do?
Then he hits me with his purse.

Now this ain’t the way he tells the tale
But he scratched my face with his fingernails
And then he bit my thumb
and kicked me with his high-heeled shoe.
So I hit him in the nose, and he started to cry
And he threw some perfume in my eye
And it sure ain’t easy fightin with a boy named Sue.

So I hit him in the head with a caned-back chair
And he screamed, “Hey Dad, you mussed my hair!”
And he hit me in the navel and knocked out a piece of my lint.
He was spittin' blood. I was spittin teeth.
And we crashed through the wall and out into the street
A-kickin and gougin' in the mud and the blood and the crème de menth.

Then out of his garter he pulls a gun.
I’m about to get shot by my very own son.
He’s screamin' about Sigmond Freud and lookin' grim.
So I thought fast and I told him some stuff
How I named him Sue just to make him tough.
And I guess he bought it, cuz now I’m livin' with him.
Yeah, he cooks and sews and cleans up the place.
He cuts my hair and shaves my face.
And irons my shirts better than a daughter could do.
And on the nights that I can’t score,
Well, I can’t tell you anymore.
Sure is a joy to have a boy named Sue.
Yeah, a son is fun,
But it’s a joy to have a boy named Sue.

Opening a Jesus Franchise

Warning: this post contains discussions of a religious nature. It touches on issues of faith and advocates the condemning of certain people to eternal Heck. Moreover, it also offers an opinion regarding the perspectives of the Almighty Whoosawhatsit, whatever His/Her/Its name may be. If this is not interesting to you, or if you feel uncomfortable with such a discussion, please feel free to click here to visit a less controversial site. Thank you and good day.


I have a confession to make: I admit that this is a little sick, but I really like it when people try to cash in on Jesus Christ. Part of this is because I'm amazed at the level of creativity that this inspires, and part of it is the fact that (in my opinion, at least) these guys are going to end up horking demon dick in the bitter flames of eternal perdition.


Wow, I sound a lot like Jonathan Edwards there. Let me rephrase. First off, I have a sneaking suspicion that God has a great sense of humor. Regardless of whether you pray to Jesus, Allah, JHVH, Buddha, Manon, or L. Ron Hubbard, you have to admit that God loves a joke as much, or more than, the next deity. From Platapi (Platapuseses) to Avacados to Rod McKuen's career, to the enduring popularity of Jeff Koons, there is endless evidence that God pretty much keeps the world around for shits and giggles. With that in mind, I like to think that Kevin Smith's Buddy Christ and South Park's Jesus character give the everlasting a nice hearty chuckle or two.

That having been said, I'm not so sure that God, whatever form It happens to take, really enjoys it when people try to make a buck off sincere manipulations of Its image (or images). In other words, I'm pretty sure that somebody is going to have to answer for the overpriced gift shop in St. Patrick's cathederal (185 bucks for a rosary! Are you fucking kidding me?!?). I also have a feeling that all the people who create commercials, billboards, and other coercive properties in Jesus' name will be facing some fun times in the afterlife. I visualize them sitting around the campfire with Osama Bin Laden, Amy Semple MacPherson, and other false prophets, smelling the stench of their own burning flesh and trading stories of cashing in on the Almighty. Good times.


One of my favorite Jesus selling sites is Sporty Christ. Okay, apart from the fact that "Sporty Christ" sounds like a new Speed Stick deodorant scent, it's pretty catchy. Added to this is the fact that the statues on this site are so soul-crushingly sincere that you have to wonder about the poor little tykes who keep them in their rooms. In all likelihood, most of the recipients of these statues probably hide them, throw them away, or blow them up with M-80s, but there's a small percentage that keeps the figurines on the dresser, where Football Jesus can inspire them all day. I just wonder about the internal dialogue that little Billy has as he goes into a game. Is it a humble soul-baring self-interrogation in which he determines his worthiness to play, or does he ask God's help in tearing off the motherf@#%ing head of the opposing quarterback?


Another one of my favorites is The Biblical Action Figures Collection. I love this one. Who needs to fiddle around with Superman and Darth Vader when you can give Job boils or recreate David kicking the shit out of (excuse me, "righteously smiting") Goliath. Best of all, the size of these toys can make you feel like God. After all, who else has the option of pushing all of humanity around like pawns on a chessboard?

I mean, apart from George Bush.

Two More Profoundly Disturbing Sites

The first site, Life Gems is kind of nice. Apparently, Life Gems can take the carbon of your loved one and turn it into a beautiful diamond, a keepsake that you will remember forever. Of course, your loved one has to be dead first.

And, well, cremated.



The creepy thing is when you imagine Great Aunt Carol, a partially-completed tennis bracelet dangling from her wrist, pinching your cheek and saying "we need to fatten you up."



The second site, Man Beef, is a spoof that was taken off the web. However, I actually believed it for a while. It was so intricate, so beautifully explained that it sucked me in.

Once I realized that it was a joke, part of me tried to figure out how to make it a reality. Come on--is it really any worse than cremating your mom and wearing her around your neck?

Some Fun Local News

My wife told me about this one a couple of days ago. Apparently, Pam Semones, a Christiansburg policewoman brutally misused her power. While this might not seem too uncommon or impressive, the degree to which the officer in question broke the law is truly astounding.

The story begins with Wendy Covington, who accused her husband, Gary, of having an affair. Gary, who sounds like a real charmer, took umbrage at this, and proceeded to beat Wendy until she was unconscious.

She was holding her 22-month old child at the time.

When she came to, Wendy called the police. Covington was quickly arrested and taken from the scene. Enter Pam Semones. Officer Semones showed up after the arrest and demanded that she be given control of the investigation. Semones then put Wendy Covington into her police car, where she told the battered wife that she would "arrest [Wendy] for abusing [Gary] and would do whatever she could to take Covington's children away."

Over the next few days, Semones continued to harass Wendy Covington, intercepting Wendy's request for a restraining order, forcing Wendy to pack Gary's bags, and bringing him by the house to pick up his things, in direct contravention of a magistrate's order. Semones also kidnapped Covington's children from the Women's Resource Center in Radford. While Semones transported the children to Gary Covington, the Radford police detained Wendy, accusing her of kidnapping her own children.

Confused? Here's the upshot: Officer Pam Semones is Satan. I know that this might seem too bizarre for words, so click here to get the full article from the Roanoke Times. Now, my wife knows Pam Semones, as they worked together for a while. Apparently, this isn't the first time Semones has worked outside the law. However, it is certainly the most egregious. And the best part? The woman Wendy Covington (accurately) accused her husband of sleeping with was...you guessed it, Pam Semones.

How the hell do people justify this kind of behavior to themselves? I know that I'm insanely naive, but I can't imagine the kind of moral twists and turns that Pam Semones must have gone through to be able to look herself in the mirror. Ugh.

Well, here's the upshot: Wendy Covington is currently suing the Town of Christiansburg for $40 million. I hope she gets it.

Two of the Most Disturbing Sites I've Ever Seen...

...Are rated G.

The first is Rolling to Recovery's Colossal Colon. Now, I know how important colon cancer awareness is. In fact, I drink psyllium seed every day to protect myself against the scourge. However, I'm not sure that a gigantic section of intestine is the way to go. Still, there it is. As the sponsors note on their website, "Visitors who crawl through the Colossal Colon will see examples of many colon diseases, including Crohn's disease, diverticulosis, ulcerative colitis, hemorrhoids, cancerous and non-cancerous polyps, and various stages of colon cancer. Actual colonoscopy footage was used to ensure that the Colossal Colon was as realistic as possible."

Well, as this picture shows, it's pretty realistic, although I can't help but think of the lyrics to "Lucy in the Sky with Diamonds":

Picture yourself in a boat on a river,
With tangerine trees and marmalade skies
Somebody calls you, you answer quite slowly,
A girl with kaleidoscope eyes.
Cellophane flowers of yellow and green,
Towering over your head.



The second most disturbing site I've ever seen involves a really tall guy who dresses like Peter Pan. I generally try to avoid making fun of people (really, I do!), but Randy Constan's Peter Pan Page is extremely upsetting. Listen to the version of "I Don't Wanna Grow Up" that sounds like it was arranged by the villain in Saw. Cringe at the humiliating images that Randy has posted. Gaze into his soulless eyes. Try not to stare at his penis.

Feel the pain.

Some Fun Things to Check Out

Okay, I'm sure that everybody already knows about Strong Bad, but if you don't, be sure to check in on him. My favorite is still the Strongbad Dragon drawing lesson.

A lesser-known site is Rather Good, although, again, most of you are probably already familiar with it. Even if you've never heard of it, you may have seen the Spongmonkeys, who shilled for Quiznos. Their debut song, We Like the Moon is available on this site.

Anyway, Rathergood is bizarre, coarse, yet very innocent. I like to imagine that it was put together by the insane half-brother of Strongbad's creator, who spends all his time in a cage in the basement. Some of my favorites on the site are the Kafka-cum-MTV A Frightened Boy, the trippy Mark Llama, the twisted humor of Mr. Stabby, the fast humor of Pandas, and the charming filth of the Naughty Hedgehogs. Don't stop with these, though! Wander around the site and see what other tidbits you can retrieve from the sick mind of Joel Veitch.

Have fun!

Uncommon Courtesy

For some reason or another, I've always viewed the South as the last repository of good manners. Perhaps this is because the South prides itself on its manners, or maybe it's because of the long pedigree that manners seem to have in the literature of the South. Maybe it's just because everybody just talks more slowly down here. However, recent events have convinced me that the time has come for the South, or at least my little corner of it, to surrender the mantle. The time has come to admit that the South is peopled with intolerant, immature, agressive louts.


From South Cacalacky to Silver Beach
A few years ago, my then-girlfriend Angela and I visited her mother, father, and great-aunt in South Carolina. As soon as I entered the house, Angela's mom had me in a chair and was shoveling food in my mouth. Seriously, the whole operation was creepily reminiscent of Lawrence Olivier in Marathon Man. She started off with leftovers from breakfast; within an hour, she was force-feeding me food that had been in the freezer since the Nixon administration. During the seven days (and twenty pounds) that I stayed with Angela's family, Angela's mom rarely gave me a moment's respite. I was eating constantly, and not always willingly. I also noticed that every time I stepped into a room, Angela's mom would offer me a seat. I appreciated this a lot until I realized that Mrs. H refused to let me stand up.

Later that same summer, we visited my friend Billy's parents on Cape Cod. Now, Billy's mom is old-school Boston Irish, which means that she was half in the bag by the time we got to her house at 6 PM. Glaring at me through an alcoholic haze, she snarled "Siddown!"

I complied.

She gave me the evil eye. "Ya want some blueberry pie?" she sneered.

I nodded, not trusting my voice.

"With ice cream?"

"Yes, ma'am." She practically threw it at me.

I ate it quietly and quickly--blueberry pie is among the many culinary delights of the Cape, and is almost always amazing. When she noticed my empty plate, Mrs. C practically yelled at me: "You want more?"

I smiled. "Yes, please."

She refilled my plate and slid it over.

After this interaction, I assumed that I had somehow pissed Mrs. C off, or that I just brought out the demon in her. However, when I saw Billy two days later, he told me that his mom had asked after me, and was wondering when I would be coming back. I told him that I thought I had pissed her off. Billy gave me a funny look, replying, "No, she really liked you. A lot."

Thinking about it later, I realized that Angela and Billy's moms were actually not all that different. Although Mrs. H was charming, there was never the slightest question that her gently-worded offers were, in fact, orders. On the other side, for all her brusqueness, Mrs. C took it upon herself to see that I was fed and well cared for while I was under her roof. Based on this summer, I started to reconsider my concepts of courtesy.


Remember My New River Valley
One would think that the halcyon vales of the New River Valley would be a haven for polite, kind folk. Miles from any city, far from the madding crowd, it would seem the perfect setting for genteel manners. One would imagine the local gentry, tipping their John Deere caps to each other as they pick up their Skoal and Big Macs.

One would be wrong.

I believe in holding the door when somebody is nearing an entrance at the same time as me. I know that this is old-fashioned, but I was taught to be courteous, and some of my mother's lessons stuck with me. As an inveterate door-holder, I have grown accustomed to the rude looks and sneers of the people I courteously allow to pass ahead of me. My wife, on the other hand, lacks my sanguine, relaxed sense of justice. One day, she was holding a door for someone at the library. As the woman passed through, she made the mistake of giving my wife a sneering look of superiority. Bad move.

My wife hauled back and slammed the door into the woman's ass. As the offending shrew went sprawling, my wife yelled "Next time, say 'thank you,' bitch!"

My wife is the coolest person ever.


Road Warrior
About a month ago, I was driving up interstate 81 into Roanoke with my sister and daughter. Two people ahead of me, a SUV and a Hooter's delivery van, were in a rolling roadblock. Both were going about 60, which was five miles below the posted speed limit. I was about one car length behind the Hooters van, and I flicked my lights to indicate that I wanted him to pass or get out of my way. Suddenly, out of nowhere, a white van slid into the tiny space between the Hooter's van and my car, nearly running me off the road. After I caught my breath, I laid on the horn for about fifteen seconds. The guy in the white van slowed down to fifty miles an hour. For the thirty minutes remaining in my trip, I tried to pass the white van. He would let others pass, then would slide ahead of me. There were times when he careened across four lanes of traffic to cut me off. I started to wonder if I was going to make it to my destination alive. One exit before I had to get off, I pretended to pull off, and the white van veered ahead of me. Once he was firmly inside the exit lane, I swerved back onto the highway. As I drove away, he flipped me the bird and shook his fist out his window.


New York
This last summer, my wife, my daughter, and I wandered around New York together. Oddly enough, we found that New Yorkers were almost insanely courteous. Our previous experiences had taught us that, while New York was generally not as aggressive as its reputation would suggest, it was still far from polite. This summer, however, we found that it had an almost Jane Austen level gentility. Everywhere we went, people opened doors, held elevators, and gave us smiles. The final straw was when I was on a subway and a Jewish lady in her seventies offered me her seat. I didn't want to be the shmuck who took an old lady's seat, so I tried to pass George to my wife. Smiling, she said "No, I'll stand."

I stared daggers at the love of my life. "No, really, honey, you look tired. Have George and sit down."

She smiled sweetly. "No, I need to stretch anyway. You sit."

The yenta tapped my arm. "Sonny, really, sit down."

I tried to save the last shreds of my dignity. "Really, ma'am, I appreciate it, but I'm fine."

"Of course you are. Come on, sit, sit!"

There was no way out of this. Feeling like the biggest asshole on the face of the earth, I took the old lady's seat. We talked for the rest of the ride, and she told me that she remembered how hard it was to juggle kids and bags on the subway.

Of course, I know that people were only nice to us because we were carrying a cute kid, but this isn't the first time that I've noticed that people in New York are surprisingly kind to each other. After a few days of this treatment, the rudeness of Southwest Virginia was an unpleasant shock.

I'm not sure what's going on with courtesy, or why our daily lives have become a Mad Max in Thunderdome foray into barbarism, but I'm getting a little sick of the rudeness around me. Maybe I have to take lessons from my wife.

The Day I Caught a Glimpse of Little Elvis

In Southwest Virginia, the big city is Roanoke. This, of course, is a little odd, as Roanoke has a population of just over 300,000 people. Still, it has an international airport, two ballet companies, four malls, a few hospitals, some museums, and a couple of interesting tourist attractions, so I guess that it could be worse. I mean, it's not Muncie.

One of my favorite hobbies is playing tourist in my own hometown. I buy a travel guide, list all the interesting things to see, and seek them out. When I started doing this a few years ago, the first thing on my list was Miniature Graceland. I read about it in Moon Guides' Virginia Handbook, by Juilan Smith. He wrote: "Miniature Graceland is [...] the product of hours of loving work. Don and Kim Epperly have filled their modest backyard with doll-sized replicas of major buildings in Elvis' life, topped by Graceland itself, complete with car museum."

Clearly, I couldn't resist. However, a place like Miniature Graceland deserves special treatment, so I saved it for the very end of the milennium. On December 31, 1999, accompanied by my sister Ella, my friend John, and John's creepy friend, whose name I've (mercilessly) forgotten, I traveled the hour down 81 to Roanoke. We started our pilgrimage at the Roanoke Star, which is the largest neon star in the world. Supposedly, Elvis also visited the star on a trip to Roanoke. Regardless, the star gave us an opportunity to take lots of Soviet-style pictures of ourselves and marvel at what, truly, is a huge eyesore. While up there, we also noticed what we thought was a group of Amish driving a compact car. On closer observation, though, we realized that they were only Mennonites.


On the way back down Mill Mountain, we stopped in on Graceland. I think we drove past the place a few times, as it is, essentially, the side yard of a non-descript house in a very non-descript neighborhood. Finally, though, we found the place, parked, and silently piled out of the car. Reverently, we approached the shrine. The first thing we saw was the statue of Elvis. The Epperly's had, apparently, decided that any shrine to Elvis needs an idol. There's was a full-sized gold replica of the man himself. However, when we got nearer we realized that the statue appeared to be a mannequin of an asian man with a huge pompadour and a lot of gold paint. Unwilling to let reality get in the way of style, however, we acknowledged that this was a true stroke of genius, dropped a dollar or two in the little gold-painted collection box, and went on our merry way.

Miniature Graceland was, to be honest, kind of a disappointment. While we enjoyed taking pictures of ourselves from forced-perspectives, the joy of impersonating Godzilla in Memphis quickly dissipated, particularly as we noticed that Miniature Graceland was...well, a little seedy. The grounds were overgrown, the house needed a paintjob, and the Barbie dolls that the Epperlys had put in the little buildings were somewhat threadbare. On further reflection, however, we realized that the Epperlys had, actually, captured the true spirit of Graceland: seedy, overgrown, a little tacky, and in need of a fresh coat of paint.

Happy once again, we went to a Vietnamese restaurant, where we had our last official meal of the milennium.

I've since returned to Miniature Graceland, and found it to be even more overgrown and seedy. However, on the bright side, Don Epperly's son Mike has taken control of Miniature Graceland and is in the process of rebuilding and refinishing the houses. So there's hope for mini-Elvis after all.

Career Gays

A selection of recent headlines:

LANCE BASS ADMITS "I'M GAY"; ENTIRE WORLD RESPONDS "AND...?"

NEIL PATRICK HARRIS COMES OUT OF THE CLOSET; ENTIRE WORLD SUDDENLY READS TOO MUCH INTO DOOGIE AND VINNIE'S RELATIONSHIP

T.R. KNIGHT ADMITS HOMOSEXUALITY; ENTIRE WORLD ASKS "WHO IS T.R. KNIGHT?"

Entertainment Weekly recently ran article about being gay in Hollywood. It discussed the fact that several stars, including Neil Patrick Harris, T. R. Knight, and Lance Bass have decided to publicize their homosexuality. The general argument was that homosexuality is no longer career suicide, and, in fact, could even help a young actor. As the author, Mark Harris, wrote, "Suddenly, all those platitudes about how coming out of the closet can destroy a celebrity's livelihood seem like threadbare justifications. And those gay celebrities who keep fighting to pass as straight look like embarrassing antiques."

I'd like to agree with Harris, but I'm not sure he's right. Frankly, I think that homosexuality still carries a stigma. I would, however, argue that the stigma now lies, at least partly, in the increasing use of sexuality as a career tool, rather than as an expression of one's personality. This becomes particularly clear when one reviews recent celebrity admissions of homosexuality:

Neil Patrick Harris: You have to give Doogie credit. Like Lance, he could have come out of the closet when his career was on the skids. Instead, he waited until he was a cast member on a mid-level ensemble comedy. However, he loses a grade for coming out in People magazine, and for pimping his sexuality for a couple of measly pop-culture recognition points.
Coming Out Grade: B

Lance Bass: Let's face it: Lance Bass is a washed-up, no talent boy toy who has massively outlived his cultural usefulness, not to mention his fifteen minutes of fame. However, when he came out in People magazine, it provided a considerable boost to his career, allowing him to cling, white-knuckled, to the public consciousness for a few more embarrassingly self-serving seconds. Of course, nobody was surprised by Lance's admission, but everybody had to be nice to him because he was no longer a talentless scrawny white guy. He was now a talentless, scrawny white guy who liked dick.
Coming Out Grade: C

T. R. Knight: This guy has handled his coming out with grace and style. Part of this is because coming out wasn't really his idea; he was, apparently, the focus of an argument between Isaiah Washington, who called him a "faggot," and Patrick Dempsey, who defended him. Of course, you can imagine the conspiracy theories--people imagining that Knight was the wishbone in a Dr. McDreamy/Isaiah Washington lovers' quarrel. Still, Knight handled the very public explosion of his personal life with class.
Coming Out Grade: A

Ellen DeGeneres: I can't say anything bad about Ellen. In fact, I think that doing so is, officially, against the law in three states. In all honesty, though, she's funny, open, talented, and had the guts to come out of the closet when it was controversial enough to cost her a sweet job. My only criticism is that, between Anne Heche and Portia DiRossi, Ellen's bed has become a stepping-stone to fame. Seriously, she's like a lesbian Robert Evans; screwing Ellen is now, officially, a solid career move for fading blond actresses of a certain age. Still, that's not her fault, and I can't blame her for taking advantage of her position as an official lesbian martyr-cum-spokeswoman.
Coming Out Grade: A+

Cynthia Nixon: Cynthia started off strong; when she left her husband and two kids for a woman, she responded to reporters' questions with grace and aplomb. She simply stated the truth of her relationship and noted that she did not want to discuss it further. My problem with Cynthia is that now, two years later, she seems inclined to discuss the fact that she doesn't want to discuss the fact of her sexuality. Make up your mind, Miranda: either you want to whore out your personal life for a career boost, or you don't, but you can't pretend you're above the fray when you keep re-entering it.
Coming Out Grade: Initially A+, Lowered to a B+

Rosie O'Donnell: Good God, where to begin? I love Rosie. I love her big, scary, cartoonishly Irish-American personality. I love her frightening mood swings. I even love the fact that she seems to be making a career out of playing Lenny to Barbara Walters' George in the all-female production of Of Mice and Men.What I don't love is her deliberately misleading and somewhat creepy Tom Cruise fetish, and her determination that all of the rest of us have to be in on her private life. You're here, you're queer, Rosie, and I think it's time you got over it.
Coming Out Grade: B

I look forward to a day when gay men and women are a fully-integrated part of American culture. I hope that the time will come when society doesn't feel threatened by them, and also doesn't feel obliged to treat them like Faberge Eggs. I dream that the time will come when homosexuality will be viewed like brown eyes, blond hair, or attached earlobes; in short, I want homosexuality to be seen for what it is: a very small, probably hereditary, part of individuality. However, our culture won't get there on its own. Gay public figures need to learn that, while homosexuality shouldn't be a stigma, it also shouldn't be a fad. We all are what we are; let's get over it.

A World Without Anger

I'm sadder than George Allen will be when he finds out that there are minorities in heaven...

When I was in high school, I discovered the wonders of the Weekly World News. For less than a buck, I could guarantee myself a good half-hour of outrageous articles, insane opinion pieces, and the self-proclaimed World's Biggest Crossword. This was a couple of dollars less than Mad magazine, and the writing quality was often comparable. I was hooked.

Every time that I went on a school-sponsored outing or worked on a school play, I, or one of my friends, would pick up a copy of the magazine. We'd pass it around, read portions of it aloud, and loudly discuss the latest outrage. Some of my best high school memories have a copy of the Weekly World News lurking in the background.

The key element, of course, was Ed Anger. His column, called "My America, by Ed Anger," was always good for a laugh, not to mention a well-constructed, if extremely coarse, diatribe. In one, he responded to some racist comments by the Japanese prime minister. Apparently, the PM had noted that American workers were lazy, and seemed to suggest that the cause might be the lower quality genetic stock of the United States. Ed, of course, responded to this with pure, concentrated bile. I remember one phrase in particular; Ed was commenting on America's racial diversity, which he argued was responsible for our cultural superiority. He concluded by stating that "In America, we even have japs. Except our japs are better than japanese japs because our japs are american. American japs know how to listen to different cultures and learn from them."

Pure genius.

Once you get past Ed's excessive, enthusiastic use of the term "japs," there's a pretty strong, liberal point. Therein lay the power of Ed Anger: he would take a fairly liberal positions, express it in ways that would make Phyllis Schafly blanch, and polish it off with a strong dose of humor. He deliberately ticked off as many people as possible, while simultaneously giving every member of his audience something to feel good about. It was pure brilliance.

Approximately a month ago, I was feeling nostalgic, so I bought a copy of the the Weekly World News. I had high hopes: it prominently featured an article about redneck aliens taking over a trailer park, and promised an interview with "Omaha Bin Laden," Osama's cowboy relative. I couldn't wait to get home, so I started reading the trailer park article in the car--I wanted to see if it was located near my house (I have some suspicions about my neighbors). Unfortunately, it's located in "Rebel Valley" South Carolina.

Rebel Valley? That didn't sound like a real place. This was only the first of many disappointments. One annoyance is that the price has gone up to $2.99 per issue, which seemed a little steep to me. Second, unlike the pseudo-sincere Weekly World News of my youth, the articles in this one were clearly tongue-in-cheek. I couldn't tell if the authors were laughing at their audience, or were parodying the the Weekly World News of yesteryear. Regardless, they weren't particularly funny.

The saddest point came when I read "My America." The article discussed the fact that some sports teams are apparently holding "faith days," in which they pass out religious bobblehead dolls. In a calm, steady voice, the author criticized these teams for failing to recognize the boundaries between politics and religion. Granted, this was exactly the kind of topic that Ed would have loved on, but he would have been a bit more outspoken. The author of this article, who was purportedly Ed, was far more reasonable and tasteful.

This bugged me so much that I googled Ed Anger, fully expecting to find out that he'd had a stroke and was no longer his old self. The truth was even sadder. I found out that Eddie Clontz, a former high school dropout and scallop fisherman, who had taken over editorship of the the Weekly World News in 1981, and had made it the three ring circus that entertained me so much as a kid, had died on January 26, 2004 at the age of 56. This explained the lowered quality of the News; it also explained the kinder, gentler Ed. Under the pseudonym "Ed Anger," Clontz had written some of my favorite diatribes. Here's his obituary, courtesy of The Economist. You should check it out, as Clontz is one of those people who definitely led a life worth living.

Maybe his legacy isn't notable for its journalistic integrity, but I can't help feeling that the world's a little less enjoyable without Eddie Clontz in it. One thing's for certain--Ed Anger's take on the midterm elections would have been entertaining.

Eighth Grade Math

Thanks, Jamiesmitten!

You Passed 8th Grade Math

Congratulations, you got 9/10 correct!

Could You Pass 8th Grade Math?

Logic Problem

So, my wife and I sometimes do logic problems for fun.

What, that's weird?

Well, then, so be it; it's weird. Anyway, I like logic problems. I get the same feeling from doing them that I get from completing a Sudoku puzzle. Actually, logic problems are a little more intense.

The trouble, though, is that the setups in logic problems tend to be a little too banal. Honestly, how excited can you get about figuring out the lineup for an imaginary television network, or the morning schedule for a dog-grooming company? Seriously, these are real logic problem setups.

So I decided to experiment with a more interesting scenario. I've included a form to help you plot it out. The first person to give me the correct answers will win the respect and adulation of millions and some sort of prize that I haven't figured out yet.

Rugged Roberta and Her Friends

It’s been a long time since Rugged Roberta worked the corners in Happytown, but she’s still in what she likes to call "the leisure industry." Now self-employed, she has an extensive client list, and caters to a wide array of interests. Unfortunately Greasy-Palmed Jake, her friendly neighborhood police sergeant, has seized her day planner and has told her that he won’t give it back unless she slips him 20% of her take. Roberta has no intention of paying; she’s not about to share her hard-earned cash with a wannabe pimp.

Everything was in code, so her clients are safe, but now Roberta has no idea who’s coming over to play. Luckily, she has post-its scattered all over her apartment reminding her of some of the times, activities, toys, and role-playing that her customers want. Help her figure out who’s coming over and when. Maybe she’ll give you a little reward!

1. Dirty Don (who doesn’t like nipple clamps) is scheduled to show up exactly 4.5 hours before Horny Harry. The client who loves the brutal lash of the cat o’nine tails is coming at 7:30.

2. Either Stinky Joe (who doesn’t have a policewoman fetish) or Rod the bod likes to have the waffled butt that only comes from being spanked with a tennis racquet. The customer who likes being covered in Cheese Whiz also enjoys being “shushed” by librarians.

3. Bent Jimmy is going to show up at some point before Dirty Don. Rod the bod fancies neither Wonder Woman nor policewomen.

4. The customer who buzzes to the frequency of Roberta’s vibrator will show up at 3:00. Stinky Joe will show up exactly three hours after the lapsed-Catholic customer with a nun fetish.

Dancing on the Grave of Political Correctness

This is another one of those sites that will piss everybody off. Black People Love Us features "Sally" and "Johnny," an insanely earnest white couple, who are proud to be friends with a lot of black people. It's a wonderful bit of satire that is so sweetly conceived that it seems almost legitimate.

Almost.

Be sure to check out the testimonials!

Keeping America the Strongerest Country in the World

If you haven't visited Whitehouse.org, the parody White House website, you have to give it a look. You should particularly check out the patriotic posters section. Pure genius!



About three years ago, Whitehouse.org got into a little kerfuffle with Dick Cheney over their claim that his wife was a former "crystal meth pusher" who loved "licking Brandy Alexanders off his hirsute belly" among other unmentionables. At any rate, Dick didn't find it particularly funny, so he threatened them with a lawsuit. The whole story's here.

If you've ever wondered what would happen if Jonathan Swift was alive today, here's your answer.

The Demon Weed

For some strange reason, smoking has been a recurring trend in my life recently. I quit smoking on September 30, 2005, a little more than a year ago. My primary reason for doing so was a statistic stating that children of smokers ran a 60% greater chance of dying of SIDS (Sudden Infant Death Syndrome) than the children of non-smokers. Of course, I quickly considered many ways that this statistic could have been misleading. For example, many smokers are lower income, which could connect to numerous other causes of SIDS. However, I knew that I was only making excuses, and that I needed to quit. So I stopped smoking roughly a week before the birth of my child.

I got Doc Shepherd, my friendly neighborhood GP, to give me a prescription for Welbutrin, which had helped me quit the other time I stopped (I stayed off for a year and a half that time). As he rarely did this, he wasn't sure about what he was doing, so (as I later learned), he underdosed me. While I was able to stop, it was a constantly-sweating, white-knuckled time that was only exascerbated by the arrival of the fruit of my loins, not to mention a timely visit from my in-laws.

Still, with the help of determination, medication, and the realization that my wife would castrate me if she smelled smoke on my clothes, I stopped. Over the next few months, as I spent a lot of time with my brand-new daughter, discovering a new love and rediscovering food, I put on over 25 pounds, which I'm still trying to lose. More to the point, I also discovered the return of my own super sense of smell, and my ability to detect a cigarette across a distance of roughly half a mile. Although the smell disgusts me, my disgust is tinged with a slight attraction (all in all, it's the same feeling I get from Tara Reid. Or Eva Braun.). However, I've now managed to go over a year without a cigarette, and I have no intention of smoking again.

I now get a little annoyed at smokers. I wish they wouldn't tempt me with their smoke, and I seem to remember being a little more courteous when I was in their shoes. However, I know exactly what's happening here, and I'm determined to avoid falling into the born-again nonsmoker trap. You see, as easy as it is to criticize smokers, we need to face the simple fact that our criticism, hatred, and snottiness not only don't make it easier for them to quit, but actually may goad them into continuing their habit. After all, what could be more satisfying than blowing some smoke into the face of a health Nazi who has just fake-coughed at you?

How could we make it easier for smokers to quit? Well, how about recognizing that quitting is among the hardest things in the world? As somone who's been through some pretty tough times, I have no problem stating that quitting smoking is the most difficult thing I've ever done. Some people say quitting smoking is as hard as quitting heroin. I disagree; for me, at least, quitting smoking was as hard as quitting air. Unlike heroin, cigarettes are available on every street corner. On a basic level, quitting smoking involved changing my life, my routines, my priorities, and even my personality. In fact, as I went through it, I had to wonder what part of myself wasn't fundamentally changing.

Another thing we could do would be to stop blaming the victims. Frankly, smokers are victims of their addictions. If you were to ask prospective smokers if they wanted to be reliant on cigarettes for their well being, I'm sure that most would say no. Frankly, by the time I was aware of the consequences of smoking, I was sucking down over a pack a day. Did I want to funnel my money into the pockets of Big Tobacco? Did I want to spend several years of my life inventorying my stash of cigarettes before every vacation, graduation, or other major event? Did I want to have to skip out of every family gathering to grab a cigarette? No, of course not!

Well, actually, I liked having an excuse to duck out of family gatherings. That's one of the things I really miss about smoking.

Another thing we might try is funding anti-smoking aids. The first time I quit, I had to pay over $100 a month for Zyban. Luckily, my insurance took care of the Welbutrin prescription the second time around. Still, if we really want people to quit smoking, why don't we pick up the tab? Even with the rising cost of cigarettes, I always found that it was more expensive to pay for the patch, nicorette, or other things that would help me quit. In the short term, it made more economic sense for me to stick with the coffin nails.

Finally, if we really think that cigarettes are killing people, doesn't it behoove us to make them illegal? Yes, we will need to up the subsidies to the tobacco farmers while they switch crops. Yes, we'll probably have to help the cigarette companies while they retool. And, yes, we'll have to change cigarettes into a controlled substance that can only be purchased with a prescription. However, if we all agree that these things are killing people, then why don't we make it impossible for sixteen year olds to get them?

And, until that great day comes, I call on all non-smokers to stop harassing their less-fortunate breathren. See smokers for what they are: society's last politically-correct scapegoat. They're what african americans used to be and what gays are in the process of un-becoming. They are our lepers, our sin-eaters, and our goats. They're the ones who make us feel better about our own shortcomings and crappy health. If that doesn't make them due for some serious appreciation, then I don't know what does.

Snuff-Film Imagination

When I was very young, I was diagnosed with MBD, or Minimal Brain Disfunction. Basically, this meant that I tended to call out in class, was chronically disorganized, and didn't like to focus on my math homework. When I read books on MBD (which was later changed to ADD and then ADHD), I discovered that the symptoms ranged from hyperactivity to hypoactivity, from excessive intelligence to substandard intelligence. In the late seveties, MBD was a catchall for every student who didn't fit into a standard classroom.

Anyway, the upshot was that my parents didn't want me put on Ritalin, so I had to see a psychiatrist when I was in third grade. They finally found a good, highly recommended one in Georgetown, Dr. Kraft. Within a week or two, I had figured him out. He was a nice guy, but was a little too insecure. He had a problem connecting meaningfully with women, and was very uncomfortable with his own looks. Week after week, I would go to his office in Georgetown, where we would discuss his problems and try to find creative solutions to them. In other words, therapy was a total bust, at least for me.

As time went on, I started getting tired of Dr. Kraft. To be honest, he was just a little too needy. More to the point, it seemed silly to me that my parents were paying $90 a week for me to listen to his problems. Also, I got the feeling that our sessions had become a little too much of a crutch for the good doctor--he needed to move on.

So I found myself with a problem. If I told my parents that I was finished with therapy, they'd never believe me. In fact, when I tried to broach the subject, they decided that my irritation was a definite sign that Dr. Kraft and I were making progress. To get out, I'd need to be a little sneaky. I remember trying to think of ways to escape. After a few weeks, I figured it out.

That night, I drew a picture. It was of a stick figure blowing up. Stick arms, legs, torso, and head were all flying in different directions. I used the better part of a red crayon to give the picture verissimilitude. It wasn't very good, but it was clear enough to make my father choke, and he practically recoiled when I handed it to him.

"What is this?" my father asked.

"A picture," I replied.

"Why did you draw this?" he asked.

Now was the crucial part. The smallest smile on my part could ruin the whole thing. No problem; I'd practiced. Looking at my father with the wide-eyed look that I'd perfected in the mirror, I said "I thought Dr. Kraft wanted me to."

The next week, my last week in therapy, Dr. Kraft told me that I'd see him again, and that I should feel free to call him whenever I needed to talk. I assured him that it would be okay, and he tried to be brave. Apart from a few phone calls, I never heard from him again. My father later told me that Dr. Kraft had offered to see me for free, but they had turned him down.


This strange thing, my snuff-film imagination, only grew over the years, and was always a reliable tool for dealing with bullies and assorted annoyances. In sixth grade, I found numerous ways to get people to leave me alone. One day, a seventh grader was making my life difficult, so I started giving him a funny look. When he asked me what was up, I replied, in a calm, steady voice, "I'm imagining your head exploding." His eyes were latched onto mine as I continued, "it's like a cherry tomato with an M-80 in it."

For some reason, my classmates thought I was weird.

Luckily, I discovered a fair number of fellow horror film fanatics in high school. I realized that, even if I wasn't necessarily normal, I was, at least, relatively healthy. When I got my first job, I used to go down to the record store every week to buy one horror film. I would take it home, watch it, analyze it, and add it to the collection. I have probably seen over a thousand people killed in more ways than I can count, and it has left only mimimal scars on my psyche. It has, however, only fueled my freaky imagination. With very little effort, I can visualize fairly horrifying things. (It's worth noting that I have the same skill with pornography, but that's another post).

Anyhoo, flash forward a few years and a few hundred horror movies, and I find myself raising a little girl. A little girl who now seems to be able to occupy five places at the same time. A little girl who seems to love endangering her little life.

In my imagination, George has turned into a suicidal version of MacGuyver. Give her anything--anything--no matter how small, and I can tell you five ways that she can maim, kill, or mutilate herself with it. A rubber band? Easy--she can choke on it, cut off her circulation, get it caught in her nose, flick her eye out, use it to piss off the cat (who will surely respond with claws bared), strangle herself with it, or use it to shoot deadly missiles into her brain.

A piece of tinfoil? Don't get me started; in my overactive imagination, she's already fashioned an aluminum dagger that she's jammed into her eye, her ear, her nose, or her heart. This is, I should point out, after she's swallowed part of it, and sliced up her tender little internal organs.

And so it goes with lockblocks, Tickle-Me-Elmo toys, baby spoons, plastic key toys, stuffed animals, and drums. I realize that the talking caterpillar won't kill her, but I am constantly tempted to put it in the blender. Of course Crayolas are non-toxic, but still...

The other morning, I woke up convinced that my daughter was in the kitchen, where she'd found the knife blocks (which, incidentally, are a very safe distance beyond her reach), and was doing terrible things. I knew it was just my imagination, but I still checked in on her. Just in case.

I realize, of course, that this is all a little ridiculous. On the other hand, I also feel like it's some sort of cosmic retribution for the fact that I allowed my imagination such free rein for so long. Now that I have something to really worry about, I'm unable to turn the damn thing off.

I'd like to write more, but I gotta run. It's been quiet for a while, and I think she might have just gotten into the Q-tips. 1001 uses, and at least 327 of them could, conceivably, leave her maimed for life.

My First Tattoo

A little while ago, I was reading a meme on Boondoggled , a blog that I really enjoy. Reading through the list of items, I agreed with most of Just D's responses. However, in one of the categories, "Things I Would Never Do," she wrote that she would never have a tattoo. I was a little surprised, in part because I know so many people with tattoos, but also because I got my first tattoo this year.

For years, I'd thought about getting some skin art. My original idea was to get "Made in Korea" on the back of my calf. My reasons for this were two-fold. First of all, I was, in fact, made in Korea by an American Navy officer and a U.S. staff worker in the embassy. My second reason was that, well, tattoos are cool. And edgy. And I wanted to be cool. And edgy.

Not surprisingly, these reasons weren't enough to get me into a chair, particularly when I realized that the tattoo I had in mind would probably cost about $150. Of course, I always blamed my decision on timing, or poverty, or some other excuse. Deep down inside, though, I knew the true reason: it wasn't the right tattoo.

Almost two years ago, my wife told me that she was pregnant. After I got over my initial terror, we began thinking about names for the little tyke. When we found out that we were going to have a little girl, we decided to name her Georgia. We had three reasons for this. First, my wife is also named after a state, and the whole state thing struck us as a total riot. Second, my wife's father was named George. George was in the process of dying, and we decided that naming his granddaughter after him was a particularly cool way to memorialize him. Finally, between George Trayne (Nancy Drew's best buddy), George Eliot, and George Sands, we had a huge number of great female Georges for our daughter to look up to. Even then, we knew that we were going to call her George.

George was born in October, and her grandfather died in April. In the months in between, she and he were able to meet, and they really hit it off. That summer, as Father's day got nearer, I started thinking about fatherhood, mortality, and being a grown-up. I decided that, at the advanced age of 34, I had reached the point where I probably didn't have to worry about outgrowing my tattoos. I was pretty sure that I would never regret the tattoo I had in mind. Besides, it was something that I really wanted to do. Best of all, between my daughter, my father-in-law, and my favorite writer, I knew exactly what to get on my arm.

George Orwell.

First off, I picked out the perfect picture of Orwell. Half his face was in shadow, giving him an intense, mysterious aura:



My next move was figuring out what I wanted the tattoo to look like. I finally decided on this as a tentative design:


When it came to finding an artist, I didn't want to screw around. After all, I knew that I would be wearing this for the rest of my life. I went to Ancient Art, the best tattoo studio in town. Once I got there, I talked to Richie, one of the artists. We finalized the design and set up an appointment for a few days later. When the day rolled around, I was a little scared, but I decided that I needed to do this because I was scared. I wanted to overcome this one.

Anyway, I went in, sat down and started reading the book that I had brought along. However, I soon found myself getting involved in the tattooing process, discussing details of Orwell's hair and smile, and generally collaborating with Richie. To be honest, the two and a half hours went really quickly. Now, I'm not going to pretend that the tattoo didn't hurt, but it wasn't unbearable. To be precise, it felt like I had skinned my arm and someone was rubbing it with a vibrator. Here's what George looked like when I got out of the parlor:


He was a little too intense at first. However, Richie assured me that George's bright white eyes and demon-red skin tone would fade considerably by the time he healed.

Of course, the healing process was interesting, too. Especially when George scabbed over:


This picture doesn't quite convey the total skin-rot realities of George at this time. To put it bluntly, it looked like I'd gotten the world's most artistic case of leprosy. However, within a month or so, George had healed. This is what he looks like today:


While I'm not totally pleased with the tattoo, I like it a lot. Richie went with a photo-realistic technique that didn't come out perfectly, and I will probably go to a major urban center for my next tattoo, but I'm generally happy with George. As is my daughter, who sometimes talks to him when she thinks I'm not looking.

For my other arm, I'm thinking about Franz Kafka:


No, I'm not naming the next kid "Franz."

In Case You Need Something to Vote For...

Thanks, CEO.

Georgia, Then and Now

This is my daughter, Georgia. We call her George:



We took this picture of her a year ago:



We took this picture this morning:



(She wouldn't let me put the sticker on her head.)

I wish all of you a great election day.

Best,

Crankster

Nine Weird Things About Myself

Okay, I'll just admit it--I got my wife's help with this meme. When Hearts in San Francisco tagged me, I freaked out a little. After all, I think I'm pretty normal. Honestly, is it weird to spend all your time drawing pictures of Bea Arthur on your naked legs while listening to old Roger Whittaker albums? Is it strange to steal pebbles from your neighbors' driveways while dressed like a Jawa? Is it odd to cover your body in Thai peanut sauce and dance the tango with a half-wild ferret named "John Ehrlichman"?

I didn't think so, either.

So, anyway, here are nine things that my wife and I agreed are at least moderately weird.

1. I xeroxed my butt on the House of Commons copying machine. I was working as a legislative assistant to an MP in the House of Commons, and tended to get a little obsessive about work, so I often stayed in my office long after everyone else had left. One evening, while doing some xeroxing, I decided that I would never again have the opportunity, so...what the hell. I finally lost the xerox copy a few years ago.

2. When I was 21, I became my little sister's legal guardian and raised her until I was 30. My mother died when I was 20, and my father died when I was 21. One of his last requests was that I take care of my sister, so I agreed to do so. Over the next nine years, I had the honor, and the joy, of helping her develop into a confident and brilliant young woman. This year, she graduated Summa Cum Laude from the art school at Virginia Commonwealth University.

3. According to my wife, I'm obsessive about q-tip usage. I don't think this is particularly true, although her evidence is pretty compelling. I just tend to get a little upset when we run out of q-tips. Or when people buy off-brand q-tips. Or when people touch my q-tips. With their grubby, q-tip stealing fingers.

4. In High School, I seriously contemplated becoming a priest. I liked the idea of a life of the mind and the spirit, and the priesthood seemed like a pretty good gig. I particularly enjoyed the idea of counseling people. I ultimately decided against it because, even at 15, my incredibly strong arm muscles indicated that celibacy was not for me.

5. I taught myself Polish. I had a little thing with a Polish woman, and I started studying Polish so we could better communicate. When the relationship folded, I kept working on the language because I was totally hooked. Later, when my girlfriend and I traveled to Poland, my linguistic (and lingual) abilities came in handy. I proposed to her on that trip. My Polish is a little rusty now, but my mind still vomits up the occasional word or phrase.

6. I really, really like "evil children" movies. I don't even want to think about why this is, but The Exorcist is one of my favorite films, and Children of the Corn, Village of the Damned, The Omen, and The Ring all still have some power over me. There's something about evil children that just really scares me to death.

7. I will drive twenty miles out of my way to go to a private, or family-owned restaurant. I get especially excited if they have something really odd on the menu, like butterscotch pie, grape-nut custard, peanut soup, and so on. I usually try to buy t-shirts from these restaurants, even though I don't wear t-shirts. I also make a point of avoiding hotel chains as much as possible. Although privately-owned restaurants and hotels are sometimes not as polished as their chain counterparts, there's something homey about them that makes me seek them out.

8. I love religious horror movies. Okay, I know that this one's closely related to the "evil children" movies, but I'd argue that it's different enough to warrant its own number. I love movies about demons, Satan, and so on. I even enjoy the crappy ones, like End of Days, Stigmata, Exorcist II: the Heretic, and so on. In general, I'm really interested in people's views of the end of the world and of morality in general.


9. I'm obsessed with the Holocaust. I've studied it in school, read extensively on it, and have traveled to several Holocaust sites. Part of my obsession is probably because my mother was Jewish, but that really doesn't get to the heart of it. I think I'm most intrigued by the intellectual gymnastics that otherwise sane people went through in order to become capable of mass murder. After all my research and travel, I still can hardly believe, much less comprehend, the fact of this.



I'm tagging Lee, the CEO, and Parlancheq with this one. You're on, lady and gentlemen.

Lazy Sunday Time Wastage

For those of you who haven't discovered him, James Lileks' Institute of Official Cheer is almost insanely cool. Here are some highlights:

Meat! Meat! Meat!, Part II: Lileks has published the original Meat! Meat! Meat!, but this section still shows what happens when you apply artistic criteria and a sick mind to 1970's cookbooks.

The Art of Art Frahm: A testament to the horror of 1950's cheesecake art. Featuring inappropriate celery.

My personal favorite: The Permanent Collection of Impermanent Art. Lileks deconstructs the hidden meanings of ads from the fifties and sixties.

Depending on the section, Lileks has an MPAA rating that ranges between G and a hard PG-13. No bukkake here.

The Desiderata

The CEO posted a beautiful little movie that really got me. It reminded me of the Desiderata, a poem that I had to memorize in high school. I hope it brightens your Saturday.

Desiderata

Go placidly amid the noise and haste,
and remember what peace there may be in silence.
As far as possible without surrender
be on good terms with all persons.
Speak your truth quietly and clearly;
and listen to others,
even the dull and the ignorant;
they too have their story.
Avoid loud and aggressive persons,
they are vexations to the spirit.
If you compare yourself with others,
you may become vain and bitter;
for always there will be greater and lesser persons than yourself.
Enjoy your achievements as well as your plans.


Keep interested in your own career, however humble;
it is a real possession in the changing fortunes of time.
Exercise caution in your business affairs;
for the world is full of trickery.
But let this not blind you to what virtue there is;
many persons strive for high ideals;
and everywhere life is full of heroism.

Be yourself.
Especially, do not feign affection.
Neither be cynical about love;
for in the face of all aridity and disenchantment
it is as perennial as the grass.

Take kindly the counsel of the years,
gracefully surrendering the things of youth.
Nurture strength of spirit to shield you in sudden misfortune.
But do not distress yourself with dark imaginings.
Many fears are born of fatigue and loneliness.
Beyond a wholesome discipline,
be gentle with yourself.

You are a child of the universe,
no less than the trees and the stars;
you have a right to be here.
And whether or not it is clear to you,
no doubt the universe is unfolding as it should.

Therefore be at peace with God,
whatever you conceive Him to be,
and whatever your labors and aspirations,
in the noisy confusion of life keep peace with your soul.


With all its sham, drudgery, and broken dreams,
it is still a beautiful world.
Be cheerful.
Strive to be happy.

Max Ehrmann, Desiderata, Copyright 1952.

Failed Seekers, Part 2

NB: This post is a continuation of Failed Seekers, a post that I did about a week ago.

Will Morva escaped from jail the day before the Fall Semester was scheduled to start. As my wife drove me in to work, I noticed police cars parked along Route 460, the main highway through my area. We had heard about the escape the previous evening, but it was still shocking to see the police combing the bushes.

About midway through my second class of the day, there was a knock on the door. When I answered it, another teacher was waiting for me in the hall. He told me that the University had shut down for the day, and all of my students were supposed to return to their dorms. I wrapped up everything in class and sent my students home. Walking back to my office, I noticed that campus was almost empty; I called my wife and asked her to pick me up.

In my building, my colleagues were gathering in little groups in each others' offices, chattering about the day's disturbing events. I was the only one who knew Will, and they seemed convinced that he was about to knock down their doors and start shooting. I could understand their concerns; Will looked insane in the mug shots that were plastered all over the news. While I couldn't imagine my friend hurting a fly, the nutjob in the pictures was clearly capable of anything. While I tried to keep myself from buying into the hype, it was hard to see Will the same way.

All that day, I kept checking the local news' website and answering e-mails from worried friends and relatives. That night, I wandered around Facebook, reading the responses from various students. By the end of the day, there were over a dozen groups dedicated to Will. Some of them were funny, such as "Jack Bauer Would Have Caught Morva Faster" and "I'm Tired of This Mother#@&$in' Killer on This Mother#@&#ing Campus." Others, like "I Sat on my Couch with a Loaded Gun Waiting for Morva to Come in my House" and "The Homicidal Maniac at Tech Club," showed some of the terror that the students felt. The one that touched me the most, "We Knew Will Morva Before He Was a Murderer!," hinted at my own confusion.

One person, Emily Arthur, wrote: "everyone has to keep in mind that the William that we knew in high school and even after is NOT the same person who did all of this. The William that most of us knew was caring and peaceful. The person who emerged over these past few years is not the William that I remembered and is not how I will remeber him in theh future... I urge the rest of you to do the same." Another, Shawn Whiting, had also met the officer Will killed: "The sherif he killed on the huckelberry was the same guy that pulled me over 2 weeks ago for expired tags on my car. my tags were like 9 months out of date but he let me go, he was a really nice guy. kinda puts this whole thing in persepctive for me. fucking morva."

Perhaps the most interesting thing was the greater significance that people drew from this event. One person called this "the day that Blacksburg lost its innocence." A young woman weighed in with the profoundly ridiculous statement that "Today, someone I knew killed a man and got a middle name: William Charles Morva."

Now, for me, Blacksburg lost its innocence in 1994, when a freshman, Christy Brzonkala, was repeatedly raped by two football players. The young men, of course, went free, and Brzonkala ended up leaving the school. For that matter, the disturbing bacchanal that follows every home game has long made me nervous about wandering the streets, let alone allowing my sister to do so. Regarding the other statement, comparing Will to Lee Harvey Oswald, John Wayne Gacy, or Henry Lee Lucas is, of course, utterly ridiculous.

The conclusion that I drew from this matter was that Blacksburg is no longer a place for thoughful wanderers and assorted tumbleweeds. In the mid-1990's, I was able to raise my sister in the town because the cost of living was extremely cheap. However, over the last ten years, housing prices have gone through the roof. Today, downtown apartments cost as much as $3000, which puts them in range of New York prices. The three-bedroom townhouse that I rented for $480 in 1996 now costs over $1500. In other words, I could not afford to raise my sister in Blacksburg today.

The cost of this inflation is immeasurable. In the mid-1990's, Blacksburg had a wide array of floaters, dreamers, and drifters. Rather than undermine the town, these people added immeasurably to its intellectual life. Most of them worked part-time jobs to pay rent while they found themselves. Some of us worked for the University (I was an artists' model and librarian). Most people didn't do this for long; some, like my friends Dana and Adam, went on to law school or grad school. Others, like Paris, drifted away after a few years. One or two became organic farmers and some went to Hollywood. A few, like me, ended up teaching. I'd like to think that all of us added to the level of conversation in the local coffee houses and bars.

Will used to hang around with us, talking and drinking coffee. When he got older, it probably seemed natural to try living the same existence. But Blacksburg had changed, and he could no longer afford to be poor. Now, I'm not going to try to blame Will's actions on inflation or the rising cost of living, but it seems to me like there is almost no space left for people to "find themselves" before they are plunged into the workforce. This, to me, is a tragedy.

Dressing Down

Last week, I told my students that I would give an extra credit point to anyone who wore a costume on Halloween. One brave soul, Chelsea, dared me to do the same. Now, I've been known to back down from a dare or two, but wearing a costume? Hell, I was just waiting for a good excuse.

I decided that I would dress like a redneck, complete with stained clothes, Red Man, spit cup, the whole nine yards. It's worth pointing out that I tend to get a little uptight about my costumes. In other words, it wasn't enough that I went as a redneck; I had to be accurate. I grew out my moustache for a few days, then sculpted my facial hair so it looked like I had a fu manchu. I dug out my tight jeans, hiking boots, and paint-spattered flannel shirt. I bought a wig, a baseball cap, sunglasses, and a wife-beater. I was on my way.

Before I finalized my costume, I decided to do some last minute research, so I went to Redneck Mecca. Wandering around the Wal-Mart, I played a little game of Jane Goodall, carefully observing my inspiration. As I looked over the young gentlemen in the store, I began to wonder if there was a redneck style guide. How did they all know to bend their caps the same way and wear the same five tartan designs on their plaid shirts? Was this something that Daddy taught them, or was is somehow encoded in their DNA? Regardless, I collected the data I needed and went on my merry way.

As I was driving to the store for a few last-minute items, I saw an older man standing at an intersection, with a sign that said "Need Food." Now, it's pretty uncommon to see people begging around here; in fact, this is the first beggar I've ever seen in the area, and it was clear that he was uncomfortable. His clothes were clean and tidy, albeit typically redneck; he had the military jacket, the dark jeans, the hiking boots and the Chevy baseball cap. Thinking about it later, I realized that he had definitely taken pride in his appearance. His tastes were wildly different from my own, but it was clear that he'd put some serious thought into what he wore. Watching the rednecks wandering around the mall, I noticed the same thing--my extreme stereotype was, simply, inaccurate.

When I got home, I decided to tweak my costume. I cleaned my jeans and boots, bought a brand-new flannel shirt for the ensemble, and added my dad's old Navy jacket. Looking at myself in the mirror, I knew that I'd hit it--mildly disreputable, but clean and tidy. I realized that there were only three sour notes: my jeans flared out at the bottom; my flannel shirt had shrunk, making me look like I had Frankenstein arms; and the only big belt buckle I could find was an old Soviet mariner's insignia. Still, the look worked. In fact, I decided that the too-short sleeves enhanced the costume a little.

The next day, I discovered that it's possible for a costume to be too perfect. I found that the number of flirty glances that I got had definitely tapered off. This isn't to say that I didn't get attention. In fact, in one grocery store, the security guard was extremely solicitous, and the Burger King near school seemed eager to fill my order and get me out the door. The attitudes of my colleagues, on the other hand, didn't change at all; many of them didn't notice that I was wearing a costume. Now, I've been known to let standards slip here and there, but come on! My students figured it out immediately.

So here's what I learned:

1. A wife-beater only looks good if you weigh 150 pounds and have less than 5% body fat.

2. Some of my co-workers are morons.

3. Redneck facial hair is itchy.

4. I still have Catholic guilt, and it still completely rules my life.

doosh-i-tood-i-nuss-ness

Word of the Day:

The word of the day is douche. To demonstrate the multiple permutations of this word, we have our special guests: Patrick Dempsey



And Ellen Pompeo:

We will be using an advertising campaign from New York & Co., a mall-based retailer of mid-level clothing.

Let's start with our basic word:

douche  [doosh] Noun
1. A jet or current of water, sometimes with a dissolved medicating or cleansing agent, applied to a body part, organ, or cavity for medicinal or hygienic purposes.
2. The application of such a jet.
3. An instrument, as a syringe, for administering it.
4. A bath administered by such a jet.
5. An unfortunate or irritating fellow. See also tool, shmuck, shmendrick, nimrod.

In this picture, Patrick Dempsey is acting like a total douche:

In this context, the term douche references the fact that Mr. Dempsey appears to be dreaming of a previous romantic encounter with Carlos, his rough-trade boyfriend. In the process, he is completely ignoring the fetching Ms. Pompeo, behind whom he is hovering. While we might agree that Ms. Pompeo is disturbingly thin and has an excessively excited expression, there really is no excuse for Mr. Dempsey's unattentiveness. In fact, even were Ms. Pompeo as lobotomized as she appears in this photo, Mr. Dempsey's behavior would still be beyond the pale. Clearly, Mr. Dempsey needs to explain to Ms. Pompeo that he is feeling conflicted about his desires, and is only using her for window dressing. And, besides, it's only fair--Carlos has feelings, too.


First major variant: douchitude

douchitude [doosh-uh-tood] Noun
1. The quality or condition of being a douche.
2. The quality or condition of acting like a douche.
3. A hair-hygrometer based tool that measures the specific gravity of a douchebag, or douche delivery system (obs.).

In this picture, Patrick Dempsey is displaying an almost immeasurable amount of douchitude:


In this sentence, the word douchitude references the fact that Mr. Dempsey, who initially ignored Ms. Pompeo, is now threatening her. Although she seems to be enjoying herself, a closer look reveals that her eyes are, in fact, filled with barely-concealed terror. Mr. Dempsey has, apparently, told her to smile for the bank's camera, and threatened dire consequences if she refuses. Perhaps he felt driven to this extreme course of action by his repressed desires; perhaps he has merely been overwhelmed by Ms. Pompeo's incessant and meaningless chattering. Regardless, he has clearly gone over the edge.

(In a related note, one wonders why New York & Co. thought that this advertising campaign would work.)


Second major variant: douchitudinous

douchitudinous [doosh-uh-tood-i-nuss] Adjective
1. Of or related to a douche.
2. The quality or condition of being of or related to a douche.
3. A Pleistocene-era herbivore that frequented low-lying boggy areas (obs.).

In this picture, Ms. Pompeo looks particularly douchitudinous:



In this context, the word douchitudinous refers to the ridiculousness of Ms. Pompeo's pose. Whether she is draped across Mr. Dempsey because she is exhausted, strung-out, or is pretending to be a breakfast tray, she looks idiotic. Furthermore, given that they are arranged on a fainting-couch, which offers no back support, she is threatening Mr. Dempsey with potential spinal injuries. Recognizing his danger, he is clutching the edge of the couch with what can only be described as a death-grip. From the expression on his face, it is clear that Mr. Dempsey has just realized that he was a total douche for agreeing to put up with this nonsense in the first place.


Final major variant: douchitudinousness

douchitudinousness [doosh-uh-tood-i-nuss-ness] Noun
This is not, in fact, a real word. However, if it were, it might describe the pure idiocy of this image:


It is hard to quantify the douchitudinousness of this picture. This is not because there is a paucity of douchitudinousness, but rather because the extreme quantity of it renders the picture a veritable "Where's Waldo" of weak-chinned, cross-eyed, drooling idiocy; frankly, if this photo were a person, it's parents would be siblings. First, there is Ms. Pompeo's jacket, which seems to be a gilded refugee from the mid-1980's. Second, there is the pose. Is Mr. Dempsey cradling Ms. Pompeo's belly because she was recently shot? Is he feeling the baby kicking inside her? If the latter is the case, it would go a long way toward explaining her ecstatic expression; after months of puncturing condoms and feeding him powdered rhino horn, she has finally entrapped him with a pregnancy. This would also explain the longing, distant expression on his face--he knows that it's over with Carlos.

A more likely interpretation, however, is that Ms. Pompeo recently broke wind. She's clearly proud of herself and the unholy vapors that she is capable of producing. Mr. Dempsey, on the other hand, is concentrating on not tossing his cookies. As are we all.

Next Week's Word: Soulless