The perfect Christmas gift for the woman who has everything else – at least if it’s ever released into the wild – is the Microsoft SmartBra 1.0! You’ve probably heard or read about how pretty soon computers will be built into clothing, betcha never thought it would start with ladies’ underwear, didja? Huh? Huh???
Well okay, if you consider how many engineers and software designers are men, maybe you did…
And just what will this amazing WonderBra do for your WonderBoobs…and you? Will it monitor your vital signs and text your doctor if you go into cardiac arrest? Will it warn you when that total loser in the corner is about to approach you with that cheesy-ass pretty eyes line? Will it read you the latest stock reports when you press a nipple?
No, sorry, nothing that comes from the friendly folks who brought you Microsoft Bob and the Zune will be that cool. It will…are you ready for this? Monitor your moods and warn when you’re about to engage in binge eating. That’s right, the Wondrous WonderBra will help women control their weight.
(See: Aforementioned male engineers)
Is there any plan for man-derwear that will monitor his moods and warn him when he’s about to engage in dangerous potbelly behaviour, like reaching for another beer or ordering yet another take-out dinner from Chang’s House of Greasy Fried Shiitake?
If women had actually been consulted for what they might like in a SmartBra, I’ll bet we could have come up with cooler geekery than…controlling our weight.
We really don’t need a NannyBra to hector us about our size. We already know when and why we overeat. At the very least, perhaps a future SmartBra could be wirelessly connected to a small device in our ear that whispers, “Every TimBit is at least 70 calories and enough fat to light up a small village, if you still lived in the 18th century and used oil lamps.”
But really, us chickie-boos can come up with more useful tasks for a truly brainy brassiere:
Or, a bra with warning lights that detects a woman’s mood in a bar that flashes different colours at a guy when she looks at him:
Of course, as one astute Twitterer noted, “I don’t want anyone hacking my bra.” Which you know will happen within fifteen minutes of the first release of the bra on the runways of Milan. Do you really want some pimply-faced teenage virgin in Hicksville to control your clever cleavage?
And that’s before the world’s governments step in to hack your hooters. Do you really want President Obama (or Stephen Harper if you’re Canadian) to know how many men you shot down at a nightclub, or how many bite-size Snickers bars you really had later after you told your girlfriends you “never” eat processed sugar?
Think: Edward Snowden, world-class computer geek residing in an Eastern European country with nothing better to do than to re-program your rack. To do Goddess only knows what. The guy lost his girlfriend when he went on the lam and there’s only so much Bulgarian farmer’s wife pr0n a man can look at.
If you suddenly find yourself dying to fly to Moscow and show your tits to some stranger in the lounge, maybe it’s time to go back to that cheap Wal-Mart bra you got on sale. It may fall apart on the third wearing, but at least no one will ever know how many men you nailed while you were wearing it.
(Had enough boob jokes yet? No? Then click here)
Overpopulation – it’s not just for the living anymore!
Seems seven billion humans is beginning to tax our cemetery space – there’s just no room to put the dead folks.
I’ve always wondered where all the expirees have gone. It’s estimated that 107 billion people have been born and died, or will eventually die, on Planet Earth. A lot got buried, I guess, and others drowned and became fish food, and some were burnt up (a particularly popular form of corpse disposal in our modern day). But…Earth is finite, and it appears, for the moment, that we are not. And…we’re running out of places to put our dead asses.
Cremating bodies is actually a capital way to reduce the physical footprint of an ex-human, as s/he can easily be stored in a family urn (or a Folger’s can if you’re on a budget) but it’s hell on the environment – in the immense form of greenhouse gas emissions, mercury pollution (thanks to our dental fillings), the number of trees murdered above-ground to put you below-ground, and formaldehyde entering the water source (from the embalming fluid).
I’m not sure what the answer is regarding how to dispose of ourselves, but if you want to debate the where, might I suggest…Canada?
That’s right, I’m suggesting you all become Canadians, if you’re not already, upon your demise.
Our land mass is just under 10 million square kilometres, roughly the size of the U.S., BUT, with only 10% of the people. Canada is really largely vast stretches of wilderness and nowhere. Most of our people live in the three major metropolitan areas – Vancouver, Toronto and Montreal – and that’s because most of the land is just not suitable for large human habitation. So all that land is going to waste, and our economy is sputtering along, because we have a big whack of natural resources to mine and exploit, but that gets held up because of environmental issues and aboriginal concerns.
So I suggest we make Canada the place where we…
All right, all right, I know what you’re thinking: “But wait, Nicole, aren’t you forgetting something? What’s going to happen to Canada when the ZOMBIE APOCALYPSE strikes?!?!”
Not to worry, I’ve thought of everything!
The first thing we do, when their mouldering, smelly-ass corpses rise fresh from the grave craving, as we all know – living, pulsating human brains – we corral them into a convoy of trucks – okay, it’ll be a really big convoy – and explain to them that in just a few hours we will release them into a place where they can have all the brains they want. It’s called America.
Oh, and here’s a little packet of human brains to snack on on the trip down. No eating the hostesses, please.
That’s right, I’m suggesting we form an Army of the Undead and release them upon the Americans. There are, at the time of this writing, about 316 million Americans. So, it’s not like they can’t spare a few people, especially since they don’t care about the 30,000 who die every year from gun deaths. And since I’m an American myself, I assure you I haven’t turned against my mother country – well, not specifically anyway – I’m thinking we don’t use the Canadian Army of the Undead to destroy the United States, but to conquer it.
Look, the world needs a new superpower, and Canada, in my opinion, is the perfect candidate. America’s days of glory have been Tea Partied into history and let’s be real, no one wants to let China fill the void. For one thing, Communist clothing sucks.
Now I know what else you’re thinking: “Whooooaaaaa Nellie! Er, I mean Nicole! Just hold your mooses! We’re Canadians! We don’t do imperialism and forcing our ways onto others. We would never be so rude as to bomb another country, even if we had bombs, which we don’t, because we’re perfectly content with the size of our penises, thankyouverymuch.”
And to this I say: Don’t knock it ’til you’ve tried it.
And I would add: Grey uniforms, extremely limited Internet and every time you try to create something even just a little they throw you in jail and beat you with hot truncheons. No, wait, those are big batons…they beat you with hot…uh….well I don’t know but I can tell you when the Chinese decide to have a Cultural Revolution it starts with the destruction of Buddhist temples and sacred texts and artifacts.
Really, there is no better choice for the world’s next superpower than Canada. And we can do it, with the help of the zombies. Who, coming from so many other countries, will be the ultimate multicultural army!
And what could be more Canadian than that?
Admit it, there’s nothing cooler than a Zombie Army relentlessly on the shuffle conquering the Americans. And if there’s no Zombie Apocalypse, then Canada still wins for getting paid to be the world’s biggest cemetery.
It’s a win-win for Canadians.
A high school friend visited me in Toronto. The conversation came around to a fellow I’ll call Bull, because his neck just melted into his head in a straight line, like a bullet.
I knew Bull, briefly. He sat in front of me in driver’s ed, with a couple of fawning teenage groupies next to him who could never take their eyes off him. I didn’t know who Mr. Rock Star was so I asked someone. Oh, he’s the high school quarterback, I was told.
I had zero interest in our football team which is why I didn’t recognize our Big Man On Campus. I found Bull to be an okay enough guy – a little immature, as were his groupies, but I was probably the only senior in the class – I hadn’t gotten around to driver’s ed the previous year. I talked to Bull a few times, joked with him, and that was about it.
I found out much later he was my friend’s nightmare: A neighbourhood bully who relentlessly picked on and physically abused him, in one case even breaking his finger. My friend hated him. But here’s how Bull got punished a few years later for being a big dumb lunkhead bully.
My friend went on to a major football college, one with a strong rivalry with another major football college – the one to which Bull won a football scholarship. Some of us were unclear as to how he pulled that off – he’d not been a distinguished quarterback my senior year. Maybe he did better later, I don’t know – he was a few years behind me. At any rate, there he was playing for Big Shot University.
One day my friend was talking to one of the trainers for his own university’s football team, and the trainer said he was looking for ways to really crank up the team against Big Shot University, whom they were playing that weekend. So my friend said, “Wanna hear a little story about their quarterback Bull?” And he told the trainer about all the bullying.
“Wow,” the trainer told him. “Well I’ll tell you what – make sure to watch the game on Saturday, because Bull is gonna get sacked, and when he does the team’s gonna do it for you.”
So my friend watched the game, and Bull actually went down more times than a two-dollar hooker. He got sacked four times in that game, and of course his team lost to their biggest rival.
So let that be a lesson to you, bullies of the world – you never know whether your bullying today will backlash on you down the road – and you may not recognize it when you see it. I’ll bet Bull probably still doesn’t know what happened that day long ago.
But I’ll bet a patch of Astroturf at a certain big-name football college still has a Bull-shaped depression in it.
The Toronto Star actually, now, in 2013, offered tips on how to talk to your daughter about, um, puberty stuff, and how That Talk should happen at least by age twelve, if not sooner.
Really? Age twelve? Today? Do mothers still have a hard time talking to their daughters about the “M” word and boys and sex and what you have to do to make a baby? And twelve? Seriously? In 2013? Don’t mean to be repetitive but I just want to make sure I got this straight.
My mother told me the facts of life a good many years ago, when I was nine. I forget why she picked that age. Maybe I asked questions. Maybe she just wanted to make sure I knew the facts before I was scared out of my skull by the sudden appearance of blood one day on my underwear. She may have waited another year to give me the rest of the story, I don’t remember, but I do recall that my initial reaction to the process of baby-making was something along the lines of “HE’S GOING TO DO WHAT WITH HIS WHO AND PUT IT ***WHERE***?!?! ARE YOU SURE, MOTHER??! BECAUSE WHY IN HELL WOULD ANY GIRL LET A BOY DO ***THAT*** TO HER?!?!”
Mom said something along the lines of, “You’ll feel differently when you’re older, and it’s the only way you can have a baby!”
“Then I’m not having any babies!” I said resolutely. No way, if it was going to involve doing…THAT! (Keep in mind this was a few years before the first test-tube baby.)
Not that late-’70s technology changed anything, because still…the baby comes out WHERE?!?!?
(Years later, I should report that I stuck to my nine-year-old decision not to have babies, although the reasons changed to more practical ones like, they’re too expensive, they’re too messy, and they’re not as cute as kittens.)
I wasn’t traumatized so much by the notion that eventually I was going to be messy once a month for a good many years, and all for naught since I wasn’t going to have any babies anyway, as I was by WHAT THE HELL AGAIN DOES THAT BOY THINK HE’S GOING TO DO WITH THAT…no, don’t repeat it! I got it! It’s disgusting. Therapist, please, Mommy?
I don’t imagine that’s an unrealistic reaction among any young girl the first time she realizes he’s gonna wanna stick his thing in a place she only just learned she had. By the time I got to sixth grade, it was all a big joke to me and I was totally all over what really goes down when your body hits puberty even as we were subjected to a completely ridiculous facts-of-life cartoon made in the 1940s by none other than—I kid you not—Walt Disney. And I have found this lovely little pre-feminist dream on YouTube which I would love to share with you, because I know you’re dying to see it (especially if you’re a young girl in 2013 who’s probably been bleeding for years and you have no clue why because your Puritan-era mother can’t get up the pudenda to tell you what the hell’s going on with this puberty crap). Please note the frighteningly similar animation to Snow White & The Seven Dwarfs and the baby Sinead O’Connor at the beginning:
Given that girls are maturing at a much earlier average age than Disney’s 1946-era claim of 13, I’d say twelve is too late for many girls. Today, many parents allegedly are giving their kids the facts of life talk, but are not tackling the harder issues like birth control or saying no, or, if a TIME Magazine study is to be believed, they’re not talking to kids about sex until they’re halfway through the Kama Sutra (the kids, not the parents, who probably can’t even spell Kama Sutra, much less know what it is).
It blows my mind that in 2013 parents still can’t talk to their kids about sex. Because, what, they’re embarrassed? Good gods, what are they, the Silent Generation still?
What, like Baby Boomers and Gen-X didn’t know what sex was until they got married? Like we all weren’t shagging like little bunnies well before marriage? In fact, isn’t that why some of you got married, because suddenly, oopsie, there was a little bundle of joy in the oven? Or something like that.
I don’t recall my mom having much trouble telling me the facts of life, and believe me, she’s a LOT older than you. The worst I can say about it is she got a couple of things wrong about birth control, but only because she had outdated information.
Now granted, I don’t have kids so I’ve never had the dreaded ‘facts of life’ convo with a mini-me, but I seriously don’t think it would be that big a deal, I mean come on, it’s how our bodies work. Did you blush when Mam’zelle came home from grade school one day and proudly told you how the digestive system works?
Maybe you guys have been married so long you’ve just forgotten, like, you know, how?
Ladies, and by that I mean single ladies, I ask you – what is this problem you have with short men?
I started thinking about this when someone recently made a comment about one of my short male buddies. “Hey,” I told him, there’s nothing wrong with being short, as long as you don’t have Short Guy’s Disease.”
Short Guy’s Disease, as you well know, is the condition that too many short men choose to acquire. They feel they have to overcompensate for their perceived ‘short’comings as a male, by acting like a big macho asshole. Even if you’re small, you can act like a big dick.
The thing is, short guys have a reason to be fairly irritable – they’re discriminated against every day by women who overwhelmingly want tall men. On every dating site, you’ll find women who want tall tall tall tall tall tall TALL TALL TALL!!! men, and it wouldn’t hurt if you were drop-dead gorgeous and blindingly rich too (because, you know, tall good-looking bankers have to join OKCupid or Lavalife to get dates). And I really don’t get that. Who the hell CARES if he’s short? I sure don’t, as long as he’s still taller than he is wide.
You even find this nonsense among older women who are old enough to know better. Haven’t they been through bad relationships, bad marriages and bad treatment by idiot men who are tall and handsome and can act like total dicks because…well, they can? (Corollary: Good-looking women who act like bitches because the hotter they are, the more of their shit they know you’ll take.)
But no, some women never learn. Personally, I don’t give a damn how tall a guy is as long as he’s not @#$%in’ crazy. I have more of a thing about age than height because in my experience, the older a man is, the crazier he is. (I’m sure men can say the same about women, but I don’t date women so I can’t claim experience there.) I actually think there is such a thing as too tall. Many years ago, when I was still living in Connecticut, I had a summer where I got nothing but tall men, mostly through a dating service. First was this guy who was 6’3″. The next one was 6’4″. The one after that was 6’5″, and I was afraid to go back to the service because the next one might be Lurch.
And no, I hadn’t specified ‘tall’ in my profile. These cloud-huffers came after me.
I came to the conclusion that my maximum cut-off (ar ar) for tall men is 6’4″. My cut-off for short guys is—well actually, my yardstick is something else.
So ladies, pull your heads out of your asses and give the short guys a chance. There is nothing wrong with being with a guy your height or even a little shorter than you.
Just look for someone who’s not too crazy, doesn’t have a lot of self-inflicted health problems and who’s fun to be around. I’d rather be with a short fun guy than a tall boring dickhead. There are some wicked good guys who don’t necessarily tower over you. And that’s a good thing. Because if you’re hung up on height, I have just one word for you:
I can’t promise you a wizard’s duel or a flying British nanny or even a gnarly old primate paw that brings people back from the dead, but I can promise you authorial magic on Sunday, September 22nd from 7:00pm – 9:00pm when Deux Voiliers Publishing brings its Magical Evening with Canadian Authors (not to be confused with The League of Extraordinary Gentlemen, since some of our extraordinary people are the female variety) to Toronto after knocking ‘em dead twice in Ottawa.
The magical festivities are cleverly timed to coincide with the city’s annual Word On The Street Festival, which, if you didn’t know, is the biggest wingding for Canadian authors, readers, publishers, agents, social media experts, and just about anyone else associated with the written word. Plus, of course, there will be books galore to buy, so bring all four of your reusable grocery bags!
The Magical Evening with Canadian Authors will commence at Habits Gastropub at 928 College Street which is well-known here in the city for its dizzying array of mixed drinks, beers and wines as well as its excellent pub grub. Because we know listening to great CanLit is hungry work (and reading it out loud is too), Habits is offering a good-for-this-event-only 15% discount on all food and drinks for attendees. Don’t have yours? Don’t fear, you can print it off here!
Who’s on the sched for the readings? I’m glad you asked!
Claudio Gaudio (Toronto) – Texas (Quattro Books)
Con Cú (Aylmer, Québec) – Soldier,Lily, Peace and Pearls (DVP) and Photos and Lost Memories (new manuscript)
Caroline Vu (Montreal) – Palawan Story (new manuscript)
Ira Nayman (Toronto) – Welcome to the Multiverse (Elsewhen Press)
Nicole Chardenet (Toronto) – Sumer Lovin` (DVP)
Please feel free to join us for an evening of great food & drinks and some 100% guaranteed All-Canadian Zero Trans-Fats Literature! We’ve got over 100 people RSVP’ed yes for this so you’ll want to join us too! C’mon, you’re going to need a good hearty meal and a good stiff drink after traipsing around Queens Park all day long hauling a bundle buggy of books! I’ve eaten and drunk and listened to the bands at Habits Gastropub and it’s all top-quality food and entertainment! And it’s hosted by none other than Sang Kim, the winner of 2013 Gloria Vanderbilt—Exile Short Story Prize for his story When John Lennon Died and the author of Ballad of a Karaoke Cowboy.
Admission is free, books will be on sale if one or more of the authors trips your trigger, and space is limited so join us now!
It’s because he’s not badass enough to be a Canadian. And he knows it.
That, plus he probably doesn’t want to go through all that ‘birther’ crap like Obama. But really, Cruz is just not tough enough to be a Canadian, so he’s crawling back to those wussy pansies in Texas from whence he came.
Okay, that claim might raise a few eyebrows, so let me explain: Canada isn’t considered a badass country now, but we’re working on it. With Obama up to his ass in Syria, and the Republicans up to their ass in blame, and the middle class up to its ass in impending downward mobility, our Prime Minister Stephen ‘Mad Dog” Harper is quietly working behind the scenes to build up Canada’s defence systems. When we’re done, we’re gonna be so badass the NRA will quail in fear when they see Canadian flags on cars crossing the border from north to south!
Let’s start with Mad Dog’s stealth snowmobiles. Right now, as we speak, in Ottawa (that’s the capitol of Canada for you hosers in the South who don’t already know that, with the exception of our favourite hoser Senator Canuck Cruz) we are testing a $620,000 snowmobile that will sneak up on your ass in the snow and—well, actually we don’t know what these badass hunks of high-tech hell will do to you but we’re going to use them to patrol the Arctic and make sure you slimy Yanks and Russkies stay the hell out of our snow! We know you’re after the gold and oil and diamonds and stuff. So I don’t know how these suckers will be armed but I promise you the price you’ll pay for trespassing in the Great White North will be more than just a clock upside the head with a hockey stick, eh?
Next up is Ottawa’s new Killer Drones program, currently being beta tested on enemy geese. (In Canada, anything that eats and poops as much as a Canada goose is the enemy). Not to mention a few seagulls.
If this program proves successful we’ll turn their sights to the raccoons of Toronto, who will have raided their last dumpster ever. And then…YOU’RE TOAST, BUFFALO!!!
And that’s just the program that’s destined to become the New Royal Canadian Air Force. Wait’ll you see what shock and horror you’ve got coming at you from the Great Badass North under water.
That’s right, America (and the rest of you who aren’t lucky enough to be badass Canadians) – we’ve got highly-trained amphibious underwater attack moose coming at you before you can say, “Where’s my rubber ducky?” LOOK OUT, BOSTON!
And if that’s not scary enough for you, America, guess what…WE’RE ABOUT TO GET ALL THE GOOD SUPERHEROES! It seems DC Comics is about to announce that they’re going to move the Justice League of America to CANADA! That’s right. Even Superman’s gonna need some decent healthcare if he should run into any more Kryptonite, and we all know Obamacare is piss-poor. Real badasses require socialized medicine.
So I’m just sayin’…behind your backs, while you were laughing at Paula Deen and bitching about sequestration and arguing over women’s mystical ability to stop rape babies with their own bodies, Canada, your buddy, your pal, your totally boring totally grown-up neighbour to the North who never gives you shit about anything, has been arming itself to the teeth and you are officially on notice: We are not taking any more of your shit.
We’re not just talking to the Americans. We mean all of you. The Mexicans. The Chileans. The Europeans. The Africans. The Asians. And the Middle East.
We have stealth snowmobiles. We have drones. We have attack moose that can hold their breath underwater for a very long time. And dammit, we have Superman! And let’s not forget the return of Captain Canuck!
We are the few. (Only 35 million of us). The proud. The hosers.
And we are badasses! We are THE CANADIANS!
Mandy Eve Barnett sent me an email last night saying something to the effect of, “Hey! I’ve just nominated you for a blogging award!” (http://www.swatichavda.com/) And I’m all like, “Wow, that’s awesome, whudIdo, whudIdo?” Was it something hysterical I wrote? Was it a blog post positively dripping with brilliance and my Diet-coked-out-of-my-head wisdumb? No, seems I got nominated for the Super Sweet Award, which is mostly about eating things insanely sweet, which is what I love doing more than anything else in the world except…
…I’m trying to lose weight, ergo staying away from anything that ends in -ose! Sucrose, fructose, glucose, cellulose – Well okay, cellulose isn’t really edible – or if it is I don’t want to know about it – but anyway, the point is the last thing I want to think about right now is all the candy in the lower left vegetable drawer in my fridge that a bunch of well-meaning people gave me for my birthday several weeks ago, and which I’ve been (mostly) studiously avoiding because I’m trying to lose weight!
And of course all I can think about right now are pink elephants. Or, more to the point, sugar-encrusted pink Peep marshmallow elephants with marzipan tusks and little chocolate eyes and little flat chunks of red gumdrops for toenails and—
Most women have fantasies about Tatum Channing in a loincloth dancing to Le Freak. My wildest fantasies involve……….sugar.
Well okay, Mandy Eve Barnett, you are a cruel, vicious blogger for torturing me with five sugar-related questions, but I thank you anyway for nominating me just because it’s cool to be nominated for a blogging award, and I will use all my Wonder Woman strength to resist the siren call of the birthday candy! Because I am woman hear me—er, whimper like a puppy because I can’t have any chocolate. But I’ll roar later. I swear it.
So I gotta answer five Super Sweet questions.
Cookies or cake? Yes please. Thank you. :) What, you mean I have to CHOOSE? Cookies OR cake? Wait, that’s not fair! I love both! Why do I have to choose? What are you, my mother? I’m a grown woman, I can have BOTH if I want to! What if they’re together? What if they’re like cookies ‘n’ cream cake? Or Oreo cake? Or a cookie the size of cake and very very thick?
Chocolate or vanilla? Yes please. :) Oh now don’t start that again! Look, my dad, when he was alive, NEVER made dessert choices. He always ordered a bowl of ice cream in a restaurant with BOTH chocolate and vanilla. And sometimes with pistachio ice cream! Which he loved. In fact, the night he passed on, he’d had THREE, count ‘em, THREE desserts. No lie. That man did NOT move on to his final reward starving to death. I like to think he met his end in the inestimable bliss of a full-blown all-out sugar rush. Verily, we should all hope to pass on in that condition!
Favourite sweet treat? All of them. Yes, I am my father’s daughter. I absolutely adore Suzy-Qs and am deeply grateful that they survived the Great Hostess Crisis of 2012.
Favourite memory of eating a sweet treat? Oh, there are many. Like the first time I ate a Suzy-Q. My mother’s chocolate cheesecake (decadence!) And speaking of decadence, there was Chocolate Decadence. Chocolate shakes in school. (This was in the days before Michelle Obama, you young whippersnappers!)
When do you crave sweet things the most? When there aren’t any in my mouth!
Super sweet nickname? I don’t have one. That I either call another by, or am called by. Look, I don’t care what you call me as long as you call me as soon as the chocolate mousse is firm enough to eat!
Hey wait, that’s six questions! Mandy Eve Barnett or maybe Swati Chavda, you don’t know how to count! Okay, doesn’t matter, whatevs! Neither could Douglas Adams of Hitchhiker’s Guide fame, apparently! According to the rules Mandy sent me I have to:
- Thank the person who nominated me (Done)
- Include the Sweet Award logo (Done)
- Answer all six of the five questions (Done, with drooling)
- Nominate a baker’s dozen of other bloggers
Um, I’m not sure if I actually know 13 bloggers, so you may have to settle for the Weight Watchers batch, okay?
Menopausal Mother (Marcia Kester Doyle, I KNOW you’ll want to talk about your Butterfingers-and-rum-cake oralgasm! :) http://menopausalmother.blogspot.ca/2013/07/wacky-wednesday-writers-guest-post-by.html
The 2016 Democratic presidential election campaign has geared up early, with the Committee To Re-Elect The Democrats, the party formerly known as the GOP, working hard to keep the White House warm for another Democrat.
Every time a Republican opens his or her mouth, a vote for the GOP dies. The latest “Vote for Hillary” salvo came from Virginia State Attorney General Ken Cuccinelli, an elected official whose term expires in 2014, probably permanently, if he bans oral and anal sex in the state.
No lie. This is not a joke. Look, if you don’t believe me, go check The Onion yourself. ‘T’ain’t nuthin’ there.
Never mind the rising tides that threaten Virginia’s coastline communities; never mind their spiraling debt, their aging electrical infrastructure or the challenges of implementing the Affordable Healthcare Act. Ken Cuccinelli is out to protect the good people of Virginia against the hellacious threat of consensual sex.
We know the Republican Party to be one of the most sexophobic cultures on the entire planet, second probably only to the Taliban and Al-Qaeda, with epic ignorance on how women’s bodies work (Pity their poor wives!). What’s next on their agenda, a ban on candy canes and kittens?
When they’re not shooting their mouths off on subjects of which they know virtually nothing – like science or sex – those wacky Dem campaigners are trying to prevent African-Americans from voting or threatening to shut down the government, which they hate. Not sure why anyone who hates government wants to be a politician, but whatever.
If the Republicans have their way, 69 will get you 5-to-10! If you thought they were hostile to gay sex, wait’ll they legislate what straight people can do, and for how long, and who’s allowed on top. Pretty soon they’ll be mandating total darkness and no manual touching. Rush Limbaugh wants to get rid of subsidized birth control so that no one can afford to have sex. That means going back to the good ol’ days of the Fifties when men found it much harder to get laid because women were afraid of getting pregnant. Rick Perry is doing his part to make it harder to get laid in Texas by banning abortions, and Alabama has banned the sale of sex toys. Yes really. It was awhile ago, but it’s still in place.
So it looks like the 2016 federal election is going to be a cakewalk for Hillary Clinton, Andrew Cuomo, Joe Biden or Spongebob Squarepants. Because I’m quite sure Attorney General Cucinelli’s Anti-Blowjob Campaign is going to go down like Pastor Ted Haggard on a two-dollar call boy.
Because even the hardest-core Republican likes a little oral sex every now and then. Not to mention some back-door lovin’!
DEMOCRATIC 2016 CAMPAIGN POSTERS
There is no greater insult you can lob at a Canadian than to call him or her a RACIST. You can call them a scumsucking, c**ksucking, elephant-f**king lying douchey pedophile godless terrorist-loving complete-waste-of-protoplasm, but nothing will make a Canadian quail in abject fear and horror than to be called a R*A*C*I*S*T! Because now you’ve just accused them of the world’s worst sin! You’ve accused them of being OFFENSIVE!
Don’t let the Ottawa public relations campaign fool you. Hockey is NOT the national sport here. Neither is lacrosse, cricket, curling, beer-drinking, or bitching about the weather. The Canadian national pasttime is BEING OFFENDED!
Canadians can get offended at anything. It’s kind of a lefty more than a righty thing here. And “left” in Canada is defined as “anything far enough to make Fidel Castro look like Ronald Reagan.” Anything short of that makes you, well, an American.
Okay, I exaggerate a bit but really, Canadians are totally into being offended. We’re offended, 25 years after the fact, by a Dire Straits song. We’re offended by suggesting that artists should pay their taxes. We’re offended by Ben Affleck. We’re offended by Google. Yes, Google. At least when a Google Doodle features swimming as a summer pasttime to salute the summer solstice, because, like, Calgary had just suffered some terrible flooding and if they couldn’t go swimming in anything other than raw sewage and cow poop, then dadblameit, we couldn’t do it either! Hell, if we can’t find anything locally to be offended about, and the entire United States is keeping its collective damn mouth shut that week, and we’re really jonesing for the right to feel righteously pissed off and appalled, we’ll look abroad and be offended by Silvio Berlusconi!
That whole ‘sorry’ stereotype about Canadians? In which we supposedly apologize for, like, everything? It’s totally true. I’ve actually seen several Canadians apologize when one person bumps one other person on the street. Are we breathing your air? Taking up your space? Existing without your express permission? We’re sorry!
There was a scene in a Little Mosque On The Prairie TV show a few seasons ago in which some protesters in front of the makeshift mosque were told they were upsetting people inside. “Oh, we’re sorry,” said one of the protesters, “we didn’t mean to OFFEND anyone!”
That is just the very essence of what Canadians are all about. We’ll fight untruth, injustice, oppression and violence tooth and nail, as long as we don’t offend anyone!
Sometimes, I think what Canadians – and any others who are into feeling offended as, like, a career – really mean when they say they’re offended is that they just didn’t like what you said. Or, perhaps, what you said makes them feel uncomfortable and embarrassed.
A few years ago on an all-female activist mailing list I challenged some of the folks there who said they were very glad a then-recent newspaper article that dealt with domestic violence in East Asian communities didn’t mention any of the cultures by name. I responded, “How are you going to fight violence against women if you’re not willing to challenge the cultures and religions that expressly allow it?” Let’s take a look at, oh, I won’t mention any holy book names because that might be OFFENSIVE, but here’s what it has to say on the subject of wife-beating:
“Men have authority over women because God made the one superior to the other, and because they spend their wealth to maintain them. Good women are obedient. They guard their unseen parts because God has guarded them. As for those from whom you fear isoebedience, admonish them and send them to beds apart and beat them. They if they obey you, take no further action against them. God is high, supreme.”
Frankly, this is the sort of thing that makes uber-lefties squirm in their hemp hammock seats because if you point this out, Muslims might be offended.
I maintain that facts are not offensive, only untruths are. Like, say, suggesting that all Muslim men regularly beat their wives. To say otherwise would be pretty offensive.
I also challenged these lovely ladies on the subject of pedophilia. Was anyone in favour of it? No? Well how were they going to fight it, then, if they weren’t willing to confront the biggest collection of freely-operating pedophiles in the Western world – the You-Know-What Church?
In the US right now, Americans are divided (Really? Who’da thunk it?) over the Trayvon Martin case. A lot of Americans haven’t even gotten over a black man in the W*H*I*T*E House, and now the damn President (he’s African-born and Muslim, did you know that?!?!) is asking us to think about what it’s like to be racially profiled and how in stand-your-ground states, it’s totally okay to shoot an unarmed black kid wearing a hoodie.
White Americans don’t want to think about that. It’s ‘offensive’. And I guarantee you black Americans don’t want to think about why at least some white Americans might be legitimately afraid of young black men when they’ve got a pretty well-deserved reputation for being, you know, all about the guns.
I can promise you they’re not going to want to talk about black racism, either. Which a lot of us white Americans have personal experience with. Including myself. But maybe that’s another blog post.
I guess a lot of white Americans are probably pretty embarrassed about the glaring racism still alive and well in America, and a lot of black Americans are probably pretty embarrassed about how many black rappers are in jail for violent crimes. Or just black men in general in jail for violent crimes. (Get real. It’s not all because of racism.)
I imagine there are a lot of Muslims embarrassed and ashamed at how many of their so-called religionists think blowing up people is an awesome way to make a political point.
I imagine there are a lot of Catholics pretty embarrassed about a Church that clearly doesn’t understand that molesting children is wrong, and shuffling offending priests around and making the Church’s reputation paramount is wrong.
It’s not offensive to state the FACTS, unpleasant as they may be. You may embarrass others, but hopefully they’ll be moved to act to end the abuse, injustice, oppression, or whatever. If they tell you to shut up because that’s offensive, then they’re part of the problem, not the solution.
Claiming ‘offense’ or warning against ‘stigmatization’ can be used as a bully pulpit to silence those who express views that make you uncomfortable – not because they’re wrong, misinformed, or just plain ignorant, but because something twinges inside you and you know there’s a grain of truth to what they’re saying – or more. I’ve seen feigned offense on more than one occasion shut down proper dialogue here in Canada because some Canadians didn’t want to be rendered discomfited by inconvenient truths.
So you’re offended? Get over it. Wherever did you get the idea that you have the right to live an offense-free life?