Sex and Politics

Quid pro quo.  Something for something.  It’s the nature of negotiations and compromise.  It’s human nature and we want, and we give.

But it’s deliciously entertaining when my favorite hypocritical and self-righteous political party airs their ideology so… publicly, such as Republican Assemblyman Michael Duvall, who was thought the mike was off and he recounted his marital indiscretions with a lobbyist (yes, I know, the epitome of cliché, a lobbyist who would even THINK of fucking his/her way through a deal).

Duvall, speaking to a relatively mum Republican colleague seated to his left, apparently had no idea his dais microphone became live beginning about a minute before the start of a cable-televised committee hearing. He was captured in the middle of recounting portions of an affair.

“She wears little eye-patch underwear,” said Duvall, who is married with two children. “So, the other day she came here with her underwear, Thursday. And so, we had made love Wednesday–a lot! And so she’ll, she’s all, ‘I am going up and down the stairs, and you’re dripping out of me!’ So messy!” (http://www.calitics.com/)

Class act.  Almost makes me want to go out and share my family values with a prostitute – kind of like Senator David Vitter.  I’m just waiting for the Mormons to have their huge scandals:  various positions aside from the strict missionary, dry humping, and excessive Marriott overnighters to view p.o.r.n.  Who am I kidding – Mormons are fucking around just like everyone else.

Miss Tiddies (CA) for Jesus

This is a rant.  This blog is conducting a rant in regards to the recent Miss California kerfuckle.  This is only a rant.  Please remain seated.  Leave the screaming to me.

Carrie Prejean has every right, every liberty to her opinions and beliefs.  She could be Mormon and I wouldn’t care.  She can pray to Jeebus.  She can have her boob job funded by Donald Trump’s Miss America machine.  She can be a spokesman for the National Organization for Marriage.  She can spout the words written by the has-been hack of a sci-fi writer, Orson Scott Card.  She can spew as much hot air as Rush Limbaugh’s ass – hell – she could BE Rush Limbaugh’s ass.  She’s a perfect Barbie with nice tits.  I don’t care if she had a penis.  As Gollum says, “We hates it forever.”

She broke her contract with the Miss America pageant.  Thou shalt disclose of nude photos, and thou shalt not speak on behalf of other organizations because, bitch, you are now owned by the Miss America conglomerate.  Of all my swirling emotions for Carrie Prejean, it’s pity – the girl is a sponge and doesn’t have the capacity of being her own person.

The real direction of my anger and disappointment is with the Limp-Dicked and Bad-Haired Donald Trump.  He compared Prejean’s views on gay marriage to President Obama’s.  The damned-to-bloody-hell proponents of Prop 8 used that argument as well, that Obama was against gay marriage.

I have as much use for Prejean and Trump as I do for a used condom.  Where’s the media flusher on this one?

Fuckin’ fuckheads can fuck themselves fuckless.

Have a nice day.

___

So what kinds of things piss you off?

(note to self – I haven’t had a “nearly naked blogging” moment in a long time – I need to do something about that)

Rush Limbaugh is Ann Coulter’s Penis

Fatuous.

Flaccid.

Freakish.

Where’s Lorena Bobbit when this country so desperately needs her?

Stupidity is a dominant gene

Darwin was wrong.  It’s survival of the most incredibly stupid, negligent, or attention-sucking.

Nadia Suleman:  single, unemployed mother of six (through a sperm-donor friend), has octoplets because she’s “lonely.”  Her fucktard of a physician deserves to have their medical license revoked.  Nadia, I hate to break it to ya, but giving birth doesn’t grant you the priveledge of motherhood.  You turned yourself into a self-centered baby-machine and your children need a guardian.

John McCain:  bitter little troll who favors a stimulus plan that’s less than half of what the Democrats favor.  Bailouts are for elitists and not us “regular” people?  Bush and his crew blew the federal budget’s wad over the past eight years and it will take generations to clean up their international spooge.

Catholic Bishop Williamson and the Vatican:  Reinstate an excommunicated fringe dude who denies the Holocaust and underestimate the world’s reaction.  Class act, Pope Benedict.  Class act.

California State Legislature:  With a budget crisis at $40 Billion and growing (because we’re borrowing and incurring high interest debt), you’d think it would be criminal for the legislature to be doing anything but balance a budget.  There will be no solution without raising taxes and cutting services.  If I was a god of this universe, I’d make it law that legislatures responsible for late or overspent budgets would be removed from office immediately, without pay or benefits, and assigned to the department of landfills, sorting through trash to recycle.

Other nominees are Rush Limbaugh, Bill O’Reilly, Ann Coulter, Senator Orrin Hatch, Dick Cheney, and Sarah Palin.  I’d give specific examples but I’m tired and I’m satisfied with collectively despising their existence.

Men Are Pigs

What is it with men and public bathrooms, or bathrooms in businesses?  Do the same men that utilize the facilities do this at home?

- piss everywhere but in the urinal
- leave pubic hairs on the urinal like they’re some trophy or evidence of puberty
- don’t flush urinals or toilets
- talk on their cell phones while in a stall
- leave seatcovers wadded up on the floor
- leave toilet paper strewn around the floor

Cretins.

I’d like to see these bastards strung up by their pea-sized nads.  I’d like them (piggish, cretinish men) to clean up after themselves even more.

I’m grumpy.

Proposition 8

Fair Warning:  this post is gonna ramble and contain highly offense words and phrases.

For the media-clueless, Proposition 8 is an initiative to change the California constitution, negating gay rights to marriage.  Tonight we saw a “yes for Proposition 8″ ad while watching the post-VP debate between Biden and Palin.  The talking points were almost comical:

• protect the institution of marriage!
• gay marriage is against the will of the people!
• “activist judges” overturned prior rulings!
• and the ad started and ended with a video montage of Gavin Newsom’s May 2008 press conference, celebrating the unconstitutional laws against gay marriage being struck down.   I’m sure THAT went down well for the Bible thumping right wing – probably farther than a porn star’s throat.
• ((Oh… tangent alert))

most fuckable mayor EVAH

• ((end tangent))

So some back story.  I fixed a stiff… drink and moved furniture (we’re getting carpet tomorrow) and put the plug faceplates back on that I’d removed (fear me – I’m proficient in unscrewing… and screwing).  ((We finished painting the other night, and no, I don’t/won’t have pictures yet – hush.))  So I did my chores and started reading news and blogs and came across a lovely post by a lovely friend and some of his fans’ not so lovely comments where some holier-than-thou douche bag used the phrase “gay lifestyle.”  Oh yes, she did.  I will tolerate the ignorant and asinine usage of the phrase from friends or fucking clueless family, but I won’t tolerate it from a stranger whom I could run over with a tractor and not lose any sleep.

Pay attention.  I’m going to paraphrase and then quote myself from a prior post on Mormons and Polygamy:

Golf, Mormonism and polygamy are lifestyles.  Sexuality is NOT a lifestyle, nor a crime. The next time someone uses sexuality and the word “lifestyle” in the same sentence, remember: one can CHOOSE to have more than one spouse (lifestyle), but gay/straight/bi/confused is a state of BEING (sexuality). Thou shalt not confuse the two, or thou shalt be struck down with a big floppy double-headed dildo.

Understand, I’m not so much riled about the Prop 8 advocates as I am about a really basic illiteracy of sexuality and the careless use of words.  It shouldn’t astound me, but it does, that people continue to denigrate, qualify and minimize the spectrum of sexuality through the lens and assumption of inherent choice.  Spare me the “but I’m not 100% gay or straight” missive.  I’m not talking about the physical capacity of gay men fucking women or straight men fucking gay women or whatever flavor you want.  I’m talking about sexuality as identity and discovery, which is deeply personal.  I could fuck everyone and anyone from here to Heaven and my physical, emotional, psychological, spiritual, intellectual, chemical, hormonal levels would all prefer men.

Legislate that, ass hats.

Bathroom Etiquette for Men

The following points should be kept in mind if you’re a man and you use a bathroom outside of your primary residence.

• Don’t use your cell phone in the bathroom.  I don’t care how skilled you think are in trying to piss and chat, and I really don’t need to see you try and zip and flush one-handed.  If you’re in a stall and talking, I pray to the toilet gods that your ass starts on fire from static electricity in your cell phone.

• If you’re standing at a urinal, look at the wall or watch where you’re pissing, but don’t be looking around at everyone else’s business like you’re at a science exhibit, ya stupid fucktard.  All you’re doing is reinforcing a gay stereotype that we’re interested in your microscopic schlong – we’re NOT. The only thing THIS gay man is interested in seeing is… your obituary.

• Don’t talk, particularly while in a stall.  If someone is in a stall and tries talking, exit the room quickly and turn off the light on the way out.  Let the jerk-off fumble their way out.  For extra points, call the main desk and tell them someone is in the bathroom having an epileptic fit.

• Aim.  Unless you have a neuro-muscular disorder or are prone to unintentional spasms, thou shalt not use a urinal – sit your ass down in a stall since you’re incapable of pissing in a receptacle that Helen Keller couldn’t miss.  Lay your dick in the god-damn-bowl if you can’t piss without missing.  Jeebus.

• Don’t leave a mess.  If the toilet seat and the floor looks like you just re-enacted Riverdance while pissing, then use your own shirt to wipe up your mess.  Your mom or spouse or significant other doesn’t work here – and they’d beat your ass to a bloody pulp if you pissed like that at home.  When you’re done cleaning your own mess, go find the janitor and confess your sins – be sure that your penance will be complete once you’ve chopped your own wood and you’ve been hung on a cross for a few days.

• Wash your hands.  You just touched your junk.  Are you really such a fucktard that I have to explain germs and hygiene to you?

This post came about because there’s a new employee that’s been pissing everywhere and it really makes me insane(r).  I have warned my boss to expect profane posters on the bathroom door and walls.  I told him today that it looked like the bathroom had been hit by a piss tsunami – he doesn’t understand that I’m serious and WILL publicly humiliate this arrogant and inconsiderate, fuckin’ fucktard.

Evites

I messed with Evite yesterday for hours – more than FOUR hours to be completely honest. The biggest pain in the ass was trying to import/export my email addresses, and I ended up typing and/or copying/pasting each email addy, anyway. The next pain was formatting the damn thing. I don’t want to sound ungracious here, but Evite sucks worse than a Hoover. I would have been better off doing the entire thing via Outlook, with links, than trying to poke and prod their very rigid formats while dealing with their barrage of advertising sponsors.

The main reason I sent out Evites with pertinent info NOW was because some folks were getting antsy about accommodation options – totally understandable. (Hiya, sister – no, I don’t know where you’re staying yet – just book your flight and we’ll figure it out.) Some folks have kids and families and tight budgets, and let’s face it, celebrating birthdays usually ends in one’s teens. I happen to revel in birthdays, since it’s a great reminder that I’ve survived the very real possibility of not being born in the first place. Slight tangent, but I can remember being in the incubator while I was in the hospital after I was born (six weeks premature). Hell yes, I celebrate birthdays.  I celebrate fiercely.

Whack whack whack

What is the sound of one hand whacking oneself… upside the head?

Work was lovely, except for the part where I updated demographic records because someone in another department couldn’t possibly be bothered to do their job without a lot of sighing, drama, whining, and ultimately an “I’m so busy right now, I couldn’t possibly update 10 records, even though I spent all week on the internets.” Yes, and I’m so busy that I had time to do my job and her job and have the fucking updates done in 20 minutes. So what if I can type like an Olympic meth lab? My favorite part was the look of abject terror on her face when I told her I was done and that next term, when the reports were due, she had better start early because I wouldn’t be available to help her. She’s going to need another lifetime to pay me back.

Next up was class tonight. It seems that there were two prerequisite classes required before this current class. I’ve taken one of those core requisite classes. My literature from the 2006 program doesn’t show any inter-dependence of the core classes, and yet the literature for the 2007-2008 program shows they are required. I emailed the department chair. If he says I can stay in, then cool – otherwise, I’m not taking courses again until the fall. Did I mention that technically I’m in two masters programs: Public Administration (I almost wrote “Pubic”) and English/Literature? Anyway – it’s the PA that I’m trying to get back into. Onto. I’m doing the “whatever” thing with my hands right now, which leads to…

WordPress. Some of the posts that migrated from Blogger are all funkified and horribly reformatted. I’d link back to Blogger, but am loathe to direct traffic to the personal data Nazis, which leads to…

My last whine of the evening, because Scott left the camera at the office – I wanted to post a picture of my first multi-colored scarf that I made for Julz – the one that I started on the road trip of late 2006 – the one that I finished last week because I was a lame ass and the almost-finished scarf sat in a box for 10 months. Gah. Yes, that scarf. When I get the camera back, I’ll upload the scarf and you can be envious that its sheer loveliness isn’t wrapped fashionably around your neck. You’ll have to wait as long as I do since I’m not driving my ass over to Scott’s office to get the camera. Please don’t start with the “patience is a virtue” bullshit. Thanks.

I lied – one more topic. Work again. There’s a big Big BIG meeting tomorrow morning, first thing, with the Powers That Be – just them and me. Pray for them. My boss already informed me that if I was going to be in trouble, it would be she that would be spanking my ass – and no, I’m not in trouble. You can try saying that “patience is a virtue” phrase, now.

Pardon me, but I have more whacking to do.

It wasn’t a mirror

Fantastic day, even with the pouring rain. We’ve been cooking at home the last week (fuck you, Republicans, if you think fiscal responsibility is your domain – Bush obliterated any of that quaint notion for ya) and decided instead of leftovers, we’d order out for pizza. The delivery guy was really good natured and cute, despite the weather. Scott and I had a nice evening of dinner and relaxing, television and computer games.

Then my pc loses power once. Then twice. Then a third time. Scott suggested I unplug the battery backup, which was a good call since it was making these horrible electronic whining sounds. The evening was sublime until I tried plugging directly into the outlet behind my desk – I couldn’t quite reach it. I moved the framed silk portrait off the cd shelves then moved the cd shelves about four inches. I moved the portrait back, then tried to fit my big head between my desk and the cd shelves. I jostled the cd shelves, which jostled the portait, which tumbled to the ground next to me and made an ugly crashing sound, but my “oh fuckity fuck fuckin’ fuck” drowned out the rest of the tinkling of glass coming to rest. Good thing it wasn’t a mirror.

Scott offered to help, bless him, but I was I steaming made and in full blown silent anger at this point. I picked up the pieces then swept and vacuumed. I thought I was cooling down, but it gets even better! I took out the garbage can and as I stepped off the porch onto the sidewalk, I tilted the garbage can just enough that the biggest piece of glass tilted out and shattered on the sidewalk. My rage crested and I know not only Scott, but ever neighbor heard the almighty “FUCK.” Seriously, if the gods think it’s funny to make me a) so klutzy and b) accident-prone, or c) momentarily without a shred of common sense, well the gods can fuck off. All of them. Even the porn gods. Thanks for the small favors, though, because with all that flying glass and picking up shards, I didn’t get cut. I’m not practicing grace or responsibility here – no god made me break anything – it was my own dumb-ass fault. Gah.

If you’re ever a guest in my home, you’ll understand the plastic glasses, won’t you?