Is love a crime, now?
Her man had just gotten pinched the day before and this young filly wanted to lift his spirits with a conjugal visit.
So, showing up naked to reassure the prison staff that you’re not carrying any contraband is a criminal act?
We used to call that “helpful”, back when manners were last taught in this country.
I’ve been fooling around with a new GoPro Hero 3+ Silver Edition and so far it is one kick-ass little camera.
Over at TechCrunch is a pretty sweet video of what it would look like If you gave Superman a GoPro camera to wear.
In Texas, a 24-year old white Republican has defeated an incumbent black Democrat in a local race for a seat on the board of the Houston Community College System by using racism – the racism of the voters.
A white Republican unseated a 24-year African-American incumbent from office in a surprise election victory that some are saying was racially tinged and deceptive.
Dave Wilson, who KHOU reports is an “anti-gay activist and former fringe candidate for mayor,” is being criticized by his opposition for his campaign that reportedly lead the overwhelmingly African-American, Democratic district to believe he was black.
Now how the hell are you going to convince black voters that you’re not white? By relying on their sloth and stupidity, of course. Like printing fliers with pictures of black folks with the caption, “Please vote for our friend and neighbor Dave Wilson.” Or by drawing on endorsements from local black political leaders, like state Democratic representative Ron Wilson.
No, wait. Ron Wilson is Dave’s cousin.
However, the fine print below the slogan states, “Ron Wilson and Dave Wilson are cousins,” a reference to Wilson’s non-politically affiliated cousin who lives in Iowa.
“He’s a nice cousin,” Wilson told KHOU, suppressing a laugh. “We played baseball in high school together. And he’s endorsed me.”
Now, was this sneaky and underhanded? Yes.
Was it racist? YES. Because the only reason this kid won the election is because the overwhelmingly black Democrat voters who elected him thought he was black. In other words, if they had known he’s white, he would have had no chance, for no other reason than that he’s white.
That’s why I love this story – it’s so fucking simple. There are no political or economic issues to complicate the underlying truth: for the vast majority of black voters, black skin is enough to secure your vote. Reality, your own personal economic situation, foreign affairs… none of that honkey bullshit matters to your average black voter. Take a look at the approval ratings of black voters from the most visible black man on the planet, Barack Obama:
According to a Wall Street Journal/NBC News poll released on Wednesday, only 78% of blacks now support Obama’s job performance, which is “down from 88 percent in June and 93 percent in April.”
The poll found Obama’s overall approval rating is at 45%, which is a “a 3-point drop from last month” and “one point off from his all-time presidential low that came in Aug. 2011.”
Blacks overwhelmingly supported Obama in 2008 and 2012, propelling him to the White House by giving him over 90% of their votes. Meanwhile, the unemployment rate in black communities rose to 13.7% in June while Obama has championed a comprehensive immigration reform bill that the Congressional Budget Office determined would devastate the wages of working class Americans.
Think about those numbers. “Only” 78 percent of blacks support Obama. Even after five years of his administration making things worse for blacks in particular, you can Always Bet On Black. I bet if I asked 100 percent of Catholics their opinion of Mother Theresa at least 32% of them would say, “FUCK that bitch.”
Pay attention, GOP. Until the American black community undergoes a major educational, cultural and attitudinal change towards whites in general, you will never secure meaningful amounts of their votes. The change won’t come from outside, if it comes at all. You keep preaching personal accountability, education and self reliance not because it will change minds, but because it’s the right thing to do.
Or maybe you could try calling them racists. Seems to work for them.
One of my favorite timewasters is looking up acoustic covers of my favorite songs on YouTube to get some ideas of how other people arrange them and to play along until I get ’em down. I gotta tell you, some of the best musical talent in the country can be found on YouTube. And sometimes, that talent gets discovered and makes it big. Just look at Justin Bieber – he started off recording videos of himself playing cover songs on street corners for pocket change when a music industry insider came across his YouTube channel.
After one meeting, Justin’s mother allowed a man named “Scooter” to fly her 13 year-old son out of the country and take him to Atlanta, to hang around with thirty-something rappers and hip-hop producers. Next thing you know, Justin Bieber is an international sensation, having gone from cute, talented Canadian kid to a scrawny, tattooed wigger with a lesbian hairdo.
See? Dreams can come true! Wait. What the fu-
Sorry. That’s Miley Cyrus. This is Justin Bieber:
I don’t want to say, “OK, that’s better” because “better” is not how I FEEL, but I’m just saying now the picture is accurate. Probably.
Anyway, I was looking at the “Suggestions” sidebar and I see this young gal, Kelly Rosenthal, has some guitar videos up of her doing famous classic rock riffs. Pretty cool – so I look at the other videos she has listed and see that she has formed a trio with a couple of other girls and covered one of my favorite songs – “Gravity” by John Mayer. Check it out:
Man, that kid can play. And her friends can sing, too. Probably what I enjoy the most about these types of videos is seeing how much folks like myself just enjoy playing music and belting it out. If you have friends you can share music with, it makes it even better.
By now, you’re probably complaining, “Where are the chicks that ROCK? The title specifically mentioned chicks who rock. And John Mayer ain’t rock.” Fair enough. I present Meytal Cohen, badass Israeli chick drummer, covering another of my favorites, “Five Minutes Alone” by Pantera:
She’s trying to crowdsource funding to produce an album, so if you’re interested in pissing away your hard-earned money so she can chase her rock-and-roll dream, you can throw her some bucks. On second thought, that seemed too cynical and harsh and belittles her talent, ambition and entrepreneurial spirit. Also, she covers “Cowboys From Hell” while wearing a bustier. NOW how much are you willing to bid, friend? Rock n’ Roll lingerie ain’t free, you know. Ask Lita Ford.
In conclusion, fuck American Idol. It’s always been a half-assed karaoke contest, and anyone with true musical talent gets the fucking hook well before the last rounds. Do your own talent search – you might be pleasantly surprised.
It’s actually very simple: by taking the property seriously. You might not think it matters with a comic as the source material, but just hear me out.
Let’s start with the premise of what Superman really is. He’s an extraterrestrial alien being with near-godlike powers. He can fly at supersonic speeds. He’s nearly impervious to physical harm. He has the strength of ten thousand retard gorillas. He can shoot heat rays out of his eyes that burn through rock and metal. He has X-ray vision. And for most of his childhood, he has no idea why the hell he can do the things he can do, because his parents neglected to mention that they pulled him out of a crashed spaceship as an infant. Sorry, son. We were just hoping to avoid having you vivisected by Uncle Sugar or milked for your alien man-juice so that the Army could create a race of hybrid super-soldiers.
And that causes real problems for young Clark Kent. And they should. Do you think a little kid could take the manifestation of some pretty disturbing abilities in stride? Or would he maybe be upset by them and ask Why am I so strong? Why are the slightest noises so deafening to my ears? Why do I set shit on fire with my death ray eyes whenever I get – OH MY GOD WHY CAN I SEE EVERYBODY’S BONES AND INNARDS THAT IS SO FUCKING GROSS! MOOOOOMMMMMMYYYYYYYY!
If you saw Slim Goodbody every time you opened your eyes, you might be a little upset, too.
A little kid who’s freaked out and upset by all the things he could do, compounded by a family who wants to keep his abilities secret makes sense. That’s what I mean by taking the property seriously – the characters in this movie may make good or bad choices, but you can understand why they make the choices they do. Dad’s scared for his son – so much so that he would rather die than be saved and risk exposing him as an alien. The Army wants to put Superman in chains. Wouldn’t you? Motherfucker is Hovering. In. The. Air. Mayhap he’s a little dangerous. They also want to hand him over to General Zod. Wouldn’t you? “I don’t even know this asshole, Mr. Zod. Can I get you a beverage or something?” Again – this makes sense. They don’t want to involve our country over some foreign spat in which we have no national interest. Hmm – he’s not shown on screen, but maybe the President is Ron Paul in this scenario.
Speaking of General Zod – his actions may not make sense to us, but they make perfect sense to him. “There’s only a handful of my race left, I was born and bred for the sole purpose of protecting that race, and the only way for that race to survive is to juice this Kal-El kid like a fucking space orange and reconstitute the Kryptonian race. Oh, and they’re going to need air to breathe when they’re born, so I’m going to have to just refuckulate Earth’s atmosphere until every living being on it that isn’t a Kryptonian suffocates to death. Sorry about that.
Well, no. Not really. Can’t do nuttin’ fo you, man. Tha Z-O-Dizzle’s got problems of his own.”
Speaking of which, and this may be a throwaway part to many of you, but this next bit perfectly illustrates my thesis in just thirty seconds of film:
To set up the clip, General Zod’s henchmen, Nam-Ek – a nine foot-tall giant, and Faora – a smallish female, have been fighting Superman on the ground and kicking his ass. Which makes perfect sense – they’re soldiers who were bred for battle and trained in combat for their entire lives. Clark Kent hasn’t been in a single fight in his life, because he’s afraid of killing someone with a light jab that ends up with bits of pancreas on his knuckles.
They haven’t had as much time to adjust to their new powers as Clark Kent, but they were also expecting that they would gain them because they understood the significance of Earth’s sun type – they even have a scientist in their crew. So Colonel Hardy, played by Chris Meloni, has just witnessed Zod’s crew not only beat the shit out of Earth’s only hope, they’ve soaked up whatever damage America’s weapons can dish out, and he’s just had his chopper swatted out of the air like a tsetse fly with a gimpy wing. Now Faora moves in for the kill.
So Colonel Hardy dumps an entire magazine of 9 mm into this broad’s chest and face and she doesn’t even drop her smirk. So what does he do? He pulls a knife. A. Knife.
Why? Because Fuck Her, That’s Why.
This is what I loved about this movie, and what I hated about the first Superman movies, in which our soldiers ineffectually rattle off a few shots while backpedaling in terror. All humans in these films are simpering pussies who are waiting for Space Daddy to come along and save their bacon.
Col. Hardy isn’t having any of that shit. “You want my blood? You’re gonna have to work for it, honey. See this? I’m going to shove this knife up your ass and tote you around like a Krypton-flavored bitchsicle.”
He doesn’t look terrified. He looks grim and determined. The humans in this movie are fighting desperately for their survival, and generally losing pretty badly. But they keep fighting, because that’s what you do. That’s taking the subject matter seriously.
No campy bullshit. No Otis. No Lex Luthor fumbling with his toupee. No Jimmy Olsen, with his useless “Gee willikers!” faggotry. Lois isn’t a helpless, bowling alley-grade, two-pack-a-day Margot Kidder gutterskank, but neither does she swing all the way into some annoying, unrealistic Grrl Power! asskicker. She uses her smarts and turns out to be very useful.
Oh, and the Kryptonians’ godlike powers are GODLIKE. When they collide in Metropolis, the worst thing that happens isn’t some guy’s ice cream cone blows into his face when General Zod uses his totally gay Super Breath and we get a Keystone Kops slide-whistle sound effect. Oh, hey! There’s a guy in a telephone booth that just blew over, and is sliding down the street, and he’s still talking on the phone! He’s so clueless to the titanic struggle taking place all around him! (Sproing! sound effect).
FUCK YOU, RICHARD DONNER.
No, when Kryptonians fight, skyscrapers collapse. Shit catches on fire. Thousands of people are burned, lacerated and crushed to death in the mountains of rubble that these superbeings create. And in the meantime, our armed forces don’t sit on their hands and wait for some alien dude in a fucking cape with unknown motives to come and save their asses. They make their own plans and take their own actions as best they can. When you take your subject matter seriously, it makes it easy for the audience to suspend their disbelief and lose themselves in the world that the filmmakers have created. Thank you, Zack Snyder for making this one of the easiest movies to enjoy that I’ve seen, especially in the superhero genre.
Great movie, great cast, good script and backstory to set up the final showdown. Highly recommend, and I’ll definitely buy this one when it hits DVD. My only criticism, and this is more of a general criticism of all action movies these days: Why does EVERYTHING have to be in 3-D? I understand the economics behind it, but for once, I would love to not have to either wear those stupid glasses which are still slick with some kid’s pimple grease if I don’t want to wait until the home release.
Stop me if you’ve heard these before:
“You shouldn’t be so judgmental.”
“Judge not lest ye be judged.”
“You shouldn’t judge a book by it’s cover.”
Really? I shouldn’t judge a book by it’s cover? How am I supposed to anticipate what’s in it? What do you think this one is about?
Surprisingly, Swamp Lust was NOT about wetlands preservation.
And yet, every time we make a stupid decision, we’re told “You should have used better judgment.” It sounds contradictory, because it is. Judgment is a valuable tool that keeps us from making stupid decisions and alerts us to take advantage of opportunities that may not be readily apparent. Good judgment tells you that being 95% sure that the hot chick you’re talking up in that French Quarter bar is actually a chick just isn’t good enough for a guy like you. That is, a guy who doesn’t want to wake up with a pounding ether headache and a rubber hanging out of his ass.
Bad judgment tells you that it’s perfectly fine to let your hammered friend drive you home, because hey – if he gets into a wreck, HE gets the DUI, not you. Great plan, until it ends with the Fire Department hosing your ashes out of the flaming wreck of your buddy’s car while he walks away without a scratch.
But we’re not supposed to judge each other, right? That’s what it’s all about – and it’s usually coming from people who are super defensive about the shady choices they’ve made. Fuck all that. Some people are assholes. People like Amanda Marcotte, who if I were being judgmental, strikes me as a bitter, man-hating, fishlicking tuna boat captain who will only be mourned by her five cats. Until day three, when they’re finally hungry enough to eat her corpse. Here’s Amanda pissed that anyone would be happy to celebrate the birth of Kate Middleton and Prince William’s new baby boy:
@AmandaMarcotte22 JulI’ll give everyone a couple of hours to enjoy this arbitrarily selected baby to gush over before I start reminding you of infant mortality.
Really, bitch? Really? What are you mad about – that people feel happy to see a married heterosexual couple bring a new life into the world? That you’re not getting enough attention? Or are you mad that God didn’t love you enough to make you pretty?
I’m guessing her cat is named “Sontag” and loves playing with the chain connected to her wallet.
You know what’s really got to chafe your undoubtedly unshaven hamhocks, dearie? That you can’t spell Amanda without “MAN.” See how the patriarchy keeps hammering you with its giant rapey Dick of Oppression?
But she can’t be all bad. After all, it was because of her that I stumbled across my new daily read: JUDGYBITCH.
“JB” is one of the best writers I’ve come across on the Intertubes. She seems to put out about a post a day, but they’re all fairly lengthy, well thought-out essays ranging from antifeminist ranting to more antifeminist ranting, and some surprisingly poignant observations on the nature of true, mature, everyday married love, which was buried in the middle of some quality antifeminist ranting. Plus, there’s lots of pictures for simpletons like me to stare at when the thoughtwords hurt my headbrain.
I am well and fully aware that there is a huge disparity between me and my husband when it comes to the idea of “romance”, but I have never, for one moment confused “romance” with love. Love is going to work every day. Love is paying all the bills. Love is being here even when I’m being unreasonable or I’m in a bad mood or I’ve had a rough day with the kids and I take it out on him.
It happens.
My love is providing all his meals, keeping our house (somewhat) neat and tidy, caring for our children with as much kindness and patience as I can muster, being here even when he’s boring me into a coma with the details of some stupid planning meeting or yelling at me because something at work pissed him off.
For my husband, that’s enough. Devotion, commitment, tolerance, patience and the rock solid knowledge that I will never leave. For me, it’s not. I want all those little fairy tale gestures, too. Yes, I realize it’s not fair. If he is happy just knowing that I am here, I should be happy just knowing that he is here. Well, I’m not. Boo fucking hoo. Buy me some flowers. Life isn’t fair.
When he falls off the “I must please my irrational wife” bandwagon, I don’t confuse that with “he doesn’t love me”. Pleasing me is not love. Sharing my interests is not love. Love is being here. Forever.
If you are amused by my puerile brain shittings, you’ll be thoroughly impressed with the thought and wit JUDGYBITCH puts into her posts. Add this one to your daily reads – everything I’ve seen so far has been top-notch. She’s on the blogroll now, so get to clickin’.
If you read my last post, you know that I was hiking up near Huntsville, Ontario, searching for “Dogleg Lake,” an unnamed L-shaped lake I found on Crown land (public land). The reason I chose it was that there were no hiking or ATV or snowmobile trails that went near it, so it would be a little difficult to get to. In my experience, the more difficult a place is to reach, the less likely it is to be visited by a bunch of yahoos who get hammered and throw their fucking trash everywhere.
Don’t get me wrong – I’m not afraid to cut down a live tree or two to turn a good campsite into a perfect campsite. But I’m not going to hammer the place flat, toss empties everywhere, leave piles of shit and toilet paper lying around on TOP of the ground, and generally turn it into a nastier version of a highway rest stop. When I’m gone, you won’t know I’ve been there.
Plus, I like having the place to myself. Part of getting away is escape. Feeling like you’re the only one on the planet. It’s hard to reach that Zen-like state of calm when 100 meters away, there’s a group of potheads whooping it up and playing Billy Squier’s “The Stroke” at maximum volume.
I couldn’t take my truck the first day and got dropped off, spending most of my exploring time hiking up the logging trail that led to the point at which I intended to hit the woodline in search of Dogleg Lake. So, rushed for time, I stupidly followed what a couple of different maps showed was an active logging road, even though the satellite photos didn’t show it. Even if there’s heavy tree growth, if there’s a trail, you can see what looks like a “crease” in the trees on the satellite photo.
Dumbass move. It wasn’t there. And the harder I tried to make my way up it, the more not there it became. I turned back about 300 meters short of the lake, according to my GPS.
That’s why I ended up doing the Solo Stove video – I was out of time and energy.
The next day, I went back and took the route I originally had planned and made it to the lake, but it still wasn’t ideal. On the way back to my truck, I tried yet another route and it was way easier. The north shore of Dogleg Lake looks like it’s got some promising high ground to make camp, once black fly and mosquito season are over at the end of the summer. My buddy Mike is coming up with me in a couple of weeks and we’ll scout out that side.
This past weekend I was out in the Muskoka region of Ontario, looking for access to a lake on some Crown land (public land) that I had identified as a potential campsite. We were taking our Master Race up to a condo we have at Deerhurst Resort near Hunstville, and this lake is only about 25 km away, so it was a good opportunity to sneak away for a few hours. It looked like I could get pretty close using an existing logging road, according to a topographic map I had loaded on my phone.
Well, the logging road that was supposed to swing me north right up into the lake doesn’t exist anymore, and I turned back about 300 meters short of my goal. Very disappointing, considering I had to spend a couple of hours just walking up to my starting point, as I got dropped off in a car that couldn’t make it up the logging road. So, I decided to eat some lunch and take a video showing how to use my new backpacking stove.
It’s called a Solo Stove, and it is a stupid-simple, lightweight, robust woodburning stove suitable for small outdoor cooking chores. I also have an alcohol burning insert, made by the same company, and I’ll post a video of how that works later. I’m not into the whole “survivalist” or “prepper” thing, but if you are, this is an indispensable piece of kit for your home, car or bugout bag. The fuel for this stove is free, and you can literally pick it up off the ground. Something to keep in mind even if you’re trapped at home without power or gas for cooking due to a snowstorm, hurricane, earthquake or flood. With this stove and some twigs, you can sterilize an unlimited amount of water for drinking and cooking.
I paid something like sixty bucks for mine and it is worth every penny. It’s made out of 304 stainless steel, pressed into one piece, except for the ash pan and grate, which is NiChrome wire. This is one sturdy piece of kit. And long after your neighbor’s white gas, propane or butane stove has run out of fuel, you’ll still be burning. Once he’s been sufficiently weakened by dysentery from lack of clean drinking water, you can just stroll over and liberate his canned goods and women. Now you’ve got yourself the beginnings of an empire, friend.
Sorry in advance for the video quality. I couldn’t find my good camera before I left, so I had to one-hand everything with my Samsung Galaxy SIII, which has a surprisingly a clear picture, but as you will see, is not that easy to hold onto.
Many of us have put our foot in our mouths at one time or another. Hell, I remember reminiscing with some high school acquaintances I ran into a few years ago. They graduated a couple of years ahead of me, so I didn’t know them except from playing football together and “J.B.” and I got to talking about funny things and people we remembered from school when I veered off into the weeds.
Jeff: “Hey, J.B. – remember that lunch lady with the lazy eye? How she was always pointing at some kid and saying “C’mere!” but she’d be looking somewhere else? What was her name?”
J.B.: “It was Janice.”
Jeff: “Miss Janice! That was it!”
J.B.: “She’s my mom.”
Jeff: “oh.”
Thank God no one was videotaping my assholery. Unfortunately for GOP Oklahoma State Representative Dennis Johnson, the internet is forever.
My favorite part is when someone stops him in the middle of his speech to show him the shoe-treads on his dick and he says, “I did? Oh. Sorry about that, Jews. Y’all are good businessmen, too. I guess you could say that your people really have a NOSE for business, am I right?!”
What a fucking idiot.
At least this story introduced me to “Heeb Magazine”, which seems to specialize in self-deprecating, tongue-in-cheek humor. The writer adds his own acceptable uses of “Jew” as a verb, including my favorite – to “Jew it up.”
Jew [Something] Up
Situation: You have close Jewish friends coming over for a “holiday” party, and the blue-and white lights just aren’t enough to make them feel welcome. [Note: Jews always appreciate your sad attempts to make us feel welcome with subtle acknowledgement of our third-least important holiday that happened six weeks prior.]
Example: “We only have five candles to Jew up the mantle, but they’re all different sizes!”
Shalom!
When it’s giggle- time, nothing is beneath me.
NOTHING.
You were all thinking it.
A Saskatoon man is demanding an apology and refusing to pay a $175 ticket for not wearing a seatbelt, because he has no arms and can’t fasten one unassisted.
I know, I know. How can the cop be such a dick to a guy with no arms, right?
When the Mountie requested his licence and registration, Mr. Simonar stepped out of the car and asked the officer to retrieve the documents from his pocket.
See? That’s a brilliant move. You can see the cop’s wheel’s spinning: Hmm. Rummage around in his pockets next to his bozack, which this dude hasn’t been able to touch, himself, for almost three decades? Pass.
“Ahem. That won’t be necessary, citizen. Just try to be more careful in the future.”
Fuck, yes! High fiv-!
Sorry.
He said the officer was prepared to let him go, but a Saskatoon Police Service sergeant overseeing the operation instructed him to issue a ticket.
“He became very ignorant, and said, ‘Well if he can’t put his seatbelt on maybe he shouldn’t be driving.’ That’s what really made me mad.”
Hmm. He’s actually got a good point, though. You managed to rig up a device to steer your car with one foot (five cars!), you can put the thing in gear using your feet, but you can’t figure out how to fasten your seatbelt? C’mon, dude. There’s a whole organization of people out there who paint with their feet. I’m pretty sure you can figure it out.
And give the cop a break, would you? He’s an officer, sworn to uphold the law. He probably doesn’t like ticketing you, but his hands are tie-
Sorry.
The Empire of Jeff Newsletter 