Sunday rant.
A fellow blogger wrote to say that she can only read the “Vote for me” post so many times before desiring fresh meat, as it were. Today’s USA Weekend featured no questions for the “Who’s News” section; rather, it’s simply (and not surprisingly) an Oscar preparation piece. So, with nothing to parody, I’ll instead just give you a stream-of-consciousness rant.
I can't get pictures to load on Blogger, by the way, so forgive the lack of visual stimulation. If you need something to titillate your eyeballs, click here for a page of Keira Knightly pics.
SHOW US YOUR PLAN!
To everyone whose vehicle still sports a Kerry/Edwards bumper sticker:
Didn’t John Kerry say he had a plan for everything? He used the word “plan” so often that it became a running gag. Late night talk show hosts joked about it. Saturday Night Live parodied it. A plan for this, a plan for that.
After the election, though Kerry remained a Senator, he virtually disappeared except to periodically surface to bash the Bush Administration.
To John Kerry and his supporters, I pose this simple question:
Where are your plans? Are we to assume that your innumerable plans would only have worked had Kerry been elected president? Must these plans be scrapped because they cannot be used to create legislation in the Senate?
How stupid are people, anyway? More frightening, how stupid do people think we are? And why do we keep living up to their low expectations?
I implore you, people: Vote Libertarian. It will take years, decades, perhaps centuries to turn things around, but if people don’t start voting on issues rather than by blind party loyalty, before long there will be nothing worth turning around.
NICK COLEMAN
Nick Coleman is a columnist for the Minneapolis Star-Tribune. I’ve written about him before. The mugshot of Nick, featured with his columns, should have a caption: “Please don’t hate me because I’m rich and white. I hate me because I’m rich and white, but it’s very important to me that you don’t hate me because I’m rich and white.”
Nick’s column today is one of his finest, meaning a fine display of just how misguided those with chronically bleeding hearts can be. Nick is railing about the fact that the State of Minnesota is once again gearing up to discuss public financing of sports stadiums. “We are getting closer to that glorious day when Minnesota throws hundreds of millions of dollars at new sports facilities,” says Nick.
And guess what: I agree with Nick that the last thing we need to do is provide multi-million (billion?) dollar gifts to spoiled millionaire athletes and franchise owners.
However, Nick’s point is that providing money for stadiums takes it away from more valuable taxpayer-subsidized endeavors, namely daycare for "at-risk" children. According to Nick, “50 babies got thrown out of a preschool in north Minneapolis.” He continues, attempting to bring tears to the eyes of his readers as he types in the study of his expansive mansion, “There were tears of anger, and there were dozens of young families—many led by single mothers still trying to finish school or to beat addiction—scrambling.”
I am tired of the veneration of single mothers. I am tired of not being able to judge people for their stupid actions. I am tired of having led a responsible life but having all of society's sentimentality, pity and revenue funneled towards people who do not seem to understand that sex = children, children = monetary/lifestyle hardships, and children + gambling addiction + no education + drug use = supremely fucked.
Taxpayer money should not go to millionaire athletes, but nor should it be wantonly dispensed to generation after generation of 14-year old girls who view childbirth as no more sacrosanct than a bowel movement.
Tell you what, Nick: Let’s compromise. I’ll pony up a sizeable donation to the daycare center of your choice if you’re willing to write a column suggesting that the barely-pubescent girls in North Minneapolis would do well to open a textbook rather than hop into bed with every boy that expresses an interest in them. Perhaps if they had to pay the cost of daycare themselves rather than get a magical check from the bottomless pit of government money they would realize that investing 75-cents in a condom readily accessible in any Super America restroom is a preferable alternative to having child after child you can’t afford.
D-GENERATION
Yesterday while cleaning I rediscovered the 1994 self-titled album by a band called D-Generation. They were a short-lived band and I’ve found very little about them on the Internet beyond this brief blurb mentioning that the various members are still active in the music industry.
D-Generation’s song “Feel Like Suicide” sums up suicide as well as the movie “Fight Club” describes insomnia. Here are the lyrics:
I’d give it all for a good night’s sleep
And I’ve been crying every day of the week
And I’m feeling so unusual inside
This look upon my face I just can’t hide
Dying every day
Dying every night
And I feel like suicide
A give my love away for keeps
And I wear my heart out on my sleeve
And there’s nothing you can do to make me stay
Cause I can’t relate to anything you say
Dying every day
Dying every night
And I feel like suicide
Coming down again
I’m losing all my friends
Caught up in a dream
You don’t know what I mean
I’m all used up inside
Gonna kiss you all good bye
I feel like suicide
The album is a hard rock masterpiece. Do yourself a favor and scour the "used" bin at your local record store for a copy.
THE MOST BEAUTIFUL THING EVER WRITTEN
As I mentioned while commenting on Crall’s blog yesterday, I recently read “The Sirens of Titan” by Kurt Vonnegut, Jr. It struck me while reading it that the Hitchhiker’s Guide to the Galaxy—the book series that changed my life as an adolescent—owes much to Vonnegut’s work. “The Sirens of Titan” contains what I believe to be the most beautiful passage ever written. I believe I’ve posted it before but will do so again because it gives me chills:
“You come and tell me the big news,” said Boaz, “you say ‘we’re going to be free!’ And I get all excited, and I drop everything I’m doin’, and I get set to be free.
“And I keep saying it over to myself about how I’m going to be free,” said Boaz, “and then I try to think what that’s going to be like, and all I can see is people. They push me this way, then they push me that—and nothing pleases ‘em, and they get madder and madder, on account of nothing makes ‘em happy. And they holler at me on account of I ain’t made ‘em happy, and we all push and pull some more.
“And then I say to myself,” said Boaz, “I ain’t never been nothing good to people, and people never been nothing good to me. So what I want to be free in crowds of people for?”
“I found me a place where I can do good without doing any harm, and I can see I’m doing good, and they love me as best they can. I found me a home.
“And when I lie down here some day,” said Boaz, “I’m going to be able to say to myself, Boaz, you made millions of lives worth living. Ain’t nobody ever spread more joy. You ain’t got an enemy in the Universe."
Boaz became for himself the affectionate Mama and Papa he’d never had. “You go to sleep now,” he said to himself, imagining himself on a stone deathbed in the caves. “You’re a good boy, Boaz,” he said. “Good night.”
THE SADDEST MOMENT OF THE WEEKEND
The saddest moment of the weekend is the last cup of coffee on Sunday.
I get up early and write on Sunday and have three cups while my wife still slumbers. Then, I brew a couple more cups for each of us.
Every Sunday, around 10:30 a.m., I pour the last cup and it’s a bit murky from sitting so long. It takes additional half-and-half to lighten it up, and it tastes bittersweet not only because it’s past its prime and I’m already riding a caffeine high, but because I realize it’s the last “pleasure cup” of java I’ll have ‘til next weekend.
During the week I drink coffee—lots of it—but it’s “necessity” coffee, not “pleasure” coffee. It’s the difference between a recreational marijuana user and a meth addict. It’s now 10:44 a.m. and it’s all downhill from here.
I can't get pictures to load on Blogger, by the way, so forgive the lack of visual stimulation. If you need something to titillate your eyeballs, click here for a page of Keira Knightly pics.
SHOW US YOUR PLAN!
To everyone whose vehicle still sports a Kerry/Edwards bumper sticker:
Didn’t John Kerry say he had a plan for everything? He used the word “plan” so often that it became a running gag. Late night talk show hosts joked about it. Saturday Night Live parodied it. A plan for this, a plan for that.
After the election, though Kerry remained a Senator, he virtually disappeared except to periodically surface to bash the Bush Administration.
To John Kerry and his supporters, I pose this simple question:
Where are your plans? Are we to assume that your innumerable plans would only have worked had Kerry been elected president? Must these plans be scrapped because they cannot be used to create legislation in the Senate?
How stupid are people, anyway? More frightening, how stupid do people think we are? And why do we keep living up to their low expectations?
I implore you, people: Vote Libertarian. It will take years, decades, perhaps centuries to turn things around, but if people don’t start voting on issues rather than by blind party loyalty, before long there will be nothing worth turning around.
NICK COLEMAN
Nick Coleman is a columnist for the Minneapolis Star-Tribune. I’ve written about him before. The mugshot of Nick, featured with his columns, should have a caption: “Please don’t hate me because I’m rich and white. I hate me because I’m rich and white, but it’s very important to me that you don’t hate me because I’m rich and white.”
Nick’s column today is one of his finest, meaning a fine display of just how misguided those with chronically bleeding hearts can be. Nick is railing about the fact that the State of Minnesota is once again gearing up to discuss public financing of sports stadiums. “We are getting closer to that glorious day when Minnesota throws hundreds of millions of dollars at new sports facilities,” says Nick.
And guess what: I agree with Nick that the last thing we need to do is provide multi-million (billion?) dollar gifts to spoiled millionaire athletes and franchise owners.
However, Nick’s point is that providing money for stadiums takes it away from more valuable taxpayer-subsidized endeavors, namely daycare for "at-risk" children. According to Nick, “50 babies got thrown out of a preschool in north Minneapolis.” He continues, attempting to bring tears to the eyes of his readers as he types in the study of his expansive mansion, “There were tears of anger, and there were dozens of young families—many led by single mothers still trying to finish school or to beat addiction—scrambling.”
I am tired of the veneration of single mothers. I am tired of not being able to judge people for their stupid actions. I am tired of having led a responsible life but having all of society's sentimentality, pity and revenue funneled towards people who do not seem to understand that sex = children, children = monetary/lifestyle hardships, and children + gambling addiction + no education + drug use = supremely fucked.
Taxpayer money should not go to millionaire athletes, but nor should it be wantonly dispensed to generation after generation of 14-year old girls who view childbirth as no more sacrosanct than a bowel movement.
Tell you what, Nick: Let’s compromise. I’ll pony up a sizeable donation to the daycare center of your choice if you’re willing to write a column suggesting that the barely-pubescent girls in North Minneapolis would do well to open a textbook rather than hop into bed with every boy that expresses an interest in them. Perhaps if they had to pay the cost of daycare themselves rather than get a magical check from the bottomless pit of government money they would realize that investing 75-cents in a condom readily accessible in any Super America restroom is a preferable alternative to having child after child you can’t afford.
D-GENERATION
Yesterday while cleaning I rediscovered the 1994 self-titled album by a band called D-Generation. They were a short-lived band and I’ve found very little about them on the Internet beyond this brief blurb mentioning that the various members are still active in the music industry.
D-Generation’s song “Feel Like Suicide” sums up suicide as well as the movie “Fight Club” describes insomnia. Here are the lyrics:
I’d give it all for a good night’s sleep
And I’ve been crying every day of the week
And I’m feeling so unusual inside
This look upon my face I just can’t hide
Dying every day
Dying every night
And I feel like suicide
A give my love away for keeps
And I wear my heart out on my sleeve
And there’s nothing you can do to make me stay
Cause I can’t relate to anything you say
Dying every day
Dying every night
And I feel like suicide
Coming down again
I’m losing all my friends
Caught up in a dream
You don’t know what I mean
I’m all used up inside
Gonna kiss you all good bye
I feel like suicide
The album is a hard rock masterpiece. Do yourself a favor and scour the "used" bin at your local record store for a copy.
THE MOST BEAUTIFUL THING EVER WRITTEN
As I mentioned while commenting on Crall’s blog yesterday, I recently read “The Sirens of Titan” by Kurt Vonnegut, Jr. It struck me while reading it that the Hitchhiker’s Guide to the Galaxy—the book series that changed my life as an adolescent—owes much to Vonnegut’s work. “The Sirens of Titan” contains what I believe to be the most beautiful passage ever written. I believe I’ve posted it before but will do so again because it gives me chills:
“You come and tell me the big news,” said Boaz, “you say ‘we’re going to be free!’ And I get all excited, and I drop everything I’m doin’, and I get set to be free.
“And I keep saying it over to myself about how I’m going to be free,” said Boaz, “and then I try to think what that’s going to be like, and all I can see is people. They push me this way, then they push me that—and nothing pleases ‘em, and they get madder and madder, on account of nothing makes ‘em happy. And they holler at me on account of I ain’t made ‘em happy, and we all push and pull some more.
“And then I say to myself,” said Boaz, “I ain’t never been nothing good to people, and people never been nothing good to me. So what I want to be free in crowds of people for?”
“I found me a place where I can do good without doing any harm, and I can see I’m doing good, and they love me as best they can. I found me a home.
“And when I lie down here some day,” said Boaz, “I’m going to be able to say to myself, Boaz, you made millions of lives worth living. Ain’t nobody ever spread more joy. You ain’t got an enemy in the Universe."
Boaz became for himself the affectionate Mama and Papa he’d never had. “You go to sleep now,” he said to himself, imagining himself on a stone deathbed in the caves. “You’re a good boy, Boaz,” he said. “Good night.”
THE SADDEST MOMENT OF THE WEEKEND
The saddest moment of the weekend is the last cup of coffee on Sunday.
I get up early and write on Sunday and have three cups while my wife still slumbers. Then, I brew a couple more cups for each of us.
Every Sunday, around 10:30 a.m., I pour the last cup and it’s a bit murky from sitting so long. It takes additional half-and-half to lighten it up, and it tastes bittersweet not only because it’s past its prime and I’m already riding a caffeine high, but because I realize it’s the last “pleasure cup” of java I’ll have ‘til next weekend.
During the week I drink coffee—lots of it—but it’s “necessity” coffee, not “pleasure” coffee. It’s the difference between a recreational marijuana user and a meth addict. It’s now 10:44 a.m. and it’s all downhill from here.
posted by Admin Worm at 8:05 AM
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