The holidays began this year sometime around the ides of November, with a surprise in the mailbox: a birthday card addressed to me in my younger brother’s wretched handwriting. After the obligatory “older than I am” joke, he had written:
You’re old, old, old, old, old. And crazy.
Love, Jason
“Sweet fancy tap-dancing Jesus, Ivins!” roared Sam. “What crapped on your head?”
Ann abandoned her effort at slinking into the Scholars and Rogues newsroom; an effort, if truth be told, rendered futile at its inception by not only the astonishing configuration of her normally flat, mousy hair, but also by the conspicuously awkward floating-head stride she was attempting to maintain. She sighed, gingerly lowered herself into her chair, offloaded an enormous tote bag, and only then replied, “It’s an updo, boss.” Full Story »
Taking a hiatus from posting has allowed me the opportunity to more fully inhabit the comment threads of the bastion of progressive genius that is Scholars and Rogues… and I’m ready to go home now. While there are many, many marvelous commenters here, every now and then one of the less desirable sorts takes up residence – or a worthy citizen or regular poster (!) has a moment of weakness, succumbing to the temptation of an all-out online brawl, becoming for a moment one of my least favorite types to run into in a dark thread late at night. Such as:
Forget terrorism, torture, genocide, mad dictators, the fate of the world, the state of your IRA, that fleeting pain in your left arm, the whereabouts of your daughter every time she leaves the house.
Let’s be afraid… for the fun of it.
In honor of Hallowe’en – and not the Harvest Hop or the Fall Festival or some other eye-gougingly inane euphemism, the real Hallowe’en – a murder of Scrogues share with you the stories, books and poems that first terrified them as children, or the tales that make them shiver in their intellectually elitist boots today. Because let’s face it: the boogeyman doesn’t care about your voting record, your political views or your rhetorical skills.
He wants to know when you’re going to turn out the light.
Bitch, please. This isn’t Cosmo, and never mind how I can come up with four or five of those titles right off the top of my head. These are a few simple, surprisingly little-known facts about feminists that I’ve put together as a service to the astonishingly large number of people who toss the “f” bomb around without a clue as to its meaning, its history or how asinine they sound. Ignorance may be bliss, but idiots get on my last nerve, so let’s start with a helpful definition.
“Feminism(here we go) is a discourse that involves (endlessly variable) movements, theories and philosophies (immensely important though often migraine-inducing) which are concerned with the issue of gender (and sex, because, hey, biology exists) difference (if that’s not too divisive), advocate equality (or equity, or parity, or some therapeutic ball-busting) for women , and campaign for (and argue about) women’s (or womyn’s, or humyn’s (I didn’t make that up)) rights and interests (including women of any color, any religion, and any orientation, but expect all estrogen hell to break loose if anyone says the words “class” or “race”).” *
So much for helpful. How about “women are human?” Let’s go with that… Full Story »
At Moron.com, we understand the challenges of today’s fast-paced job market. We realize that an ever-changing world requires ever-evolving skills. We want to help.
Meet Alberto G. – one of the shining stars of Moron.com’s Professional Development Program. In the eleven months since his entirely voluntary resignation, Alberto has completed the following courses, custom-designed by Moron.com to fit his professional and personal needs.
War Crime Confidential: Plausible Deniability Beyond “I Don’t Recall”
Toadying in the New Millennium
Fire Away! No, Wait, Don’t
Bobbing and Weaving 101
and most recently:
This is Mr. Briefcase, This is Mr. Shredder: National Security and You
Congratulations, Alberto – and we know your star will continue to shine.
Street theater is a traditional medium of political dissent, but the protesters at the 2008 Democratic National Convention might do well to look to the Denver police for a lesson in clear and effective improvisational performance.
Whatever the private depths of American bigotry may be, one thing is clear. In publicly sanctioned discourse, a powerful black man is no longer anybody’s nigger, but a powerful woman is still every misogynist’s bitch.
Yes, I’m angry about that.No, I don’t plan to get over it, shut up about it or stop working to change it. It seems you’re even angrier than I am, because your rage has evidently destroyed any principles or intelligence you may once have had. Hillary Clinton tried to show you the big picture, but if it’s only about women’s issues for you, let this woman point out what your resentment vote for John McCain will buy you and me and all of our daughters and sisters and friends for the next eight years or so. Full Story »
He maneuvered the sign according to my directions, forgave my lamentable awkwardness with a camera and asked me where I was from. Then he hugged me. I think I felt something wet on my cheek.I’m praying it’s not what I thought it was.
The makeup case was purged of any shade of eyeshadow in the blue family. The Aquanet went reluctantly into the bathroom cabinet, replaced by a bottle of flowery-smelling goo with “organic” somewhere on the label. Fingernails were stripped of fuchsia lacquer and pruned to a length that would cause any respectable Junior Leaguer to go into immediate manicure panic. Finally, the greatest sacrifice a Texan woman can make: every garment, shoe and personal accessory sporting rhinestones was ruthlessly cut from the packing list, leaving as my entire wardrobe one pair of jeans and a nursing bra from two years ago.
The Catholic League’s request to Leah Daughtry to ban the blogs BitchPhD and Towleroad from the Democratic National Convention came as something of a shock to those of us here at Scholars and Rogues. Frankly, Mr. Donohue, we are hurt. Our offices contain no balloon figures of Jesus, with or without genitalia (you say “apparently albino penis,†I say “loincloth†– oh wait! There’s the penis! Or should it be Penis?). Our site features no links to intensely homoerotic coverage of the hottest Olympic athletes, despite insistent lobbying from at least two of our staff members. Our humble blog, unlike Daily Kos, may never become the Internet apotheosis of evil radicalism. We know our place. We are what we are.
What we are, Mr. Donohue, is a blog at least ten times as offensive to the Catholic League as the so-called “patently obscene†publications to which you so vehemently object.
The sign reads “Floore Country Store.†Everyone knows it’s “Floore’s†– everyone from around here, that is. Tonight at 9:00 Lyle Lovett takes the stage with a pared-down Large Band. Full Story »
Despite the valiant efforts of a high-tech climate control system, temperatures on the convention floor of the National Association of Letter Carriers were rising. Dismal economic prospects, a steep decline in mail volume, crippling fuel costs, the weakening power of NALC due to falling membership: union president Bill Young’s keynote address, a litany of impending disasters, had delegates loosening ties, mopping brows and hoping against hope that the panic sweat dripping down their collective backs would be blocked at the beltline instead of puddling inconveniently down below. Faces flushed. Hair fell flat. Eight thousand valiant postal carriers weltered in the humid atmosphere of fear… except for one man.
One man in a skirt.
One man standing tall, proud and exquisitely well ventilated.
This man. Dean Peterson – the modern postal carrier’s champion of comfort and hygiene, fighting advocate for the unisex kilt as an approved uniform option for every dedicated deliverer of the nation’s correspondence.
In the spotlight: upcoming legislative opportunity
Job Summary: Republican Senior Senator from Alaska (well, not originally from Alaska, but who’s keeping track?)
Principal Responsibilities: represent and defend the interests of the citizens of the Great State of Alaska, particularly those who own and operate logging companies, oil rigs, natural gas pipelines, nuclear waste repositories, highway construction companies and salmon fisheries.
Qualifications: Strong dedication to traditional Republican family values, including gay-bashing and sharing kickbacks with the kids. Full Story »
“The political cartoon is not a news story and not an oil portrait. It’s essentially a means for poking fun, for puncturing pomposity. Cartooning is an irreverent form of expression, and one particularly suited to scoffing at the high and the mighty.”
Even an unrepentant smartass (ahem) can grasp the nuances of the controversy over David Remnick’s unfortunate choice of a certain political cartoon as cover art for the July 21st issue of The New Yorker. However, amid the flurry of accusations and defenses – racist, anti-racist, inappropriate (a milquetoast catchall and a perpetual irritant), too easy to misinterpret, impossible to misunderstand, bad taste, protected speech, not funny – one criticism resonates with me as perhaps more of a fundamental issue than many realize.
It’s bad satire. It doesn’t work.
The reasons for its failure have very little to do with its potentially explosive subject and almost everything to do with some basic tenets of art in general and editorial cartooning in particular.
Generally, a combination of ladylike reticence and consideration for the insecurities of my fellow bloggers prevents me from mentioning the great state which I call home. Extraordinary circumstances, however, have at last overcome my scruples. In the light of today’s Supreme Court ruling forbidding states, cities and municipalities from forbidding handgun ownership, and before Scalia and company begin ostentatiously flinging sidearms to a cheering populace, I feel it is my duty to point out the leadership role of the land of my birth.In the fight to uphold the blessed Second Amendment of the Constitution of these here United States, Texas has always been a shining beacon of hope to the teeming masses who struggle for their God-given right to own unlicensed semi-automatics and carry a Colt .45 in any diaper bag.
Her: Why do even the nicest straight guys get weird when you talk about gay sex? Are men just naturally more homophobic than women?
Me: We’re talking gay male sex , right? Her: Yeah, of course. Straight chicks don’t act like that when you talk about lesbians.
Me: Uncontaminated ones don’t. Her: Uncontaminated?
Me: By patriarchal fundamentalist religions… but that’s a whole different can of writhing phallic worms. Her: Oh, right. But what’s the deal with uncontaminated guys?
Me: You mean, why do their anal sphincters snap shut with a faintly audible *pop* right before they remember to mention all their gay friends? Her: Yeah, the sphincter snap.
Me: Let me think about it… Her: You’re going to use this for that Guide thing, aren’t you? It’s about men, not women.
Her: E? E? E?????
Her: Goddamnit. Don’t use my name, for Christ’s sake.
In your everyday, rational mind, the predominant fear will be that he has a gun again. You will check the street name and house number as you drive up, in case the door is locked, in case there will have to be phone calls and a need for accuracy. You are not here very often.
When your brother finally answers you from inside the bathroom, slurred and droning, you will recognize the tone and think, relieved, “Pills – he’s overdosed. But he’s conscious.†He will claim he can’t get up; his mother-in-law, who lives with them and will have been in her bedroom only two closed doors away, oblivious, not answering the house phone, will scurry to find a skeleton key.
You will learn in the next few minutes that a well-rehearsed nightmare may form an arc of hypnotic deja vú over a completely unique experience; that portents are not always wrong; that the picture in your subconscious, rational or not, may be the one that comes true. When at last the paramedics and police have gone, taking with them that white and massive lump of flesh, you will realize with every eyeblink that the devil of memory is truly in the details your dreams can never supply.
“Mr. Euphrosyne†asked: “Which do you think had more impact on the Democratic primary, racism or sexism?â€Fortunately for his own eardrums and the continuation of their marriage, Mr. E then actually looked at Mrs. E and was immediately and forcefully reminded that her Xanax refill was still waiting at the pharmacy. The paragon of wisdom and patience left to pick up the Peachy Pills of Pacification, Mrs. E stuck her head in the freezer until the Chunky Monkey started to melt, and everyone concerned agreed that perhaps it would be best to answer a different question this week.
“Artsy Friend in Portland†asked: “So, E, should we be banging liberals or conservatives?â€
The holidays began this year sometime around the ides of November, with a surprise in the mailbox: a birthday card addressed to me in my younger brother’s wretched handwriting. After the obligatory “older than I am” joke, he had written:
