America = buncha lazy people with too much money to burn.

Stuff like this has become a blight upon a spoiled abscess on the collective pampered American ass. “Ready made meals to cook” has turned into a thing. All shipped to your door in a wonderful biodegradable box. Oh so urban and lazy-ass of you.

home chef
home chef 1

The foodie generation is a lazy, apathetic conglomeration of encapsulated non-humans. Shielded from life, insulated from growth and ruggedness.

They are all fucking Chihuahua’s in sweaters.

Posted in L1

About Doctors Without Borders and Craig Spencer’s apparent shortage of domestic altruism.

I stand by my words from this post a few days back.

The group does admirable work and mankind is better for it.

But this.

The doctor [Craig Spencer] began feeling sluggish a couple of days ago, but it wasn’t until Thursday, when he developed 103-degree fever, that he contacted Doctors Without Borders, authorities said.

I expect more consideration and thought from such medical emissaries, even after they return home. Especially after they return home.

I get the sense that some of these people might be so wrapped up in helping the world that they shortchange their own neighbors. It’s as if they come home and suddenly that facade of saintly volunteerism crumbles into a shit pile of disregard and irresponsibility.

I almost wonder if some First World people infect themselves in a fit of psychotic vainglory.

Posted in L1

The failure of Richter’s Riposte and why men should not add this meek move to their arsenal.

The other day, a chorus of Reddit neophytes greeted a clip from Conan featuring a droll but friendly exchange/clash between the greatest sidekick ever, Andy Richter, and unfunny henchwoman, Chelsea Handler, with cyber-cheers and pumped fists and hollers of hoo-ya. They presumed, in their delusional little minds, that they had witnessed some serious comeuppance on the part of Richter for a rather weak defense he slung back at the jack-off-of-all-trades pop cultural female icon who had just owned the chubby comedian.

Richter, having acknowledged that he enjoys swimming in the ocean, is suddenly the target of Handler’s caustic, belittling retort, “You must…do you float a lot in the ocean?” Richter shrugs and answers weakly with a barb that is hardly the greatest comeback ever. “Sure…what, do you sink? It might be that cast iron heart.”

His desperate offense-is-the-best-defense snark is sniveled, but it falls flat as a worthy response to Handler’s ad hominem bullying.

(Incidentally, I love Andy Richter…I’m just calling it as I see it).

The exchange was hailed as the “greatest comeback ever” by Redditors. This is ridiculous. Who would dare voice such a claim other than some young cyberfiend with zero knowledge of the female creature? Only from this undersexed perspective could Richter’s retort be remotely considered a decent defense against the fat-shaming, emasculating put-down.

If that is what today’s young males consider a worthy riposte against a scornful, aggressive Alpha woman’s insults, Western American culture is in sorry-ass shape.

You never attempt to sincerely insult a woman by alluding to her cast iron heart/meanness/cruelty/insensitivity/fiendish nature/assertiveness/bitchiness/bossiness. To do so is to bring your butter-knife to the gunfight. These descriptors are praise to women’s ears, especially women of the 21st century. If young guys believe women don’t like being perceived as such, they really have a lot of catching up to do in the battle of the sexes. Women eat that kind of slander up! A woman will feel privately empowered and proud at being the receiving end of such accusations. Richter resorted to a default simpering Beta state here when confronted with the unqualified slings of personal attack that only women can get away in public (ie, imagine if the roles had been reversed). Richter probably buys into the “all women are special snowflakes” mentality and thus, has integrated the mindset that this is the self-perception that pleases them and makes them giddy, when in reality, women hate being perceived as retiring snowflakes; they’d rather be slushy, shit-encrusted mud wreaking havoc on your weak male spirit.

Insult Handler’s age, her wrinkled skin, her weathered appearance. This is how to hurt. Shoot to kill, not to vaguely malign.

Insulting a woman’s vanity is the surest way into her cast iron heart.

Posted in L3

Renee Zellweger’s plastic path to the mundane tract home.

Here I am, the consummate blogger, pontificating about the important issues of the day; those that affect each of us in astounding measures of gravity.

That’s what I do, and it is also why I am taking time and energy to write about a controversial schism that has apparently pierced the heart of the American public today.

It is this, of course.


Renee Zellweger, a woman whose movies I have not exerted effort to watch, nevertheless intrigued me for years. Her nuanced facial structure, while not classically molded, was still attractive to me. I found it aesthetically magnetic. I loved her look. It was unmistakable. It had character, to borrow a tired, soothing refrain. Those draping, concealing eyelids shadowing sweet sparkling blue eyes, the vulnerability of her narrow lips, the girlish jut of her pleasant chin…she was such a cutie. The sweetest girl next door, but in a manner which screamed, “I’m taking a different path into your heart!”

I’m speaking of the Renee on the left, of course.

It seems the Zellweger of old has metamorphosed over the past several years into this odd cookie-cutter Stepford creature that bears no resemblance to the charming girl I once adored. Photographs reveal that Zellweger has apparently parted with precious money (this is unsubstantiated…she has never admitted to plastic surgery, nor have any acquaintances stated such with confidence) in order to look like every other blonde, over-tanned and over-luxuriated Valley or OC housewife in SoCal.

She has gone from cutely unusual and visually provoking to a white bread ho-hum one-size-fits-all shade of Anglo.

Zellweger’s evolution is emblematic of our culture of conformity and collective lack of originality. A world in which beauty is defined anyway you want so long as it’s marketable and familiar and boring. Soulless.

And as all piercing glimpses into society must, this Zellwegerian ascendance to Valley Housewife was greeted on Facebook with a chorus of expressions of shock and bemusement.

To which, I responded:

She traded in an old Victorian for a tract home.

Posted in L4

She gave me a sour expression, and in return, I give her .00317 seconds of anonymity.

On this blog, well aware of the vast, countless cosmic reaches that my blowhard bloviating extends to each time I press that grueling PUBLISH button, I am quite happy and accommodating when it comes to extending others their deserved, or at the very least, unearned, 15 minutes of fame, virtue of Social Extinction.

Never one to selfishly horde all notoriety and fame that attends such legendary bloggery, I am very happy to draw others into this arena of whoredom.

As you may know, and perhaps have cringed to learn, I like to let my dashcam “roll” during those periods I’m not in the car as well. I find it engaging and oddly involving to watch the parking lotscape idle by while I run into the store or restaurant or wherever that requires I park my car, unattended.

Yesterday this Asian chick peered at my windshield. It was as if she spotted my dashcam. Could she have known?

In return, I giver her my 15 minutes of fame. Or, since it is this blog, maybe her .00317 seconds of anonymity. Regardless, here you go, sweetie!


Posted in L1

American Ebola soldiers are next. Militarization of American health response. (Don’t vomit in public if you value your freedom).

I posted this meme yesterday, and it grows truer each day.

Ebola Flag10

Another excuse (pretense) for the Feds to bring down some whoopass on the citizenry and hence, another avenue for nationalistic police response which will sternly cite “American safety and security concerns” as the unarguable methods for increasing governmental intrusion into our lives.

Be careful you don’t vomit in public. You might find Federal MD’s rigged up in airtight scrubs and armed with machine guns breaking down your door and taking you away to the great mysterious quarantine ward in the mountains.

Barack Obama has been the worst thing this country’s ostensible myth of personal liberty has ever seen.

The Pentagon will train a 30-person expeditionary medical support team to provide immediate assistance to civilian health professionals in the U.S. if additional Ebola cases arise, the Defense Department said Sunday.

Defense Secretary Chuck Hagel ordered his Northern Command Commander, Gen. Chuck Jacoby, to assemble a 30-person team that will spend a week undergoing specialized training in infection control and personal protective equipment at Fort Sam Houston in Texas. The training is expected to begin within the next week and will be provided by the U.S. Army Medical Research Institute of Infectious Diseases, Pentagon Press Secretary Rear Admiral John Kirby said in a statement.

Posted in L1

“One big family” – understatement posing as assholesnide or blubberingstupid?

Sometimes, especially on Facebook, it’s hard to tell if someone is being assholesnide or just blubberingstupid.

“One big family”

A master of understatement or the most passive aggressive jibe ever.
You decide.

big family 1

Posted in L3

The politicization of Ebola is the contagious projectile vomiting of the chattering class.

Such Ebola craziness that grips our psyche.

I don’t think I’ve seen quite the collective clenching of rectal muscles across the populace in quite a long time.

It’s like Invasion Of The Body Snatchers IRL, except the enemy is not sleep, it is dusty Africans with red eyeballs and projectile missiles. There is nothing quite as magnificent as a coldly utilitarian microbe to disrupt our sense of peace and complacency and to evoke the most strident and lunatic paranoia’s.

Being of the INTJ, scientific-minded persuasion, I find it difficult to palate that moment when it’s apparent most people around me are reacting in purely emotional, superstitious and unthinking frightful manners of myopic pedagogic reactivity.

I cannot help it.

I’m not an emotional reactor. I don’t allow emotions and fears to paint my opinions. An opinion is a preciously intelligent human asset. I don’t tolerate abandoning our high-level cranial appraisals of life for raw, primitive, autonomic reactions to perceived danger without the benefit of rational, analytic thought.

The Ebola “plague” is one such trigger that separates the clear-minded from chicken little hysteria.

This casts me into a role of uncomfortable duality in which I find that I commiserate with many people while concomitantly disagreeing and clashing with their sense of impending doom.

I agree with them about Ebola on several levels.

Yes, it is a frightening, lethal virus.
Yes, it poses a danger to Americans.
Yes, the American government’s reaction, and in turn, that of its representative health infrastructure, has been pathetic, repressed, moronic, short-sighted, ulterior, thoughtless, and bureaucratic.

And I disagree with them as well.

No, Ebola will not become a pandemic.
No, Ebola will not fulfill the ancient predictions of global pestilence.
No, Ebola will not become airborne.
No, Ebola will not lay waste to humankind.

Too many people have privately, blindly, politicized this viral outbreak and they continue quite happily exaggerating its dangers in order to add more sheen to their anti-Obama (ie, “Obola”) fetish. They are invested in this chain of “logic.” It’s quite predictable now that I find the greatest purveyors of “Ebola is coming to get you” paranoia plot lines are similarly the same people who secretly relish the thought that gradually, this administration’s already tarnished coat will turn to shit brown the more fierce and deadly the Ebola outbreak becomes in the United States. I am convinced this breed of Ebola-adulating ideologue cheers on the bad news in the privacy of their own infantilized Obama-hating anti-science minds.

Of course the American government is stinking up the hospital room. But it merely highlights the ineffectiveness of a federally response to a local health emergency that is best managed by local experts and professionals. We don’t need Federal fearmongers perpetuating the ignorance of the chattering classes.

The Ebola virus has been a source of great fodder for my evil Photoshoppery. On this note, I unveil my latest in accordance with this post.

Ebola Flag10

Posted in L7

All I Want To Do Is Not Talk (apologies to BRMC).

I hate talking.

I try to talk as little as possible. I abhor the phone and I avoid gatherings. I despise opening my mouth. At times, many times, depending on situations, I can’t be sure what exactly I will say. I have no control over my words. It’s as if my mind is way behind (or way ahead of) my voice, my larynx, my fucking lips. It’s frustrating.

I’m the worst public speaker in the world. I would put money on this. All my money. All of it, every last mute penny.

I find it easier to write everything out.

I try to say “A” and “B,” according to what my brain formulated, but by the time the verbiage is transacted and processed and spewed out my mouth, it sounds like “A” turned to “C” before morphing into a muttered and soiled hybrid of “B” and “a,” a cacophonous mess that makes no sense.

I really despise being forced to express myself verbally. I find it frightening and formidable and I, who takes great pains to appear halfway intelligent, am stupefied when my utterances betray the disjointed ramblings of a complete short-bused moron.

I hate talking with every ounce of my soul!

I can never judge or plan what I words flee me like an arsonist flees a house when it catches fire. Spoken words are my enemy of frustration.

What I could write on paper, my flowery silent thoughts, turn to mush when given sound. My tongue, molded, uncooperative, shapes meandering gibberish. Talking drains me.

Even when I have something to say, talking drains me. I don’t like to squander my energy speaking. It’s dumb. Who needs phones, who needs meetings, who needs human companionship?

Everything we do involves talking talking talking talking, incessant fucking talking. We do nothing but chatter like nervous, inane little monkeys. We have little to say, but who cares, we love to talk.

I was interviewed about 2 years ago, thanks to ill-advised attention I received because of this blog. The interview was held via Skype. It was the worst disaster ever in this history of mankind. I sounded confused, disorganized, unfocused. After the interview wrapped, I wanted to pull my tongue out and set it on fire for its grave betrayal of my good name. To this day, I have never listened to that interview. I just cannot. I cannot fathom listening to myself talk. In fact, I sorta broke my word by taking the link down from my site only a month or so after the interview. Broken promises are born of mute frustration.

Talking is alien to me, much as murder would be to all normal people. I do it poorly. It spears my lucidity.

I hate talking.

Why do people enjoy it so much? I can’t express smoothly in verbal fashion. Meetings at work leave me speechless and I defer to emails to truly express myself to my utmost ability.

There are maybe 3 or 4 people in the world I feel comfortable speaking to. In certain situations, I actually can be eloquent. In such rare moments, everything I think is flawlessly converted to spoken words with confidence, certainty and absolute assertion.

It’s rare, like the dodo bird.

All I ever want to do is not talk.

Posted in L2

Médecins Sans Frontières, a horrendous taste of hope.

Politics and petty paranoia’s aside, I feel nothing but awe and admiration at the work that Doctors Without Borders does. Their selfless and fearless missions, as evidenced by their recent immersion in the West African Ebola hot zones, speaks to an altruism and courage that I can’t even come close to approaching personally. The medical professionals portrayed in this video have chosen to battle a brutal pathogen rather than lazily sink into a leisurely and complacent ennui zone of First World myopia. How can we hold that against them? They are the best humanity has to offer in a world ravaged by fear and suspicion and the tendrils of death.

Frontline episode about Ebola fighters

Posted in L2