Archive for December, 2013

My evolutionary-based BS exceeds yours

Monday, December 30th, 2013

I can’t understand why American Protestants have such a difficult time with evolution as a scientific pathway to our present cultural and human incarnation.

Among religious groups, white evangelical Protestants topped the list of those rejecting evolution, with 64 percent of those polled saying they believe humans have existed in their present form since the beginning of time.

I will give the evangelicals this: at least they don’t try to find the “middle way” and sell out their faith like those lunatic “intelligent design” buffoons do. I respect religious people who stick to their guns. I don’t agree with the bullets, but there is respect. I respect the fact they are scientific illiterates.

But 33 percent reject the idea of evolution, saying that “humans and other living things have existed in their present form since the beginning of time,” Pew said in a statement.

I believe I’ve used this anecdote before, but I’ll repeat it for the sake of this post. In one of my college Lit classes (1990-ish), a student took our professor to task after his interpretation of a literary passage, which the professor did not exactly embrace emphatically, with the retort, in front of the uneasy class, “Oh, so your bullshit is better than my bullshit?” We all sat quietly.

It reminds me of this discussion/argument which pits creationists and darwinists. The poll alluded to above embodies the divide between Creationism and Darwinism. My bullshit is better than yours.

The Creationist vomits bullshit with his silly “humans have not changed for millions of years despite the multitude of climate changes, shifts in predation and fauna” perspective while concurrently calling the concept of Evolution “magic.” And in return, the Darwinians boast that science is on their side (even though the only “science” is disconnected, carbon-dated evidence) while mocking the creationist’s view of a static human progression.

Personally, as far as I’m concerned, evolution is a no-brainer. The number of permutations available a typical DNA strand and its underlying transmutable structure which accommodates most environmental divergences is astounding, and furthermore, backed up with fossil records.

But ultimately, it’s my bullshit.

Better than yours.

Too long for a bumpersticker…

Monday, December 30th, 2013

1970: Our fathers got drunk, we got stoned

2000: Our fathers got stoned…

2020: We all get stoned

While Santa was delivering gifts, I brought death.

Friday, December 27th, 2013

My life. My fucking life.

You might think I make a lot of this shit up but no…it’s my life.

Was it that great Hispanic fag sage who uttered the wise words mi vida loca?

I think it was.
Well my vida is very loca, baby. I stumble upon a grand course of chaos each time I step out of my crumpled, smelly, cum-crusted bed.

Loca!!

Remember that post from Christmas night?
Specifically, the clip I showed of me squeezing by the land whale in order to withdraw money from the ATM for my son’s birthday card?

Note the time stamp. My dash cam has a few cool parameters, such as a time clock, a GPS positioning measure, a “car ID,” and speed. The only drawback with mine is that it is the SD version and resolution sucks, especially at night. The only reason this video is clear is because most 7-11 parking lots are lit up like Dodger Stadium. Once I coast into the darkness of a typical residential street at night, visibility turns to absolute shit on my dash cam.

But, I digress.

Immediately after the video above, I continued into the 7-11, made my ATM withdrawal, walked back to my car comfortably (because the fat-ass crew had left by then) and drove out of the parking lot, into a narrow, dark alley, and back to the residential street. My dash cam captures little because it sucks, but this is how it looked, sorta.

So, I pull out to the main street and your mind tends to de-focus at such times. Especially when you’ve been driving for 33 years. After driving so long, knowledge and experience become a drawback. They actually hamper performance. The experience is beneficial, but eventually, situations will arise in which your precious experience does not counteract the smug over-confidence. And if anyone is capable of smug confidence, it is I! I drove onto the street and I think I probably didn’t pay as much attention to my environment as I should have because 99,999 of these situations have proved harmless in the past. But in East L.A. people build their life around that 1/100,000. They do! Mexicans love to play the odds. Well, in this case, this little fucking fur ball paid the price. Everyone was standing on the sidewalk, popping their stupid car alarm, paying attention to everything and nothing at the same time, and of course the pooch was forgotten. The pooch ran back and forth but my overly-trained eye disregaded everything.

That little shit ran out in front of me once, I disregarded the input and next thing you know, it ran out again!

Wump.

I had my window open. I heard a squeal, a yelp. I thought I ran over a trash bag.

I looked in my mirror and saw a dog writhing in the street. People running to do whatever it is they do with dying animals.

I drove on. I was fucking late.

I had to take money out for a gift.

Lock your dogs up.

Fuck all you animal lovers.

After-hours 7-11 scumbags

Wednesday, December 25th, 2013

Last night, after the gifts were opened and the food shoved down my fat gullet, I did what I normally do after I come home. I logged in to all my online accounts and slowly dissembled all the bullshit that fumed like big shitwaves spelling out this thing I call a “life.”

I clicked in my dash cam’s devoted SD card and replayed the evening’s driving events but replayed a single one over a few times for it was quite laughable and disgusting and I never had any intention of replaying it here. And I would have let it be, sitting in my private vault to guffaw over during those many periods of boredom which intermittently befall my existence.

And so it should have remained, except I read a local story about a 7-11 clerk in Highland Park who was robbed and killed overnight by 2 Black men. It feels so wrong to allude to race in crime stories now. Most news stations avoid it if at all possible. A typical news story can tell you who was killed, where they were killed, how they were killed, who they left behind, their family’s faces and house, even their Facebook account, but if the race and description of the witnessed suspects is not aired, we can safely assume they are Black, maybe Hispanic. It seems most major news organizations have a “don’t ask, don’t say” unofficial policy regarding racial reporting. It’s as if merely reporting that witnesses reported the suspect was Black is in some way shamefully sentencing all Blacks to lives of crime. It’s ridiculous because everyone can see through it. We live in such a weak era of liberal inhibition that even alluding to unfavorable race facts (even if they are attributable fact) is a no-no. So if 5 witnesses said the guy who shot up a family before taking their car was Black, the news will merely say a car was stolen and leave it at that. No one wants to have to report the dour news. Another Black murder. Heavens,. Who said that? Only a racist would say this. Let’s avoid important suspect description in the name of PC expediency.

Anyways, the clerk, Gonzalo Perez, one of my people, a Mexican immigrant who was sending some of his income to his family in Mexico while supporting his daughter in Los Angeles, was working a night shift at the store when a couple of Black dudes entered about 10:30 and acted as if they needed help. When Perez approached the counter, they went into robbery mode and as Perez fled the scene, he was shot in the stomach and later died at a nearby hospital. Maybe he should have stuck it out, but frankly, I would have done the same thing. I won’t entrust my life to two thugs with guns. Perez tried to take charge of his situation and paid the price. Police say that a 7-11, about a mile away in Lincoln Heights (another Hispanic neighborhood) was robbed about an hour previous and surveillance tapes are being examined as well. 7-11 is promising full cooperation because it is their ass on the line. They need to exude an air of authority and action about this mess. Even if you don’t care about the Mexican cashier, a flash mob of Black robbers with guns is dangerous to everyone in the vicinity, so it will give you pause when you think of going to 7-11 late at night if there are marauders storming 7-11s after-hours.

Funny thing, the KTLA video stream is continuous, and right after the 7-11 story, another local news item aired having to do with another after-hours incident at a convenience story. In this case, a married couple returning from a work Christmas party in Jefferson Park, William Jennings, and his wife, Tamisha (Tameesha?), was struck by violence when William decided to run down to the “convenience store” while his wife stayed behind. Somewhere along the way, Mr. Jennings became embroiled in an argument and was stabbed to death by a man who is barely perceptible in the surveillance video the police nabbed from a nearby business. I thought it unusual that the weapon of choice here was a knife. When I think of Black inner city murder, I think guns, so this was a bit different. I also found it curious that the blondie news reporter didn’t seem to have any qualms about identifying the race of the alleged murderer. She explicitly said it was a Black man. The footage made it very obvious. The man who stabbed Jennings was in fact…Black. Yet, the suspects who are identified in entering the 7-11 before Perez’ murder, though Black, by all visual accounts, are not identified as “Black suspects” in news accounts.

highland-park-suspects

So it appears the algorithm which news stations use to refer to race is instructed purely by the race of the victim. If the victim is the same race as the “alleged attacker,” then it’s OK to identify their race. If not, well we then must say nothing.

Bottom line, convenience stores, especially in the dark, during holidays, are simply bad news.

There is nothing good that can come of convenience stores. This is where the worst of the worst congregate.

Normal, responsible people do not go to 7-11 when it’s dark. This is common sense. During holidays, the rule expands and includes most of the day.

Back to the few seconds of footage I didn’t plan on showing here, but have decided to because my blogging duty called. The ultimate fault was my own because I planned on taking money out from the ATM in order to give my son cash for his Christmas card. I had planned on this since the weekend. Do you think I did it on the weekend? On Monday? Early on Tuesday? Of course not.

I waited until the very last minute. I stopped at a barrio 7-11 on the way to my parents. I bought my son’s cash gift minutes before I handed him his card. What a sad parent I am. Anyways, I pulled into the very crowded 7-11 parking lot. All the stalls were filled. Parking was at a premium. I spied an empty stall in front of the store and as someone walked by, I sped up to pull in and saw that this fat dude had just gotten out of his car to throw trash away, but left his door wide open in the process, semi-blocking the empty parking stall. I was in a hurry and irritated. Common sense, you fat motherfucker, I thought. I still pulled into the spot, cutting it close. The driver of the car uttered something loud because he feared for his door. The fat dude rushed back from his trash expedition but rather than close his door when he sat back in the car, he left it wide open. He was being a big (literally) smart-ass dick and he left his door wide open. I squeezed through the narrow space he left, jarring my rear view mirror in the process. I went straight to my ATM (that’s me in the horizontal-striped polo shirt).

This is 7-11, this is convenience.

Responsible, sensible people take care of their shit during the day. They are at home when this sort of scumbag comes out at night.

And I have no problem admitting I am sometimes…a scumbag.

An emetophobe’s lament (*warning, faint image of vomit*)

Monday, December 23rd, 2013

It destroys me every day I have to pass by it.

I refuse to park near it, although today I blanked and forgot where it was, and discovered to my horror that I was only about 2 or 3 spaces down from the bubbly, repulsive spectacle. It lives in perpetual disgust, a pile of fear, a puddle that rivets a dagger of torment through my soul.

And yet. I cannot not look. I have to look. It’s at least a week old. Today I parked too close and I flinched. But at least I got a photo of it, from the safety of my car’s rolled up windows.

puke litle

I cannot get any closer, ever.

It is the biggest puke puddle I think I’ve ever seen. Now it’s quite possible there have been others bigger, but this one is new and it’s fresh and the impression it leaves on my mind is of pond-sized mammoth-osity. This is a big freakin’ gooey glob of vomit. It sits on the third floor of the parking structure at the wall-end of a parking stall. I’m an emetophobe and this thing terrifies the absolute shit out of me. I can’t take the sight or the existence of such a repulsive, projectiled substance of abdominal origins. I want to run, but on the other hand. I can’t take my eyes away from this.

It’s catharsis of terror.

I spy from afar, because I can never get close enough to experience the detail of this pool of despair. Still, I find that I glance at this dried vomit lake bed every time I pass because I simply must experience the horror anew each time, from an albeit hazy, distant viewpoint. I can’t allow myself to get close enough to detail its minute construction.

It’s well-preserved by the normal yardstick of public pukes. It sits in a covered parking structure, the sun never diffuses or evaporates its slimy entrails. Birds and other vomit-eating creatures don’t enter our parking structure. It is a cold time of year. The puke has nowhere to go so it just sits there, retaining all its wonderfully original vivid colors and texture, preserved in time for my anguish.

I contemplate its origins through the phobic haze that frightens my consternation. It is a big puke. It looks like someone heaved up a full Mexican or Italian dinner.

How must that have that sounded or looked to witness first-hand? It’s bad enough living with the dreadful aftereffects on a daily basis. I can’t imagine having been there when this filthy splurge was left upon our pristine Earth.

The image, of mythical birth and proportions, grows in the tremulous caverns of my soul, and what was once small grows like a consuming blob of puke. Each time I pass it, the untold story grows more eerie and mysterious and its sour, rancid tendrils come to wicked life and extend out persistently and will not allow me to flee.

puke big

Help my soul.