May 2011 Archives

victim of the week: abraham foxman

Rewarding achievements in claiming victimization

So former NFL player Tiki Barber has been hiding from the media by living in his agent's attic.

"Lep's Jewish," Barber joked. "And it was like a reverse Anne Frank thing."

Funny? Not particularly. In fact, it's closer to defacating on Auschwitz's mass graves, if the level of hyperbole aimed at Mr. Barber is any indication. Abraham H. Foxman, attention-seeking missile (and also national director of the Anti-Defamation League), described Barber's comment thusly:

"Holocaust trivialization continues to spread and finds new ways and expressions that shock the conscience...Our history and experiences are ours and deserve greater respect than being abused or perverted by Tiki Barber. The analogy to Anne Frank is not funny, it is outrageous and perverse...Her life should never be debased or degraded by insensitive and offensive analogies."

A Jew publicly crucifying an undeserving black man? Why, it's like a double-reverse Jesus thing.

idiots, self-identifying

This glorious site tracks people who took The Onion articles seriously and, outraged, posted about them on their Facebook.

tumblr_llkditPaSk1qkt6yoo1_r1_500.png

What a genius concept for a tumblr.

the hangover

For years, Flo and I have talked about doing an American Idol finale drinking game. No party ever materialized, what with our both having no friends, so this year she brought over a couple of bottles and a toothbrush.

And thus did we agree to each do a half shot every time Randy said someone had "really brought it tonight," a quarter-shot every time Steven said "beautiful" (we're not superhuman, after all), a full shot if Mariah/Celine/Whitney were mentioned, and so on. We were happily about five shots into the festivities when the following calamity occurred: they did montages of the judges spouting cliches.

For the record, Randy saying "in it to win it" was half a shot. Montage result: six more shots.

Steven saying something incomprehensible was valued at two shots. I lost count at eighteen more shots.

"I quit" we said in unison, staring with disbelief at the Steven montage.

standard advice 2011

"Don't ever put yourself in a position where you're dependent on a man," I have cautioned many a young girl. It's my standard advice to female students.

It is somewhat dated advice, of course. It was born of another generation, a generation where my mother trapped herself in a marriage with a man who beat her. Her 9 year old son was taking notes. But although it doesn't apply nearly as much to the modern crop of 20-somethings as it did to their parents and grandparents, I still give the advice.

"Don't ever put yourself in a position where you're dependent on a man," I said to Darcy when she was my student.

She laughed at me. "Why in the world would I do that?"

That's my girl.

Times change, and this advice is not the holy nugget of wisdom it once was. Of course, as times change, so do abuses. For the first time in history, men are able to live off their wives' incomes, and we've taken to it like flies to garbage. My life is suddenly replete with bumsbands.

"Don't ever put yourself in a position where a man is dependent on you," I now caution, "And keep your ATM password to yourself."

which you?

Fuckless Amy and I are working on our sixth project together, spread over 14 years. One could argue that this is my longest and most successful relationship with a woman, although I seriously doubt that person would be Amy.

For no other reason than I just remembered it, here is my favorite Amy story.

Like many eco-minded Seattle residents, she often proudly took the bus to work, then asked me to drive her home. It was a reasonable request, as it was so clearly on my way.

amy commute.png

One day when we were sitting in traffic, I was bitching about the aggressive obliviousness of Seatard drivers, and Amy launched into a familiar argument.

"Geez! Enough! You sound just like my husband!"

"Now, him— he can fucking drive!" I snarled.

And so it went, until Amy actually said the words heretofore only implied: "You should try to be more like me, John."

Wow.

"It's all about attitude," she continued. "When I first moved here, it wasn't that great a fit." She babbled on about how alien Seattle and its people had felt and what a hard time she'd had adjusting. "But then I realized that I had to adjust to them, not the other way around, and I did. I fit in, now. And it's awesome. I love it here. This is my home."

CUT TO:
INTERIOR - MY OFFICE
TWO YEARS LATER

"So we're leaving Seattle," Amy chirped. "Can't stand these people anymore."

• • •

I paraphrased the last quote for comedic effect. The original statement was filled with painfully unfunny backstroking.

really?

I swear. If there was someone out there who had publicly ear-raped my sister while replacing my contact lens solution with Draino, Facebook would still inform me that four of my friends are friends with him.

victim of the week: kareem

Rewarding achievements in claiming victimization

"I don't understand it. It's either an oversight or they're taking me for granted," Abdul-Jabbar told The Sporting News in a recent interview. "I'm not going to try to read people's minds, but it doesn't make me happy. It's definitely a slight. I feel slighted."

And why does Mr. Abdul-Jabbar feel so slighted, you ask? Because no statue of him has been erected outside the Staples Center arena. Where, incidentally, he never played.

good day, bad day

An accounting of the first five minutes of my day follows.

Waking up in a chair overlooking the sun rising over Puget Sound. "Man. It's gonna be a good day."

Stretching in same chair. "Calf cramp! Calf cramp! FUUUUUUU-oh god, there goes the other one! This is gonna be a bad day."

Walking downstairs to find Dex wagging her tail furiously at me. "Good day."

Stepping in puke at the bottom of the stairs. "Bad day."

Checking email. My only meeting is optional.
"Great day!"

Pulling on fleece that still smells of last night's bonfire. "Mmmm, good day."

Walking in kitchen and seeing carnage from last night's party. "Bad day."

Preparing shower and remembering that my only deodorant is that completely ineffectual Tom's of Maine crap that makes me smell like Bourbon Street after a rain, if it were raining bong water. "Bad day."

Accidentally dropping the Tom's into the toilet. "I'm conflicted."

welcome to pretensonia

I knew I was back in masturbatory Seattle when a woman chided me for leaving my dog in a parked car. What's wrong with that, you might ask? I was in the car with the dog at the time.

punching your weight

At some friends' house, I commented that every time I date a girl far better looking than me, I get into trouble. "You gotta punch your weight," I observed. "Or at least not go up more than a couple of weight classes."

I was handed a magazine and told to find a woman I thought was a realistic level of pretty. I blew past all the supermodels and settled on a modestly attractive brunette in a pharmaceuticals ad. "Here," I said. "Above average looking, but not unattainably so."

Turns out it was Jennifer Garner. Oops.

And this, ladies, nicely illustrates how men's capacity for delusion is utterly beyond containment. If it's any consolation, my delusions were torn and mangled on the spot.

stupidest arguments: the crandshake

Continuing the "stupidest arguments ever with a girlfriend" theme

The AW and I were at Mardi Gras, and she was grubbing for beads. No, she didn't expose anything. She talks a good game, but in the end, she's a milquetoast little girl scout. Her shirt would stay properly tucked that week, which was just fine by her boyfriend. Anyway, some guy was throwing beads off a balcony, and the AW was one of the teeming masses underneath, hands outstretched. The beads fell into her hand....as well as the hand of a 20 year old gang banger.

The young man had an odor about him—specifically, it was the odor of drugs, guns and prison. His eyes flashed angrily—enraged, even—that this woman had dared to catch the beads simultaneously. His 10 thug friends all converged on her, chests out, in a great show of intimidation. Was the conspicuous display of baddassery a show? No doubt. Would they be perfectly happy to make it real, what with their 11:1 odds? Of this I also had no doubt. They were spoiling for a fight.

"FUCK OFF, CUNT!" the man snarled at the AW, violently jerking the beads, which she still held. I swear he was trying to foam at the mouth.

Evoking her best Jessica Rabbit, the AW shook her head and retorted suggestively, "What are you gonna do for them?"

Intrigued, the man smiled lasciviously and grabbed the AW's crotch for a good five-count. He paused long enough mid-grope to look at me and smirk.

She finally managed to whirl away, to the mocking laughter of the gang, and I turned to head back to the hotel. We were both steaming. Accusations of stupidity and neglect would fly that night. Specifically:

  • I was mad that for "fun," she had slathered herself head to toe in goat's blood, jumped into shark-infested waters, and flopped around like an injured seal pup.
  • She was mad that I hadn't followed her into the water and fought off the sharks bare-handed.
Anyone else think I should have gotten killed for her honor that night?

Dogs are famously vile, of course, but I dare say Dex does something unprecedentedly disgusting. If she hears me about to sneeze, she vaults out of her bed and positions herself wherever my nose is pointed. If I turn away, she lunges into the new blast zone. And when I sneeze, she positively basks in the mist, squinting her eyes with pleasure, breathing deep.

"Ahhh. That's good shit," she seems to say.

this is what the internet is for

no delivery, no trades, no freaks

I gave away a hammock and its stand on CraigsList over the weekend. I swear, I could list it for $1 and not get a single response. As it happens, I listed it for free and watched a parade of freaks traipse through my Inbox. I go back and forth on whether these people are stupid or mentally ill.

"I really want it, will you deliver to [town 45 minutes away]?"

"will you trade for shotgun worked last year doesn't work now"

"I'm in Portland. Will you meet me in Olympia with it?" [Olympia is a two hour drive]

"I'm in Metamuville, too. :) :) I would love the hammock. :) :)"

This last bouquet of smileys came from a woman who used to work at the Metamuville store and who always treated me approximately like I had once taken a dump in her lobster bisque. I happily took the opportunity to tell her off.

Fascinated by the pathologies on display, I took to googling my ad's respondents. My favorite was present at a murder just a couple of weeks ago. Pass. As for all the other freaks?

"I'm surprised it was still available," said the polite guy who sent me the 41st email about the hammock and who drove it away in his own truck.

"Have you ever listed something for free on CraigsList?" I replied. He had not.

Ah.

re: worst idea ever

I was delighted with how the Amazing Race shaped up this season, with my five favorite (read: least annoying) teams making it to the top five. And when it became clear that black teams would finish 1st and 2nd—in no small part because of a bungling black cabdriver chosen by the 3rd-place white team—”I found myself wishing d'Andre were here so that I could point out the conspiracy.

"Look at that! Just another brother keepin' the white man down!" I sneered to him in my head. "What's a white man gotta do to catch a break in this country?"

Alas, no one enjoyed my witticisms but me.

I awoke this morning to an email from d'Andre's wife, Pam. The subject line: "worst idea ever." Apparently d'Andre had heard me psychically.

"Egger and I should do the Amazing Race," he'd commented.

"Yeah, if you're going for the title of Most Annoying Team of All Time," she replied.

She raises a fair point. He and I are endlessly bickersome, an interracial Statler and Waldorf. That sort of thing doesn't wear well.

Undeterred, d'Andre spent the rest of the evening coming up with what our team subtitle would be.

D'ANDRE AND JOHN
Most Annoying Team of All Time

D'ANDRE AND JOHN
Race Baiters

D'ANDRE AND JOHN
Fat Fucks

D'ANDRE AND JOHN
Doing This Instead of Time

D'ANDRE AND JOHN
Worst Friends

D'ANDRE AND JOHN
Brother & Sister

D'ANDRE AND JOHN
Bum and Bummer

His favorite:

D'ANDRE AND JOHN
Amazing Racists

And mine:

D'ANDRE AND JOHN
Definitely Not Gay

Dirt was mowing my lawn for hire and I was inside working when I spotted something unusual in Puget Sound. Seals and sea lions are common as raccoons, but this was...huge. Orcas have been around lately, but them I recognize on sight. Whatever it was, it was a showstopper. Here it is from inside my house, some 40'H and 90'V away.

gray1.PNG

"DIRT!" I yelled out the window, my finger flailing dramatically toward the ledge. "THERE'S A LARGE ANIMAL!"

Turns out this isn't what you say to your buddy if you want him to run toward what you're pointing at. He bolted into the house.

For the record, it was a gray whale, unprecedented in my little bay. In the first photo, he's in about 10 feet of water.

gray2.PNG

"Dear stupid sexist fuck,

If you know so much about women why do you spent your days riding a stupid website that isn't even funny or has anything to say. No wonder women hate you the way you stereotype. Your a dumb cunt.

Angry surfer"


she said, he heard

"Here," Mike said. "I thought you might be interested in this class." And thus did he send me a link to the workshop She Said, He Heard - A Man's Guide to Dealing with Women.

I can just imagine the course's content.

What I say: "I'm going drinking with Bob tonight."
What girlfriend hears: "You're fat and my wingman and I are going to try to hook up."
Reality: I'm drinking with Bob

What girlfriend says: "I'm going drinking with Gail tonight"
What I hear: "__________________"
What I hear if Gail is hot: "________Gail_____"
Reality: Girlfriend is fucking Bob.

Not that I'm still bitter.

the gratingest generation

I watched the mobs celebrating outside the White House with their modern-day pitchforks and torches: Bush and Obama campaign signs and, held aloft, an iPad that said "Obama 1, Osama 0."

dip.png

"U-S-A! U-S-A!" chanted the crowds lustily, making me itch. Young 20-somethings screamed primally for the cameras, flexing their delts when they weren't giving the "we're #1" sign. It was indistinguishable from celebratory college basketball fans.

"This is our generation's V-J Day!" chirped one 20 year old, except I'm sure he mentally spelled it veejay.

Note to Gen Why: you did not lead lives of fear and deprivation. You did not have to serve. You did not see a generation of men vaporize from existence. You did not collectively rise to an occasion and save the world. And oh yeah, in as much as there are equivalent modern wars, those wars continue this morning.

Shut up and stop oversalting my fries.

• • •

If there was a silver lining to the bloodlust, it was the following scene. A young white guy, a young black guy, and a young Hispanic guy all popped their shirts and screamed at the camera at once—united by an idiocy that transcends all racial distinctions. It was heartwarming.

"That...that's America!" I wept.

Asians were absent and presumed to be left running the country for the duration of the party.

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