Monday, December 29, 2003

Newsy Bits

I can't believe Michael Jackson is claiming the Santa Barbara sheriff's deputies who booked him roughed him up.
I just happened to be watching Court TV the day he turned himself in. As he entered the building, he was surrounded by his attorneys and a phalanx of his other paid sycophants who witnessed the entire process.
The sheriff also allowed a couple of TV and print media vultures into the office to observe the booking. That's how the media was able to distribute his mugshot to the world within an hour.
Michael Jackson claimed the deputies dislocated his shoulder by manhandling him. Let's pause now to chuckle about his verb choice. Manhandling, heh, heh...heh, heh.
Although he smiled, waved his dislocated arm and gave onlookers the peace sign as he left the jail, now he's claiming the injuries he sustained from police brutality have left him unable to sleep or raise his arms.
I am not entirely certain he's guilty of pedophilia (yeah, right) but if he's stupid enough to claim brutality when the building was filled with witnesses who would have reported it to the media within nanoseconds, then he's stupid
enough to think he can get by with diddling little boys.
To repeat the scandal's most frequently asked question, I wonder if Jackson would let one of his sons have a sleepover in the same bed with some 45-year-old guy? How about one who'd been accused of pedophilia before, but settled out
of court?
Yeah, yeah, I know that any parent who'd let their kid sleep alone with Jackson should be bitch slapped, but stupidity is not a crime.
Jackson may have had a better chance at a fair trial had he not alleged police brutality.
California cops can be violent, racist jerks, but not with that many witnesses and media present.
I think that move cast aspersions on his veracity, which in English means, "he fucked up, lying about something we all know didn't happen."
Your views?

Now, to change the subject entirely, here's a question some of you mechanically inclined people might be able to answer.
This morning I opened my refrigerator and the light didn't come on. At first I thought the power had gone out and the fridge was off, but everything was still cold, so I checked the bulb and it was burnt out.
I replaced it with a new bulb and the light still didn't come on.

Friday, December 26, 2003

A Holiday Reprieve

My brother called me late last night to ask if I'd consider rescheduling our family Christmas visit that was slated for today.
He said there'd be too many out of towners, in-laws, outlaws, cousins, teenagers and other layabouts still hanging around, and the commotion would disrupt what we'd hoped would be a small visit with him, his wife, my mom and maybe a nephew or two.
Mom's a little hard of hearing, and in a crowded room she gets overwhelmed by overlapping conversations, then she starts to get conversationally competitive and starts talking about historical events she participated in that are simply not true.
Once she said while she was at a lavish charity ball, Lyndon B. Johnson called her his little prairie flower and danced with her all evening while Lady Bird sat on the sidelines, giving Mama the hen eye.
Another time she said when the Pope was in town, riding down the street in his Popemobile, he looked her up and down, smiled and winked.
So, you can see why my brother wanted to skip the crowded gathering.
I tried to disguise my glee at not having to fight the holiday traffic on I-35, which is clogged with bumper to bumper, death wish having, gun toting, NASCAR wannabes, even on ordinary weekdays. Plus, today is the busiest shopping day of the year, and on the way to Austin on I-35 is an outlet mall roughly the size of New Hampshire. The traffic around there today will be backed up for 40 miles, I bet. I-35 is so bad, one afternoon as I was driving north, this guy passed me in a red Toyota convertible, doing about 110 mph while he was talking on his cell phone. When he slowed to about 85 to avoid hitting the clump of cars ahead of him, I caught up to see what he looked like.
It was Governor Rick Perry, that scofflaw bastard.
A few weeks ago, while he was filing to put Dubya's name on the ballot for the Texas GOP primary, Perry had his driver park in a handicap parking space. A reporter spotted it and blasted it all over the news.
Perry's limo wasn't ticketed (of course), but he had to give $500 of his own dough to some charity to get the heat off him.
He's not quite as dumb as Dubya, but he makes up for it with arrogance that makes J.R. Ewing look like Gandhi.
I know outside of Texas nobody's heard of him, because he hasn't actually done anything as governor. He's never on the news in Texas, either, except for that recent handicap parking story.
When he was running for Governor, he showed up at a black tie Human Rights Campaign Foundation Dinner (that's a big organization for rich queers, for you heteros).
A very attractive lesbian physician, wearing a couture evening gown, walked up to him as he slouched against the wall, and asked why she should vote for him.
He looked right at her cleavage, skipped a few beats, then sneered, "Cuz I'm here."
She said, "That's it?" That's your answer?'
He just turned and walked away.

Anyway, after yesterday's Goth-crashes-Jesus-Christ's-birthday party, I'm relieved not to have to attend another holiday function before I have time to fully savor my Christmas memories, over a mug of steaming hot clam juice.

Thursday, December 25, 2003

Christmas Day

I spent Christmas Day with my best friend Anna and her extended family. I love bizarre holiday gatherings, and this one fit the bill perfectly.
Anna's mom is one of those beautiful older ladies who should be on TV commercials with her handsome husband, selling old folks crap like denture creme, motorized, bendable mattresses, Rascal scooters, funeral insurance, fiber, Ensure, the Clapper and long distance phone services. They make old age seem really appealing.
Alas, the mom is apparently starting an early salute to senility. She gave me a bottle of clam juice for Christmas.
You read that right. Clam juice.
Seems to me, that gesture puts her about 2 degrees away from pushing a shopping cart full of crap up Main Street, mumbling to herself about alien abduction.
Anna's daddy is a minister. He'd make the perfect movie minister, like a cross between Charlton Heston and Billy Graham.
Anna's husband Brad has a very sweet brother from Houston named Greg, whose lifestyle has left his mind very similar to Ozzie Osburne's. He's sweet and harmless, but his brain's been fried to a crisp. He was there with his wife and her kids, whom I dubbed Morticia and Wednesday.
Morticia is in 9th grade and totally Goth.
She's about 5'3" and weighs 67 pounds, black eye liner and all. Her skin is the same shade as skim milk, and she wore a casual black ensemble with a skull and assorted satanic runes printed on the shirt. A pair of black, 40-pound Doc Marten jack boots completed the look.
She did not talk. Mostly she stared. For variety, she'd stiffen up and stare at the floor.
The other daughter was a pudgy 6th grader. She's just starting to tiptoe into the Goth look, but her face was still human colored and she sported no obvious satanic or death themed accessories, piercings or tatts. Yet. The juxtaposition of Anna's minister daddy and perfect pastor's wife mom next to the Addam's Family kids in the group photos should be priceless. I want to frame my copy.
Before dinner, Anna's dad read aloud a passage about Mary, Joseph and the archangel Gabriel, and the miracle of the immaculate conception, yadda, yadda, yadda.
The Goth girls listened in shock, like wicked witches from Oz being squirted with a Super Soaker filled with ice water.
Then before dinner, we all formed a circle and prayed.
Alas, my prayerful reverence was distracted by watching the Hell Sisters, standing there twitching like Linda Blair about to spew pea soup.
The grand finale was the cake Anna's mom brought for dessert.
It was a white sheet cake with, "Happy Birthday Jesus" written in chocolate icing on top, with a single white candle stuck in it. Oy vey.
Even I, as a lapsed Catholic, thought the birthday cake for Jesus was over the top, and it's hard to outdo a Catholic in terms of religious schmaltz.
I was sitting across from the Satanic sisters when the candle was lit and we were all prompted to sing, "Happy Birthday" to Jesus.
The Goth tots' reactions were priceless. The pre-Goth pudgy one just sort of giggled, but Morticia stared straight ahead in stunned silence, with ice crystals forming on her aura.
Then we all started eating our 15,000 carbohydrate gram dinner, which was fabulous.
I'm scared to check, but I'd guess my glucose level is about 450 now, four hours later. It was 86 when I left my house to go to Anna's. Hello ketoses, goodbye toes!
After dinner, I felt sorry for Morticia, who was sitting in a catatonic state on the couch, no doubt hearing the voices of Satan and Jesus bickering in her head.
So I asked Anna to find her a book on vampires or other horror so she could entertain herself. Anna found her, "Twelve," a fairly dark, creepy novel written by a young kid out of NYC. Morticia found solace in the pages, and we all felt better for it.
Anna's 7-year-old son, Andrei, was in charge of the video camera. Methinks his youthful cinema verite camera style will lend itself perfectly to the event.
Whew. What a day.
Tomorrow is Christmas in Austin with my family of origin.
My nephews are extremely All American boys with no Gothic tendencies. No clergy will be present. Entertainment will have to center on my 91-year-old mother's sherry inspired running monologues, that skip between 1942 and 2003, sans
This may require a couple of stiff vodka and clam juice cocktails.

Wednesday, December 24, 2003

A Sappy, Happy Holiday Haiku Binge

Tis the holidays!
Donning our gay apparel
Before they jail us

With Bush in office
We want to wish the whole world
A Scary Christmas!

Christmas in Vermont
Marry your gay love this year
Before Bush busts you

Last year I spent Yule
With a pretty, Jewish love
Oy vey, not this year.

This year, all alone
Except for two cats, who like
to sleep on my head

Christmas Eve, I'll spend
not with the ex and her kids
Whew! No Cartoon Network!

Grateful this Christmas
Glucose at normal levels
And still have my toes

I wish you all love
The sweet, caring kind of love
Not that porno kind

To my Blogging friends
I wish you clever comments
And leave me some, too

To lesbo readers
If you're sane and attractive
Drop me Yule e-mail!

This holiday time
Don't drink and drive your car
Don't be like a Bush

Ladies, gentlemen
Gay or straight or bi or trans
Have great holidays!

Peace to all of you
May the Spirit bless us all
Let's pray for war's end

I wish you all safe and happy holidays, and send my love and thanks to everyone who's visited Pulp Friction this year, especially those who left so many entertaining comments.


Monday, December 22, 2003

Ho Ho Hum

The great thing about getting dumped (again) right before Thanksgiving is that by Christmas, the dumpee (aka: me) has pretty much gotten over it.
Yep, just in time for another holiday (my birthday, 4th of July and finally, Thanksgiving) my girlfriend called it quits again, two days before Thanksgiving. I tried to talk her out of it, but she adapted a scorched earth policy that made further attempts to make peace seem absurd, if not downright masochistic.
The bad thing about continually reuniting with someone who kept dumping me was that my usually supportive friends sort of yawned when I told them she'd dumped me again. Mostly they said, "Well, of course she dumped you, there's a holiday coming up."
I checked the calendar and found that when a holiday caused banks to be closed or no mail delivery that day, I was usually single again.
Anyway, with minimal sympathy from friends and zero support from anyone for another futile reconciliation, I started journaling, attending alanon meetings, and within a few weeks I figured out why I should just accept the way things
are and move on.
The beauty of getting dumped is the natural weight loss that comes with it. That, plus new hair color and smaller size clothes made lemonade from the lemons I was handed.
Another telling aspect of getting dumped has been how my ego works against my head and heart at times like this.
Wanting to see her to crawl back filled with apologies, or wanting her to see me around town looking good are both ego fantasies I've indulged in far too many times over the last four weeks. Those ego trips are fading, though. Facts are, I can't risk loving her again because my trust in her is gone, and seeing her around town would only make me feel uncomfortable.
All I know is, I tried my best. I made positive changes and compromised more with her than with anyone I ever loved. I'm a better person, having learned from her many positive traits, and I think she did the best she could, considering the issues she has.
I have no malice toward her.
I didn't cause her to be the way she is, and I can't fix it.
But she'll never have the chance to dump me again, because this time I'm the one who's finally, inexorably finished.

Saturday, December 20, 2003

The Diary of PuSay Hussein
(Saddam's Unusual Daughter)

Praise Allah! The GeorgebushAmerican peoples have found my father (may allah leave those nits in his hair though eternity) in a hole and taken him to another place called custody.
When he was here at the palace hiding and looking for disguise he nearly drove me crazy trying on Dynasty gowns and wigs he from order from GeorgebushAmerican company call ebay. All that swirling of his in front of palace mirrors made the concubines and me dizzy and wanting to vomit. He did not resemble as he thought Linda Evans, more like Dale Evans.
In the hole the GeorgebushAmericans found father in (may Allah give him guards who find him sexually appealing) there were many items found that are of curiosity to myself and my concubines. What I wonder is Paris Hilton video? Perhaps he was trying to check into Paris hotel to hide?
And what I wonder was he doing with campaign literature and cashiers checks to donate to reelect Georgebush? And a photo of Georgebush on large boat in pilot uniform, where my father (may Allah make his scrotum swell big as a camel's) had written ha ha ha over with black marker?
Also a crate of GeorgebushAmerican money was found with a note stating, "with love from Halliburton." I wonder who he is? Perhaps an Al Qaida or Taliban operative.
Now that my father (may Allah give him singing trout plaque for holidays) is in GeorgebushAmerican place call custody and my brothers are shot to pieces, I can make my play for ruler of Iraq.
I have order from Internet the book of Hillary Clinton for ideas on how woman to take over country and I think I am ready to rule Iraq.
Already I have slogans, made for me by my concubines.
"Everyone Loves PuSay!"
And for car bumper, "Honk if you Love Pu-Say."

Friday, December 19, 2003

Gay Marriage Poll

The American Family Association, which calls itself "America's Pro-Family Online Activism Organization," is running a poll on Homosexual Marriage.
They want to forward the results to Congress.
I am sure many of you have received e-mail and read other Blogs that urge you to vote in favor of gay marriage on this poll. Perhaps it's working, because those in favor of gay marriage is ahead of those against.
One thing to note: apparently to water down the pro votes, they included a category that reads, "I favor a "civil union" with full benefits of marriage without the name."
Just skip that vague gibberish and go for the yes vote.
Also, once I voted for gay marriage, I got a notice from Earthmail Spam blocker that my screenname was blocked from the AFA's mailbox, as not being recognized. I followed the link that requested recognition. I wonder if all pro votes have to jump through the same hoops?
At any rate, please vote to neutralize discrimination against gays who want to legally marry. Gay Marriage Poll

Tuesday, December 16, 2003

How to Make Saddam Talk

These silly American men, trying all these tired old Geneva Conventional ways to get Saddam to tell what he knows. Give me a little time with the bastard, I have ways to get him to talk.

-Sure, he has to have food, but how about loading up his tray with pork chops, bacon, ham, pork rinds and a few pork ribs? His Islamic intestines will be bubbling in no time. He has to have water, too, so I suggest we get his from the Los Angeles area.
-Bring in the Queer Eye on the Straight Guy team. Not to redo his lifestyle while he's in confinement, but to act real faggoty and make out in front of him.
-Hire Sandra Bernhardt to come in and give him a few lap dances. That face so close to his will make him squeal Iraqi secrets like a little bitch.
-Bedtime for Saddam? Time to fire up the VCR for a night of blaring, nonstop Barney the Dinosaur, Catholic masses on Cable, George W. Bush speeches, old Martha Stewart Living episodes, and some classic Jerry Springer and Maury Povitch shows.
-Clothing must be provided. Let's start by making him wear Lil's old panties on his head. Add to that one of Madonna's bustiers with the pointy cups. Finish it off with Rupert's skirt and some real pointy Manolo Blahnik stilettos in a nice chartreuse patent leather. Then broadcast photos and video of his new look to the world.
-He must have a place to sleep, so I say he's given a fold-out sofa bed, the kind with the big bar in the middle. One night of that and anyone would be ready to talk.
-Companionship is important. Bring in four unaltered, horny alley cats, and skip the litter box. And don't forget the cage of gerbils on an un-oiled treadmill for maximum squeakage. Should we add a monkey or two? How about a parrot?
-Environmentally, I'd suggest venting in the fragrances of clove cigarettes, peach or rose scented incense from any dollar store, and the essence of Shaquille O'Neal's sweaty, mildewed socks and jock.
-Toiletry amenities must be provided. I'd include toilet tissue treated with asbestos fibers, pine tar soap and any shampoo made by Suave. For his shaving needs, nothing beats a Lady Epilator.
-He might also need a cellmate to encourage him to share what he knows. Who else but the charming and eloquent Barcodie? How many days could Saddam take that?

Monday, December 15, 2003

Swirling Survivor Reflections

That was by far the best Survivor series ever.
Finally, a winner whose strategy was to vote with the pack yet still be her own woman and say what she felt.
Besides playing the game with some amusing treachery, Sandra's well-placed use of the phrase "mothafucka" pleased the bitch in all of us.
She deserved the million bucks, and she cleans up pretty nice to boot.
A few interesting things I observed...
The subconscious group strategy, where everyone insisted to Lil that she'd be the hardest contestant to stand beside at the final vote, was brilliant. How anyone would think she'd win the popular vote was ludicrous, but Lil bought it and it lulled her into making some bad decisions.
Her most respectable decision was to risk losing rather than let Jon win the second place $100,000 prize. Her observation that his slacker lifestyle wasn't as deserving as Sandra's showed some common sense.
Lil's meandering self promo speeches during the jury's final vote sealed her fate. If she'd mentioned the Boy Scouts one more time, I would have had a stroke.
For Jon to crow about being the last man standing was typical of him. He apparently didn't notice the correlation between that and him being perceived by the women as the weakest, least threatening male left. The guy's ego and bravado hide a tiny little man who has a lot to learn.
Rupert may not have won the money, but the emotional salute to him in the reunion special will give him all the confidence he needs to serve as a role model to fat little bullied boys everywhere who grew into big, brave men. The video scrapbook of his adventures was priceless, hilarious and made me all verklemft. He left that show an evolved man we can all take a few lessons from.
I still don't think the male Alpha dogs of this series were the least bit humbled or enlightened by being whipped by a dithering, menopausal old crone and a cagey Latina chick. None of them seemed to get that their self-perceived superiority prevents them from truly being superior.
Lil was wise to realize her scouting shtick was a stupid move. Besides, the Boy Scouts are a relic from the Leave it to Beaver era. Even the United Way Campaign dropped them recently for their discriminatory, homophobic policies.
She's actually a great representative of the BSA. Would you want your kid to be in a troop she was leading? Hope they don't have to find any map coordinants!
Anyway, we all have to wait until Feb. 1 for the All Stars edition.
Anyone interested in joining a potential pool, drop me an e-mail.

Thursday, December 11, 2003

Tonight's Survivor!

Folks, we are down to the stems and seeds, and nobody in particular stands out as a deserving winner.
What we have in abundant supply are castaways worthy of losing, most obviously Jon, the lying, grandma-killing, bad karma attracting weasel; Burton, the mama's boy/control freak; and Lil, the wobbly-chinned pity party girl in those saggy old lady panties that make all of us kack-up like a kitty with a hairball.
One semi-deserving player left is Sandra, for her occasional insight, spying in the bushes and her amusing use of the terms 'bitch' and 'muthafucka' hurled toward Jon (I love how poorly the bleepers disguise her profane tirades).
Then there's Darrah, whose grating Mississippi accent is mitigated by her astonishingly beautiful white teeth, which she's somehow maintained without benefit of a toothbrush or toothpaste.

It's been an ordeal to try to guess the next outcast in this Panama series.

There has been no logic, no plan, no sturdy alliances, no crafty tricks, except...okay...
I hate to admit it but Jon has consistently outfoxed everyone.
He is amoral, pathologically dishonest, unabashedly arrogant, decidedly unattractive, immature, braggadocios, lazy, shiftless, contributes nothing in the way of food, shelter or labor to Camp Balboa, is egotistical for no apparent reason, and considers himself a "great date" because he's a self-described connoisseur of fine cuisine, who then had the mendacity to order chicken fingers,
cheeseburgers and hackneyed old filet mignon at the fancy resort restaurant he lucked into after Lil and Darrah successfully dragged his scrawny ass through the reward challenge.

Still, hope springs eternal, so I am guessing the girls finally wise up and boot off either Burton or Jon.
And if they don't, they are all just too plain damn stupid to win.
Damn, I miss Rupert.
Your guess?

Monday, December 08, 2003

Rush Blames Democrats for Pill Probe
(excerpts from an article by STEPHEN M. SILVERMAN)

"...Conservative talker Rush Limbaugh claimed on his radio show Friday that Democrats are out to get him.
Limbaugh's latest assertion came one day after reports that Florida investigators raided his doctors' offices and seized his medical records in an effort to see whether the radio host had gone "doctor shopping" for under-the-counter drugs.
Limbaugh, 51, has admitted to a painkiller addiction and recently spent five weeks in a treatment center before returning to the airwaves (where, in the past, he regularly demanded automatic jail sentences for drug users).
On Friday, Limbaugh called himself the victim of a political witch-hunt.
Limbaugh, who lives in a $24 million Palm Beach palace, has not been charged with a crime. In their search warrants, investigators cited a prescription list for more than 2,000 pills from March 24 through Sept. 26.
"You people (Democrats) are taking aim at me in so many different ways."
On Friday's "Today" show, Limbaugh's lawyer Roy Black accused Palm Beach County prosecutor Barry Krischer of being politically motivated in his investigation into whether Limbaugh had purchased painkillers illegally.
"They are looking to publicly embarrass him and affect his radio program," said Black. "Why is Rush Limbaugh the only person treated like this in America?" Krischer is a Democrat. His spokesman, Mike Edmonson, declined to respond to the Limbaugh camp's charges, the Associated Press reports..."

Word to Rush:
Stop being such a whining, blaming wimp.
You got hooked on OxyContin the same way many addicts get hooked on prescription narcotics, you stacked up a bunch of doctors to write you scrips.
These fucking right-wing blowhards blame everything on Democrats.
This is just ridiculous.
Rush is no better than presidential niece Noel Bush, an addict who got caught and had to do her time.
Fuck Rush Limbaugh. He broke the law, he's being investigated and if he did the crimes, he needs to be tried, convicted and have his fat ass thrown in jail.

And one more thing. Kudos to John Kerry who had the courage to say Bush fucked up in Iraq. He did fuck up. Outraged Republicans who object to the profanity can go fuck themselves. They've been fucking with us long enough.

Friday, December 05, 2003

Probable Survivor All Stars

My secret Survivor tipster Katie sent me this link that I found quite plausible All Star Cast.
I missed a few in my predictions, but I think this cast will be quite entertaining.
Who do you think would win out of this batch?

Thursday, December 04, 2003

Survivor: Dead Grandma?

When I was a kid and used to skip school, I always made it a point to use only dead relatives as excuses for having to attend funerals. Somehow I knew choosing a relative still alive was mega-bad karma, and just asking for them to actually die.
Jon apparently has no concept of such karma.
As everyone knows by now, he trumped up his grandma's death as an excuse to hang out all night at Camp Balboa with his goofy pal while his tribemembers were cast away on a desolate part of the island with just a machete and a box of matches.
Plank walking and keel hauling are too good for him. He deserves to be forced into a night of giving oral pleasure to Lil, including some leisurely toe sucking.
Anyway, if that wasn't enough, the idiotic castaways skipped the ideal chance to boot off the master manipulator Burton, or even that deceitful little creep Jon.
They booted Tijuana off.
Lately, I have been taping each episode so I can carefully review the stupidity that goes on in the voting process. Why Sandra and Christa opted to boot Tijuana is beyond anyone's comprehension.
My major Survivor rumor frau has said this will end up an all-girl final four.
If she's right, those bitches oughtta start booting those conniving men lickity split.
I am going to suspend my doubts, choose to be optimistic and predict Burton will be booted out next. If he wins immunity, then Jon will be gone.

Wednesday, December 03, 2003


I started this Blog around two years ago.
In that time, I've made several new friends, gone through a few girlfriends, cleared the one-year mark for surviving cancer, then the two-year mark, developed diabetes, lost 57 pounds, started working out and eating right, and developed obsessions with Survivor and the miserable administration of that pinheaded warmonger George W. Bush.
I've aired my private bidness, then became more private over the years. I've ranted and raved, and apologized when I went too far.
I've even Blogged for charity, where for 24 hours I babbled, blew out my hard drive, had to call in a tech in the middle of the night to fix it, babbled some more, and managed to collect more than $400 for Doctors Without Borders.
I keep a journal in my private life now. That's where I think personal revelations belong, plus the act of dragging a pen over paper is cathartic and therapeutic.
I have met some amazing people through this Blog, as well as some characters who are so bizarre they'd be too implausible to describe, even for fiction writing.
Blogging has in many ways become my touchstone for reality. I live alone and work alone, and knowing that more than 85,000 visitors have popped in over the last two years to see what's going on is gratifying.
So thanks, everyone.
I promise to soon get my AOL and browser sorted out so I can start daily postings again.
Meanwhile, thanks to Grey Bird for doing my posting for me.