Why I'd make a bad husband b/w Thank you H.S.

[This one's a long one. But well worth your time.]

The lightlulb just went out in the bathroom. The ceiling is, like, 12 feet high or just whatever is above Me Standing on a Chair. And now, a decision must be made.

I knew this day would come. The ceiling in the whole fucking apartment (which I love, don't get me wrong) is pretty high and I've known for a long while now that I would need to buy a small ladder or a large child to stand on to change the bulb.

But now I actually have to Do it.

Usually in these posts, there is the Part 1, the Part II, the denoument, and the exciting climax, which is usually ripped off from somewhere else ("Today's lesson:" is the epilogue).

Today, however, I have only a burnt out bulb and a Lights Out, Curtain Closes, Act I.

What will Act II wrought?

Today's lesson: Fuck you, F. Scott Fitzgerald.

Part II: I need to write a quick Thank You to my friend, H.S.

The goodly H.S., if you didn't know, is the kind lady who, for some reason, thinks that my occasional meanderings should be linked to Gawker.

Why she thinks this, I have no idea. My only theory, and I'm sure I've said this before, so please forgive me for repeating myself, but I believe that she is under the impression that I'm dying (It could be that I'm funny, but it could be that I'm already a millionaire, too). And while I'd like to believe that I have a long life to live, I don't have enough traffic minus her gracious links to rule out the fact I'm dying.

And while you may say, "But HJ, how could you be dying?" i can say, "well, i drink, smoke and eat shitty foods to excess: So, how can I NOT think that I am dying."

Listening to Joy Division right now doesn't help either.

But, back from planet tangent (great blog name, btw, if anyone needs one: Back from Planet Tangent), if I AM dying, then I should probably leave a will or something so my shit doesn't go to the government.

So:

To Alex ... I leave my CDs. As well as any of my personal anger you feel is just to use against people who hate Killing Joke.

To Cortez ... I leave all my books. And if anything of this blog shit ever makes money, like in a "he was famous after he was dead" thing: you can have the money and the rights and should consider playing yourself in the movie (though it would be funnier if you played Brendan).

To Brendan ... I leave whatever cooking shit is in my kitchen, which isn't much, and which is why you can have whatever's left in my bank account -- which is also why you can have whatever cooking shit is in my kitchen (it's what they call a vicious circle, or vicious cycle, if you will).

To Thomas ... The last digit of pi is 12. Think about it.

To Mitch ... I want you to write my offical biography. You're a great writer. Plus, you know about all of the skeletons, which, frankly, number-wise, are like Halloween on Planet Halloween. And I know that you will put them in the right light, the kind that absolves you and my estate of any legal activity.

To Jill ... I leave the bottle of detergent that, for the last few days, has been siting on my coffee table. There's no reason for it, but frankly, there was no good reason you should have stayed my friend and so I think the metaphor is apt (I'm slightly less clean per parts per million, though).

To Pirate ... I leave you .. well, let's start from the (near) beginning: You just slept on my couch, after getting wasted, and not calling your fiancee to tell her that you got fucking wasted until about noon the next day. So, it only seems right that you get the futon.

To Bess (Pirate's fiancee) ... You get to write the unofficial biography.

To Shelley ... Um, wow, this one is hard. We'll come back to it ...

To Pearson ... Honestly, i don't know what to give you. To be honest, you've been the happeist motherfucker-lookingest person I've ever met. Even when you get pissed you have a smile. So ... ah ... if my DVDs don't make you happy, then they must be the worst DVD collection in the world.

To Becky ... I give you the permission to tell Joey that you are not his fag hag. And that he should shut the hell up when you've had enough.

To Joey ... I leave you a hint: When I die, there will be cigarettes near the body. Those are yours. When I die, also, there will be about eight gallons of alcohol, in various forms and various bottles. Those are also yours. There will also be "other" things that a dying man with, let's face it, nothing to care about anymore wouldn't mind having around him. Those are yours. However, if the authorities in Heaven ask, I'll swear it was planted and you and I were patsies.

To Jarad ... I leave my guitar, poker chips, and a cape (not to mention stately Flowers manor).

To Shelley ... OK, let's try this again: Shelley, I haven't made it yet, and I definitely plan to, but if i do die, there will be a mix CD here, made while I'm dying and waxing sentimental and the people around me are tired of hearing of This Weepy Story and That Weepy Story and it will be yours and made for you. Be warned, though: I've run out of coasters.

To my brother .. I would leave honesty and integrity but what would you do with what you have in spades? Instead, I leave to the only person here, nothing material: only admiration. That, and the wonderment that you owned multiple Kansas and Styx albums on 8-track.

To H.S. ... I leave a Thank You like when people leave a bar with a hug and they're really fucking drunk. Oh, and enough money for you to buy a light bulb.

Today's lesson: I just reread something and laughed. So, maybe you people shouldn't start spending my shit just yet.

Bigmouth strikes again

We almost made it through the Michael Richards imbroglio without a peep from Gloria Allred.

Almost.

Mrs. Allred, if you didn’t know, is a renowned ambulance chaser and, amazingly enough, NOT a character created by Sacha Baron Cohen to poke fun at our legal system.

She is representing the men who heckled Michael Richards (AKA Kramer from “Seinfeld”) and were, in return, publicly called the N-word. (And, because Richards felt six feet isn’t deep enough for a grave, were also reminded of the many different uses for rope).

They have suffered emotional distress, so goes the theory, and thus are entitled to compensation for the damage caused.

Yes, it’s a bullshit claim, and there’s really no reason to get up in arms about it. But bullshit claims are the most fun claims of all to follow and, frankly, if you’re reading this now, you must be bored as hell. So, why not walk with me now as we take this legal harrumphing (it’s not quite lawsuit territory yet) to its logical conclusion.

IF a person is assaulted with a racial epithet – and there’s no bigger one than N--- (which is why this is a fun test case) – they are entitled to X amount of money (so the theory goes).

NOW if the two gentlemen win, a precedent will be set, wherein a person is entitled to money if called “N---“.

BUT that only settles the matter for when N--- is the offending word: So, we must ask ourselves, what of other racial epithets?

“Hebe,” for instance, is not something I say to my Jewish friends. … Actually, scratch that. Let’s start again:

“Hebe,” for instance, is not something I say to Jewish people I haven’t known for five minutes.

It’s a bad, bad word. A derogatory word. And one that, under Ms. Allred’s theory is worth a substantial amount of money (assuming I get residual checks for something).

BUT, it’s not as bad a word as N---. Let’s face it, I can’t even, with all my powers of irony and meta-bigotry mustered, even type that word. But I can type “Hebe”.

So, therefore, isn’t one “hebe” worth less than one “N---“?

But, then again, what if Mr. Richards had assaulted four people with “hebe” and not two gentlemen with N---? Are four “hebes” worth two N---s? Or more? Or less?

And what of “coon”? “Coon” is certainly a bad word as well, but, again, not as bad as N---. However, I’d say, it’s worse than “hebe”. So, if we had a conversion chart let’s say then that

1 N--- = four hebes = 2 coons.

Now, we can’t forget the current and ever-present troubles in the Middle East and that, at some point, someone with deep pockets is going to say “sandN---“.

The way I look at “sandN---“ is the way I look at Henry Blake from both the movie M*A*S*H and the TV show: Not a full colonel. It’s almost as bad, but not quite.

So, back to our conversion chart, we’d have to say that:

1 N--- = four hebes = 2 coons = (let’s say) 1.5 sandN---s.

But then we’ve got to remember that Lou Dobbs is on later tonight and that, perhaps, somewhere, a man who invested in Microsoft very early is watching and, in a fit of anger, spouts the word “Spic” in the present of more than a few of them.

They’re entitled to a payment from – let’s call it – the escrow of racism.

But, and I’m sure you’re with me here, “spic” is about on par with “coon”. But, like “hebe”, there’s just not the history there that there is with “coon”. So, once again, back to our chart – let’s say that:

1 N--- = four hebes = 2 coons = 1.5 sandN---s = 3 Spics.

Now, what to do with the Orientals Asians: I’m going to say that we have to treat Asians like many university admissions offices do and set the bar higher. They are going to have to demonstrate not only numerous instances of the offending word – and, frankly, the only one I can think of is “rice-picker” – but also that the offending word is really, well, offending.

Of course, now that we’re on this Long Walk of Logical Conclusions, I see that we haven’t hit upon the other derogatory words for blacks or Hispanics. Plus, we haven’t even tackled dago, wop, macaca (watch out, George), kraut, pollack, raghead, or redskin, for instance. Nor what happens when one black man calls another black man an Uncle Tom? Does he deserve compensation, too?

Frankly, it’s beyond the abilities of one man to decide for a nation what monetary value these words have.

But, I guess, that’s why we have Jim Baker.

Today’s lesson: Well, of course, I’m making something out of nothing. What else have I got? “Cracker” is equal to the German Mark circa 1920.

Hannidate redux

If you're gay and conservative, then listen up, because Hannidate, the online dating service for fans of Sean Hannity has a small stable of gay conservatives who frequent the site, according to this article in the LA Times.

The only reason I mention it, is that doing so gives me a perfect excuse to link to a previous post wherein I posited some fictional entries for the dating site.

And that means more goof-off time for you. And how can THAT be bad?

Today's lesson: It's so much easier than writing new material.