misshepeshu: (DIEINAFIRE!)
If Seymour Hersh is right about the assassination ring run by Bush and Cheney, all I can say is: that wasn't so much a Presidency as it was a 14-year-old kid's fantasy fueled solely by Tom Clancy novels and GI JOE cartoons.

"I'm the President! I can do anything! Look, I even have kung-fu grip!"

Though perhaps I'm revealing my naivete in refusing to acknowledge that ALL Presidents have their own professional death squad?
misshepeshu: (hitler says wtf)
On my way back from the airport tonight, I saw a billboard off of Holgate featuring a close-up of a skateboarder that said "Portland CityFest 08 with Luis Palau", followed by the names of a bunch of bands that I didn't know. Like, even remotely.

Pretty much for that latter reason alone, I said to myself "Bet it's a Christian music festival." Not that my music knowledge is comprehensive or encyclopedic, but I know the big names for pretty much every sub-genre well enough that I'd be able recognize what flavor of festival it'd be from the headlining names. My complete lack of familiarity meant it was one of the very few sub-genres I don't know at all, which pretty much left Christian music and polka.

So after I came home, I looked up Portland CityFest website, and tried to determine if it was, in fact, a big ole Christian music fest.

And I couldn't find out shit about shit. Look through the different pages for CityFest. Look up the bio on Luis Palau as written up on that site. The only thing that might clue you in to the fact that this guy is an evangelical Christian who's all tight with Billy Graham would be the phrase "good news," which, if you've grown up in heavily Christian communities, is a coded phrase for "thar be much Jesus preachin' ahead, aye."

For some reason, this deliberate downplaying--no, HIDING--of what CityFest is and what Palau does pisses me off. Dude, feel free to throw yourselves a Christian music festival. Have a freakin' ball. But don't be drawing in people with promises of free music and X-Games style exhibitions without letting 'em know what the fuck they're in for. I hate being preached to. HATE. IT. And I know that if I'd wandered into this festival and found myself being bombarded about how Jesus died for my sins from a freakin' stage when I'm least expecting it, I would seriously want to punch a bitch.

I have a lot more respect for people who are up front about their Christianity and their urge to convert me from my heathen ways. I can at least refuse their offers, engage them in a debate or hold up silly signs that make fun of their silly signs, depending on the context. And I can't imagine WHY this festival is veiled so heavily behind all this blandly coded talk other than to pass as something it's not so that it'll attract non-Christians, making it easier to ambush poor non-believer bastards who just want to see some dude do a 540 on his skateboard and clog their arteries with fair food. This feels like a sneak attack--the SURPRISE BUTTSECKS of evangelism, if you will. "Sorry, honey, I had absolutely no idea that was the back door. No, really. So very sorry. Won't happen again. But hey, now that I'm in here, can I just tell you about how the son of God was made flesh 2000 years ago...."
misshepeshu: (up and down)
Indiana recently passed a bill that requires all entities selling "sexually explicit material" (defined as anything designed solely to stimulate the genitals, anything that would inspire the "prurient sexual interest of minors" and anything related to BDSM) to pay a $250 fee to the Secretary of State and being registered with local zoning authorities as a purveyor of, well, sexually explicit material.

So yeah--anything that would inspire the "prurient sexual interest of minors"? What the fuck? That would probably include everything from Victoria's Secret catalogues to cute classmates to hardcore porn. The BDSM thing...I just don't even know any more. I give up. These politicians seem to be scrambling for a new hot button to push now that the Supreme Court has said homogay buttsex is OK. It's quite mind-bogglingly stupid.

...can I get into trouble for sending links to Japanese eel porn, 2 Girls 1 Cup or fursuitsex.com to members of the Indiana legislature?

At any rate, I go on for considerably longer about this issue at Smart Bitches.

In other news: Mongolian Death Flu marginally less deathly, though I've found that trying to go on less than 9 hours of sleep a day just doesn't work. I mean that literally--I can't function. I can barely walk and talk, and the only thing I can do is seek more sleep. Guh.
misshepeshu: (hitler says wtf)
So it turns out that the reports in the press of the Catholic Church's addition of new deadly sins may have been slightly exaggerated. But seriously, included in the list of new "deadly" social sins are the following:

Accumulation of Excess Wealth
Morally Debatable Scientific Experiments (keeping in mind that a few hundred years ago, questioning the position and orbits of the celestial bodies was considered morally dubious)
Pedophilia
Perpetrating social injustice

What's that Biblical verse about digging the shit out of the motes in your neighbors eye while ignoring the beam in your own, again?

And how in the hell did the Bishop say any of this with a straight face?
misshepeshu: (Tired kittens)
Hello, Interblag. I'm still around and still alive, but barely. My sleep schedule has been completely fucked. It started a couple weekends ago, with my Epic Formatting Excel Tables in InDesign Adventures, and all of last week was Balls-Out Crazy at work + Extra Balls Out Crazy With Friends, since a bunch of beloved out-of-towners descended on Portland all at once. Last week = no sleep for Candy.

But enough about my sleep schedule, fascinating though it is. A small selection of what's been rattling around my brain pan lately, none of them especially profound:

- I've been listening to a lot of Iggy Pop/Iggy and the Stooges in recent days, and it struck me anew how fucked up the mixes are for some of their songs. OK, just one song. I'm talking about "Search and Destroy." The big, glorious, crunchy guitars are relegated to a muted buzz in the background; the lead guitar sounds screechy, with way too much mid-tone; Iggy's voice is muffled and subdued; and the drums are heard, but not felt. It sounds tinny, which isn't a good sound for most songs, much less a song about anger, alienation, disenchantment and nuclear escalation.

Despite all these problems, the song still rocks out with its cock out. I just feel frustrated and antsy when I listen to it, because I keep wanting it to sound bigger and fuller and louder, but it doesn't, it just stays tinny. Anyone else feel the same way?

I wonder if there exists a better mix for this song (for reference, the version I have comes from Raw Power)--one that explodes from the speakers the way it's meant to. I'm guessing odds are low, but hey, can't hurt to ask.

- I played croquet for the first time today. My neighbors from across the way busted out their set, and as the time passed, more and more people joined until about half the population of the complex (i.e. six people) were whacking little wooden balls around, laughing and cussing good-naturedly because a) none of us are especially good, and b) the lawn is extremely bumpy and shaggy.

- David Hasselhoff has an autobiography out. It's entitled Don't Hassel the Hoff. I just can't make that kind of shit up, good people of Internetlandia.

A choice quote from the book description:

As this fascinating memoir reveals, there’s more to this handsome superstar than great hair, and legs that look good while running down a beach. "The Hoff" is also a smart, caring man with a huge heart.


Pure gold. Sarah and I are fighting to see who gets to review this. She wants me to do it; I want her to have the honors. This could get ugly.

- Almost ten years after buying my copy of Neil Gaiman's Stardust, I got around to reading it, and am now thoroughly in love with it and the universe. For the first time in a long, long time, I wish a fictional universe were real.

- Tomorrow: Pirates of the Caribbean: At World's End with a very good friend of mine whom I haven't seen since the beginning of the year, and then semi-secret Awesomeness afoot later in the night. Whee.
misshepeshu: (Stop trying to fuck me)
So those of you who haven't yet witnessed the HOLY FUCKING SHIT trainwreck happening over at Smart Bitches, you should go check out the blog post wherein romance novel cover model Tony Catanzaro says he'd love nothing more than to toss Sarah and me (as well as sundry Smart Bitch readers) into the trunk of his caddy and dump us in the weeds off the Belt Parkway--except he's a MOTHERFUCKING GENTLEMAN, so he will pray for us instead.
misshepeshu: (hitler says wtf)
Attention, Interpeoples!

Steven Seagal has a band.

It is called Thunderbox.

And their album, Mojo Priest, has a song called "Talk to my Ass."

You may now commence going "WHAT THE FUCK."
misshepeshu: (Stop trying to fuck me)
There are two songs competing for my attention right now in my head.

Song number 1: "O Valencia!" by The Decemberists.

Song number 2: What What (In the Butt)" by Samwell.

The really terrifying aspect of all this? One song segues effortlessly into the other. Just a couple of minutes ago, I found myself singing in a sort of half-mumble "What what in the butt...with your blood still warm on the ground."

And then I looked up to make sure nobody heard me.

I need help.
misshepeshu: (hitler says wtf)
"He was naked, on crack and in alligator's mouth"

I have to say: I felt sorry for the alligator they killed. They weren't even sure if they got the right one. Sigh.
misshepeshu: (hitler says wtf)
Sean Hannity has his own dating website.

I'm not sure there's anything I can say that can beat the sheer fact that this exists.
misshepeshu: (Rape dollars)
"Washington, Washington, 6 foot 20 fucking killing for fun".

Heeeeeee.

"He'll save children, but not the British children."

This thing has absolutely no right to be as funny as it is. NO RIGHT. But I'm fucking rolling on the floor.

Link courtesy of Bam.
misshepeshu: (hitler says wtf)
While having dinner at [livejournal.com profile] yermomshouse last night, [livejournal.com profile] ibnfirnas and [livejournal.com profile] knittinggoddess brought up something they'd read on the BBC--a bizarre article about the evolution of humans, and how 1000 years in the future, they were going to branch off into two separate lineages: one lineage tall, graceful, and comely, the men with square jaws and big penises and the women with smooth skin and pert breasts, and the other line consisting of short, stumpy, troll-like creatures.

There was much hysterical laughter around the table, but at the same time, I thought "Somebody actually predicted the evolution of women's breasts? No. Noah had to have been kidding. Comic exaggeration. Parody. Something."

But, um, no. She wasn't. You can read all about it here.

I'm not sure I've giggled this hard at a news story in a long, long time.

Flashbacks

Sep. 29th, 2006 02:34 pm
misshepeshu: (hitler says wtf)
First I find out Guns n' Roses is touring.

And now I see Boyz II Men are, too.

Why is the Universe intent on ressurecting my secondary school years? What's next? All-4-One? Color Me Badd? Spin Doctors? HOOTIE AND THE MOTHERFUCKING BLOWFISH?

*weeps*
misshepeshu: (hitler says wtf)
Courtesy of [livejournal.com profile] lilithsaintcrow, I present to you: Thundercats. Played by live actors.

If you think that sounds fucked-up, then may I say that your instincts are excellent.
misshepeshu: (SPOCK! NIPPLE!)
I don't have any words to describe how utterly awesome this is.



For some reason, watching this video makes me think of this snippet of "Parklife": "And then I'm 'appy for the rest of the day, safe in the knowledge that there will always be a bit of my heart devoted to it."

p.s. When I made my "Spock! Nipple!" userpic, I totally did not expect to ever use it in a proper context--it was going to be one of my "Wow, this sure is wacky and surreal and sort of sexy in a wrong kind of way" icons. Little did I know. Little did I know.
misshepeshu: (Rape dollars)
I read this post by [livejournal.com profile] li_kao, and for some reason, his use of the word "weak atheist" made me think of this classic Craigslist post, which then inspired me to create the parody below.

Ennn-joy.




I am stronger than most of you weak atheists who cry )
misshepeshu: (cowbell)
[livejournal.com profile] broknashleydoll alerted [livejournal.com profile] arcus to this video, who then showed it to us a couple of weeks back, and I'm finally getting around to sharing it with you, my nearest and dearest:



Srsly. So awesome.

(If you like this song, chances are you'll like the rest of OK Go's body of work, too. Check 'em out. Zey are pretty good, though their debut album is kind of hit-and-miss.)
misshepeshu: (Sprechen)
This woman is high-quality, which inspired Kate Rothwell to come up with a list of reasons why she thinks she’s high-quality. And now, I am here to tell you that they’re both wrong. Both of them pale--PALE, I tell you--in comparison to the awesome heights of quality I am able to achieve just by inhaling oxygen.

Witness:

  • I have unusually small hands. I have yet to meet an adult woman with hands smaller than mine, and that includes people much, much shorter than me. You probably won't believe me, but I’ve met ten-year-old girls with hands bigger than mine. In short, I have smaller hands than 99.999999% of the adult female population. You know what this means, right?

    Yes, if you’re a man, and you’re high-quality enough for me to take as a lover, my hands will make your cock look HUGE. And if you happen to enjoy the fantasy of having pre-pubescent girls tenderly flogging your bishop, my high-quality hands will facilitate that fantasy, especially if you close your eyes, or just turn the lights really low and take care not to focus your eyes.


  • My breasts are large and perky. They are a D cup, but they pass the pencil test with flying colors. (The pencil test: stand upright and place a pencil under one of your breasts. Repeat with the other breast. Does the pencil fall down? If it doesn't does, your mammaries have passed the pencil test.) 97.326% of women with D-cup breasts are unable to pass this test, and for that matter, 77.325% of all American women and 98.9% of all Chinese women under the age of 30 have breasts under a D-cup, which means I rank in the topmost percentiles for both size and perkiness, whether you wish to categorize my breasts according to the the country of my residence or my racial lineage.


  • My hair grows very, very fast. (The hair on my head, I mean. The hair on other parts of my body seems to grow at average rates.) My hair grows well over a foot a year. That means that for every foot of hair you donate to Locks of Love, I can donate 1.5 or more. This increase in philantropy is only one of the many indicators of my high quality.


  • Unlike any other girl out there, I have a tattoo on the small of my back. And it’s utterly unique, I assure you. Consider it a stamp of assurance--an assurance of my high quality.


  • I own two cats, one of my whom has markings on her upper lip that resemble a toothbrush mustache. I immediately made the connection and said "OH LOOK A CAT WITH A HITLER MUSTACHE I THINK I’LL NAME HER HITLER HA HA." This resemblance would never have been remarked upon by anybody, I’m sure, which makes my powerful skills of observation truly remarkable and high-quality.


  • My other cat knows a couple of Astounding Feline Tricks. For instance, if you toss him on the couch, chances are he will bounce right off it and run, head-first and at great velocity, into the nearest empty paper bag or box and push it so hard, he travels several feet. (For those of you who haven’t had the pleasure of witnessing this in person, please take a look at this AVI file.) This same cat also enjoys being spun around on the floor extremely fast, to the extent that when we stop spinning him, his head wobbles in a very comical fashion. Such premium tricks are indicative of premium felines, and such premium felines can only have been raised by a truly premium woman.


  • And speaking of premium: Many girls wish to be carnal with me, because I’m such a premium dancer.


This is merely a small selection. I don’t have time to enumerate my various other excellent qualities, though if any of you adoring masses wish to point out crucial virtues of mine that I’ve omitted, please feel to do so in the comments section of this high-quality journal.

But now, the most important part: I am high quality, that much is certain, but are you high-quality enough for me? Well, as would be expected for somebody who’s so high-quality, my requirements for people who wish to date me are incredibly rigorous. For instance, if somebody took a look at my cat Hitler and said "Really, I don’t know where you got the idea from," I would have to point him to the nearest welfare office so he could look for a fat single mother to take out to dinner instead of me. Likewise, I refuse to date men whose breasts fail the pencil test, and whose rates of philantropy as measured by hair growth are less than 200% of the national average.

Most men do not meet these standards. Chances are, you do not meet these standards. Please know that my rejection of you is not personal. Perhaps you may look for a bride in a Third World country?

Postscript: I posted a modified version of this on Craigslist, because I think a wider audience needs to appreciate how truly high-quality I am.
misshepeshu: (hitler says wtf)
Courtesy of Beth, a page full of vintage ads.

And Beth's right. This one is...I mean, what the...that is, what in the name of cream-filled Christ is...what?

WHAT IN THE FUCK

I give up. On, like, everything.

p.s. My two other favorites: )
misshepeshu: (Kitten claws)
Photographer takes candy from babies, creates art from pictures of reactions.

I'm not sure what it says about me that I found most of the pictures amusing rather than upsetting. I think part of it's knowing the reason why they're crying, and part of it's the fact that they're obviously clean, well-fed, cared-for kids getting their pictures taken in a studio somewhere in California. I mean, c'mon. The kids weren't beaten--they just had a lollipop taken away from them. Chrissakes, people. By ANY standard, if that's the worst thing the kid cries about all day, the kid's having a great fucking day.

Some people, however, have become so indignant over Greenberg's work that they've done some pretty tasteless things, like call her "sociopathic publicity whore" and "cunt," and perhaps worst of all, use multiple exclamation marks to indicate how very, very disgusted they are with the artist, because as everybody knows, mo' exclamation points = mo' betta.

(Link courtesy of Kate Rothwell.)

This disproportionate ire is symptomatic of the way certain cultures have put children on this weird pedestal. "Think of the children!" exemplifies the desire to simultaneously elevate and insulate our kidlets from, well, everything. Look, there's minor adversity, and then there's abuse. In fact, here's a quick LJ poll to see if you're able to differentiate between minor adversity vs. abuse:

[Poll #779720]

Now, mind you, I'm not saying that what Greenberg's doing is great art, or that her methods are completely kosher. There's something a bit squidgy about the fact that she's making kids cry in a controlled setting and then taking the pictures. The photos are certainly gorgeous, but I don't think they're eliciting in me the reaction she intended. Instead of thinking "Oh, look at the pain and suffering of the wee 'uns! O the trenchant commentary on our political situation and the morally retarded policies of George W. Bush!!!!" I'm thinking "These kids are awfully photogenic and awfully hilarious."

And frankly, given the stated purpose of the exhibit (to provide commentary on the current political landscape or some shit like that) I can't help but think that this exhibit would've been a lot more effective if the photographer had, y'know, travelled to places where the kids are crying over things much, much bigger than a freakin' lollipop, like the loss of a parent, or a home, or a limb. God knows there are more than enough children in this world who are crying over things a whole hell of a lot more serious than the loss of some candy.

(It might be interesting to divorce pictures of crying children from context and seeing if people can tell the difference between a child crying over a lollipop vs. a child crying over something much more serious.)

(Am I being exceptionally cold-blooded, even for me, to suggest this sort of experiment?)

On the other hand, presenting grief over a lost lollipop as a legitimate comparison to much more serious suffering provides some pretty sharp (if unintentional) commentary on the American conception of pain and suffering. Consumer-licious!

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