Must....not...be...penetrated!

Chuck & Buck & Larry

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"Gay Bomb" or The Oldest Trick in the Book

glumbert.com - Army considers Gay Bomb

Insomnia, Part I

Warning: Depressing Blog Ahead. No Need to Leave Comments After the Awkward Pause

So I can't sleep. I've got so much work to do for school, so many deadlines, so many voices begging for help and clarification that they all start to blend together.

Meanwhile, my step-dad, as some of you may know, is very sick. He signed his health over to $cientology and doesn't have the medicine to treat arthritis, rhuematism, or epilepsy. He recently has a seizure that left him unconscious until a neighbor found him. Where was my mom and why did she leave a near 70 year-old invalid alone? Because she was in NYC being a $cientology missionary.

Meanwhile, Falwell died, to my delight, and all the rage I've had for him, Billy Graham, the Promise Keepers' McCartney, etc. has come out in deliciously Sadean ways (See GC's blog), but I don't feel any better. It's because it always falls on deaf ears. I'm eternally the Boy who says that the Emperor is Wearing No Clothes, but even my family members who have NOT become pod people don't really understand why I have rage rather than compassion.

Now, my step-dad may die soon. It's bound to happen some day. I should be full of sorrow and available to support the very family that sold me out to the kind of hate that Fallwell represents, but I only feel rage. Sorrow and remorse becomes rage and then rage even more at having all emotions defer to rage. I probably won't go to the funeral (my step dad's) because I would only end up pulling a Bobby from Twin Peaks, pointing my finger at them all and crying, "You! You are all responsible!" It would be a debacle. Best to stay away.





So here's a toast to the death of Fallwell for whom my rage can at least be unambivalent, unmixed with the complex feelings one has for family, especially the pod people part of the family. Clickety click goes the Scotchy Scotch, a swallow, and another restless night seeing ghosts in the corner of my bedroom.

All Coulter All De Time

WHY? WHY?! WHY?!!

--must assholes who nearly let their dog bite your face off apologize that it’s a “guard dog” and expect that this statement neutralizes the ethical misstep. Hey fuckface, leave your “guard dog” at home--guarding the house. In his fence. In the yard. Where he shits in place other than where my feet might go. You have no business training a dog to bark loudly and then taking him out in shared public space where others have to tiptoe on ice or nearly die by smacking their heads on this ice because their fuckface owners can’t properly train the object of their power. If you like having power over the beasts of the earth so much, train your fucking dog.

--must moms and their two rugrats walk three abreast on the sidewalk. Listen up, Betch: I deserve EXACTLY ONE HALF of this sidewalk so walk behind each other in a cute daisy chain or something so that I don’t decide to attach razor blades to my stiffly (but briskly) swinging arms as I pass you. Slice. Ooops. There goes a snot-encrusted arm! Maybe next time you won’t expect the seas to part for your chilldwen.

--must racist homicide cops cover up a fucking MURDER in Elmwood’s Burger King. Oh, what? You didn’t hear about that? Because it wasn’t even in the fucking news. “Channel 2: On Your Side,” like hell. More like “Channel 2: On the Side That’s Winning: White People, Who Only Care When A White Person Dies.” And by the way, Burger King: you don’t belong on Elmwood either, fuckknuckles. Starbucks may be just as evil as you are, but they are clean and quiet: I can’t smell them or hear assholes yelling for drinks from inside their muffler-less cars. No one thinks: “I’ll go murder someone at Starbucks—no one will notice.” They think, “I’ll cap this fool at Burger King because it’s nice and fucking sordid. He sleeps with the fish sticks.”

--must I be expected to go to meetings to which I have no idea if I’m even invited? Oh, no one from the E Dept was there? If someone had told me to go, I’d go. I know, I know...I should do what it takes to become the new head of the dept. I should “get involved,” right? No one has said shit to me about said promotion, only smatterings of “you’ll probably be the one doing all that next year.” Oh yeah? Where’s the MONEY? Where’s the formal fucking OFFER and the power to hire and fire whom I please? I better not be asked this fucking summer just before the new year begins, after it’s too late to hire anyone. Oh, the head of school does the hiring? Yeah, that’s right, I won’t even really have that power—just all the work of interviewing people I don’t like when I already know some perfect candidates. I’ll have a title and no power. Does that mean that when I attend meetings and I can act like what I say matters when it matters as much a dirt does to an earthworm’s navel?

--must I do my taxes myself if I’m happy with whomever the U.S. Government picks? I’ve made at least one mistake every year and the error has been caught by a human who reviewed the whole thing and gave me more money. So how about I buy that human a cup of fucking coffee to do it all himself and call it a day? Or how about I pretend I’m in Idaho and never pay taxes again, but turn my house into a fortress stocked with water and canned goods, its windows meshed over with chicken-wire, and attach a bullhorn over the door so that I may rant at startled passersby? It’s much better than a blog!