Hatred and bias.

I’ve touched briefly on this topic in the past, and really I have volumes to say about it.  This is my blog after all, so there is a soapbox with my footprints worn neatly into it that I use for just this occasion.

There are many good reasons in this world to strongly dislike someone — too many to not have one.  In fact, if you can’t be bothered to come up with something tangible, then you should really get out of the game.  You can’t hate someone without at least spending a modicum of time figuring out why.  If you’re going purely on appearances, let’s say the color or length of someone’s hair, then you are an imbecile — the lowest form of human being there is.

No, let me correct that.  You are an ape.  A gorilla.  You lack coherent thought and act purely on instinct.  You might just as well be scratching your crotch in a tree, wondering with your tiny brain where the next banana will be coming from, and when that other furry blob over there will come and preen you, picking the ticks off of your smelly hide.  I’d go so far as to say you were born without a brain stem, but ultimately you need a connection to the central nervous system to be able to masturbate in your cage as the nice zoo patrons walk past.

Really, to take offense at someone for purely superficial reasons is the basis of all the nasty little "isms" that have developed over time.  Racism, sexism, classism…  Hmm.  Classism, that’s a good one to use as an example.

Let’s say that you are an office worker, one of the folks who push buttons and generates a fair amount of brain-sweat developing and streamlining new procedures and technologies to make the company you work for a more efficient and profitable machine.  You harbor distaste for physical laborers, you know… the typical plant worker.  Guys who operate basic tools and perform repetitive tasks.  They are in your eyes all sophomoric, Cro-Magnon, high school dropouts, incapable of doing anything else.  They occupy a low station in life and are alcoholic wife-beaters to the very last man.

Let’s also say that you formulated this opinion without having spent more than a cumulative thirty seconds talking to any of them.  You’d have missed out on the fact that what they do for the most part is a skilled trade.  In some cases, it’s very complex and dangerous work that you yourself could not perform if thrown out into the plant and handed the tools.  Many of them are extremely intelligent folks, who for their own reasons choose to do what they do.  Some of them are indeed low-intellect closed-minded buffoons and fall into the gorilla category specified above.

Now, reverse this scenario.  You are a plant worker, one of the guys in the trenches.  You bust your ass all day long, freezing in the winter and sweating in the summer doing a thankless backbreaking job.  You produce the merchandise that your company markets for profit, paying the bills and your paycheck.  You can’t stand those snobby bastards in the office who get to sit around all day in the air-conditioning, playing games and fucking around with the way things have been run for the last thirty years.  They’re good for nothing if they can’t produce a tangible product.  They’re on easy street and you hate it.  You’ll take any chance you can get to reduce them to your level.

Have you considered that all that these folks are average guys like you?  They may have devoted a fair amount of their lives to working behind a clipboard or keyboard, but their job while not as physical, is no less valid than yours.  They are working to make the road ahead smoother.  They take an outdated system and make it more accurate and responsive — eventually reducing the time necessary to get results.  These office folk are also the ones that ensure that you get prompt medical attention, the parts and equipment to do your job, an accurate paycheck, representation with the brass, and fair wages.  They aren’t out to make your life miserable as long as you work with the system, not against it.  They are no better or worse than you are.

The net result of all of the above bullshit is this: have a halfway genuine beef with someone before you start shooting off your mouth, otherwise you’re just a misguided simian who is one tree-branch away from being used for scientific anal-stretching experiments.  You are as shallow and superficial as your opinion, which has as much weight and bearing as a fart in a hurricane.  Your mental incapacity is worn on your sleeve for all to see.  A bias without foundation is as good as belief in nothing at all.

"They’re nihilists, Donny, nothing to be afraid of."

"Are they gonna hurt us, Walter?"

"They won’t hurt us, Donny.  These men are cowards."

And for the sake of all that is good and holy, if you must… if you absolutely feel the necessity to insult someone, at least do so in a creative way.  C’mon people, we have a rich and wonderful language at our disposal, put a little thought into it.  Get clever.  Prove to the world that you’re no ape.

Well damn and howdy.  It would seem that I have unintentionally gathered up a whole new slew of readers from a source that shall remain nameless.

You know who you are.

Let me guess… you’re reading my words and having a bit of a snicker.  Go ahead, my writing is intentionally laced with dark humor and intended to tickle the funny-bones of those who read it — either because they understand it or they think I’m ludicrous. 

Reading someone’s blog is a bit like watching a fish in a bowl.  You can silently watch the fish swim about, getting tickled by the bubbles coming out of the little treasure chest.  You can have a laugh when he bonks his face into the plastic diver or coral reef.  You get a thrill out of him feeding on the smaller fish, or getting chased by the larger ones.  It’s even a hoot to make comments about his markings and coloration… "Whooo-wee Helen, he sho’ does have some funny looking fins".

Really, if I didn’t want anyone to see what is written here, I wouldn’t make it visible to the public.  I’d password protect it, or even better yet I’d go back to the cro-magnon method of writing things down on paper.  With an actual pencil.  How barbaric.  No, I write mostly for my own amusement, knowing that I have an audience — neither one, nor a thousand pairs of eyes make any difference to me.

I also have enough scruples not to write any painfully detailed information about anyone… or any place of importance.  If I have something to say in that regard, I remain painfully vague about the specifics, and the target audience (if there is one) will know what I’m talking about.  No, you will get no real juicy details about anyone but me, and only then what I want to reveal… which coincidentally happens to be a fair amount.

Which leads me to my next point.  You see, if you are reading my babblings here, you aren’t really finding out much about me except what I post.  Selective bits.  Really, I have no use for anyone who won’t bother to get to know me in the most courteous method.  Talking to me.  I love to talk to people, interaction on a level playing field is the grandest way to learn about someone, find out what makes them tick and show them a modicum of respect.  Hearsay is suspect and shallow.  It leads to rumor mongering, and inventing or spreading rumors is reserved for the residents of the shallowest end of the intellectual gene pool.  If your mind and eyes are closed, then you should go ahead and lie down in a hole and pull the dirt in after you.  This is, of course, assuming that you care to know more about a person.  If not, you have the right to remain silent, and anything you say can and will be held against you.

I know that I might spout off some outlandish things from time to time.  Some, if not most of you will be amused or moved by my words, and a portion of you might be offended.  To those with more delicate sensibilities, I direct you to my disclaimer.  Just remember, you exorcized your right and free-will and came here of your own volition.  If you get upset, you have no one to blame but yourself.

One parting bit of wisdom to the newly arrived.  While an individual’s blog is like watching a fish in a bowl, in the case of blogs, the fish is watching back.  And he never, ever blinks.  Be careful whose bowl you tap on, you might get tapped back.

I would like to formally welcome back the two weary immigrants from the crisp, clean land of the Western shores to the moist, gritty bowl of this Southern port-of-call.  GonzO and Shortbus — you were sorely missed and we, your Southern Family, are overjoyed at your return.

As sad as we were to see you leave a little over five years ago, it was understood that it was something you wanted to do … had to do.  It was a journey that none of us could anticipate where you would eventually be led.  The possibilities were endless and we wished you well upon your departure.  If your feet led you back, we would rejoice, if they led you further along, we would wish you safe journey and good speed.  All paths are the right one as long as you keep growing… continuing to discover yourself and be happy.

Jebus, it’s good to have you guys back.  It’s surreal, and as Krazy says "I refuse to believe you’re here to stay until after Mardi Gras and you haven’t hopped on a plane and left."  Here’s hoping that you stick around for a while.

Speaking for Lady and myself, we really love you guys and I hope you realize that you are going to want for nothing.  Like the rest of this rag-tag bunch of miscreants, we take care of our own.  I’m sure the sentiment is mutual throughout the rest of the Community.

Welcome home GonzO and Heather, and may DeJockamo ever smile upon your lives and keep you safe.  Well… keep you drunk without illness at any rate.

From the instant I first saw you there was a connection.
Little did I know when we met that day,
I had met the person I would want to share the rest of my life with.
So, far it has been a wonderful life indeed.
I am so fortunate to have you as my husband, my lover, and my friend.
I don’t need some special day dictated by a card company
To tell you how much I love you.
I hope I show you how much each and every day.
In June we will have been together for 15 years,
And I didn’t think it possible,
But I love you even more today.
There have been high and low points,
But never has there been a dull moment.
One thing for certain our love has remained constant.
I told you that I didn’t want anything for Valentine’s Day,
And that was a lie.
I want you.
I know that’s a fairly expensive and valuable gift,
But I think I can afford it if you let me take out a 100-year loan.
Don’t worry we’ll work out the details concerning interest later. 😉
In the meantime you’ll just have to hang around until the note is paid.

With all my love,

September 9, 2003 Lady and I lost Silk, one of our two beloved ferrets, to insulinoma.  On January 29, 2004 Fagan passed away, also from insulinoma.

Silk and Fagan are the first and only pets that Lady and I have together as a couple.  Those two critters were showered with the love and affection that only we, the two obsessives, could lavish upon a pair of spoiled rotten weasels.

Fagan survived her sister by five months, and was by all outward appearances a happy and healthy fur-ball.  She showed few, if any, signs of the creeping sluggishness that Silk exhibited toward then end.

She was playful, bright eyed, and had put back on a little bit of weight although she had always been slim and trim her entire life.  In the absence of her little ferret sister she would mountain-climb her way up onto the bed and sleep with her big ferret parents most every night, usually either curled into a little furry doughnut nestled into the crook of my left arm, or between Lady and I — a third spoon in the drawer.  You wouldn’t believe how much heat a 2½-pound ferret can generate.  She was a little burning ember.

On Thursday, January 29th when Lady went to give Fagan her morning medication she found her unresponsive and whining softly to herself in her cage.  Fagan was in the throes of a seizure brought on by low blood sugar.  One of the horrible things about insulinoma is that it’s so hard to regulate in an animal the size of a ferret, and the animal can’t tell you when they are starting to feel bad.  You medicate them on a schedule and keep a sharp eye out for a few telltale symptoms, which sometimes never surface before a crash like this.  Fagan had had two previous seizures — out of the clear blue sky.  No warning.  You’d see her playing, and then an hour later she’d be completely immobile and unresponsive to any stimulus.

Lady rushed her to the vet and they immediately started to work with her.  In addition to being near comatose, Fagan had dehydrated and the Vet was attempting to re-hydrate to be able to take a blood sample.  Several hours later, we received the call.  Fagan had died while the Vet was examining her.  She had never regained consciousness, and her poor body just gave out.  The last seizure had done extensive damage to her brain, and she just turned off like a light switch.

That night we went home and packaged everything ferret away before our brains could quite get a grasp on the fact that she was gone.  We went to dinner and surrounded ourselves with a few friends.  We spent this past weekend in the company of more good friends to distract ourselves.  The fact remained that our bedroom — the defacto domain of the ferrets, which they had graciously let Lady and I sleep in, was terribly empty.  We keep catching ourselves in old habits — like remembering to get the medicine ready when we get home from work, or having a split-second of panic when seeing the bedroom door open because Fagan might get out.

Maybe I’m just a stupid 30-something jackass with a pussified attachment to animals, or possible I’m just a hardened, cynical exterior balanced by a softhearted core.  Either way losing Silk, and then the loss of Fagan has ripped me asunder as sure as if they were members of my human family or Family.  When you spend every day of eight years living with and loving a pair of adorable critters, you have a tendency to miss them terribly when they’re gone.

Fagan Noir Matherne has joined her sister on the far side of the rainbow bridge, and now plays for eternity with all beloved pets that have gone before her.  I love you, my little Fagan-ella, my little firebrand.  Try not to run Silk out of the hammock too often.  You take another tiny nibble of my heart with you as you go.

So, the party was to start on Friday and was to continue through till Sunday.  Little did our unsuspecting friends know what the weekend would hold in store.

Friday started out, as many party nights do, with guests arriving sporadically.  The birthday boy was not to arrive till midnight, so that is when the “official” party was to begin.  There was a toasting to DiJacamo, and then birthday cake à la Stuff.  Then, more homemade Hurricanes, and a brief but entertaining game of Mexican bullshit.  Of course a drunken call to G&H and a coast-to-coast camera session ensued.  The guests were many.  The drinks were many.  The drunks were many.  All in all much fun to be had, and we had it baby and then some.

Saturday the party was not to begin until 2:30 or 3:30 am as Mr. Snapperson had to work.  We went to meet him bearing the now legal beverages for him to consume.  By the time we were able to return to the wHOReS, unfortunately, Lisa was exhausted so she and Slinky went home.  That decision saved them from the insanity, which would soon descend upon the house of wHOReS.

This, my friends is where our surreal little tale begins.

Our persons entangled in this tale were, Stuff & Lady, Snap & Hot Fry, and Mensa & Leah.

Upon the return to the seeming comfort of the wHOReS the above-mentioned characters began imbibing homemade Hurricanes and Mad Hungarians like no tomorrow.  Within an hour everyone had worked up a nice buzz and were fairly mellow.  Most of the gang were in the den playing games, all except for Lady.  She had decided to go watch some SNL clips on the television in the living room.

Around 4:30 am there was a knock on the door, and Lady went to answer, thinking it was Pounders or Thirteen & Stirfry arriving to the party.  Almost opening the door, she said, “Hellllooo whhoo isss itt?”  The response a woman’s voice, “Ummm, ma’am, I’m your next door neighbor, I’m in trouble and I need to borrow your phone.”  Lady stopped at the door and called Stuff.  They opened the door, and there was a woman with a busted lip and blood on her shirt.  She said, “My friend and I got into a fight and I need to call someone to come get me.”  They handed her the cordless phone and the woman proceeded to call her friends to come get her.  Then, she called her husband on his cell phone, and Stuff overheard such phrases as, “Well you know I haven’t been happy for awhile”, “You didn’t know I was having an affair?” , “Well, he busted my lip and put a gun to my head.”, “No, I don’t want to call the police I just want to go to the hospital.”

It’s at this point that Lady went and told Mensa to put down his glass and “get on the clock”.  Mensa and Lady told Stuff to call 911 on his cell, because the last thing Snap needs to commemorate his 21st birthday is a shoot out between a jealous husband and an asshole who beats the woman he’s having an affair with.

The woman than asked if she could use the bathroom.  She rinsed her mouth out in the sink, and asked Lady, “How bad is it?” as she proceeded to bear her lip.  It’s bad, and Lady told her that she should go to the hospital because she will probably need stitches.  The woman then looked in the bathroom mirror, and said out loud to herself, “How do I get myself into these situations?”  Lady didn’t know, but she was thinking “I wish you’d take your situation out of my house.”

Now readers, bear in mind that there was still a den where drunken people were playing games.  Up until the point where the woman entered the house, these drunken people thought that Stuff and Lady were dealing with the police because there was too much noise.  It’s at this moment that they realized some serious shit is going down.

The woman finished cleaning up in the bathroom, and asked if she could sit on the porch to await her friends.  Lady informs her that the police had been called, and that they should arrive soon.  The woman said “Thank-you”, and went to wait for the police.  The police soon arrived.  It’s now about 5 am and Mensa and everyone else started drinking again.

You would think that the story would end here, but no my friends.  Read on.

Periodically someone would peek out of the blinds to see if the police were still there, or if everything had settled down.  Around 5:30 am Hot Fry wandered over to the blinds, peeked out and exclaimed, “What the fuck?  Umm, Stuff and Lady there are SWAT guys in your driveway.”  Of course everyone thought that she was pulling their leg.  Until they went to the blinds and sure enough there were like seven SWAT guys in full armor, with riot helmets, shields and assault rifles.

It’s at this point that the party got moved to the back guest bedroom, which is the room farthest from where the asshole lives.  That way, if there were any stray bullets perhaps they wouldn’t hit the steadfast parting people.

Keep in mind that Stuff was the only truly sober person in the bunch.  Mensa and Leah kept tripping over each other, Snap and Hot Fry were starting to get a bit amorous and Lady was wondering if this was the right neighborhood to buy a house.

There was much giggling and giddiness from the drunken throng, and much threatening of bodily harm from Sir Stuff if said throng would not calm down.  Finally, at 7:30 am the bullhorn could be heard, “Attention Graham: answer your phone.  We know you’ve had a bad night.  People out here are worried about you.”  This continued for about an hour.  Around 8:30 am the police broke a window, entered the house, and dragged the occupant out barefoot in his boxers and undershirt.

The peril averted, Sir Stuff called the drunken throng out to see.  The front blinds were then opened, and the throng waved and applauded as the seven SWAT guys walked toward their vehicle.  Then, seven more SWAT guys come out of the bushes and back yards surrounding the assholes house.

Stuff went outside as “the responsible adult” homeowner, and told the drunken throng to stay inside.  Five minutes after he’s out of the door, they were on the porch.  Mensa still had his drink in hand.  Looking to the right, two police cruisers and a police SUV could be seen.  Looking to the left, there were two vans (supposedly for the SWAT guys) and over fifteen police cruisers (that could be visually seen and counted — more were behind them) and an ambulance.

You just had to be there to understand the surreal wonder of it all.  To quote Mensa, "Snap, this is the best party EVER!"

The moral of the story:  This is what happens when you have a party and forget to toast DiJacamo.

This weekend marks the 21st birthday of our beloved youngster, Mr. Snap Snapperson.  He will no longer be a fugitive from alcohol justice, but a legal citizen of the State of Intoxication.

In honor of his elevation into manhood, marked by the dropping of his testicles (no, not tea-bagging) we are having a get-together at the wHOReS.  Everyone is invited, and asked to contribute a little something in the way of consumables.  I will be making a "white-on-white crime" cake.  We have some soft drinks, beer and snacks, but more would be good.

The gala is going to be held on Friday, January 15th. Snap unfortunately has actually got to work that evening, but will be arriving after midnight.  This is not to say that we can’t start without him, never having needed much of an excuse for that sort of thing, but DeJockamo will only put his seal of approval on this shindig upon the arrival of the guest of honor.  Consider yourself warned.

I hope to see everyone there.

I’ve noticed a disturbing trend recently, and it’s really starting to get on my nerves.  Seems that folks are so proud of their high IQ’s that they feel compelled to post the numbers as some sort of self-effectuating monument to their superiority.  That’s all it boils down to… superiority.

They might just as well whip out their cocks and lay them down on the table side-by-side, and get it over with.  The funny thing is, they are the only ones whipping out said cock, and in the absence of any other contestants are proclaiming themselves the winners.

It’s evidence of a special kind of arrogance.  In an "I’m bettr’n you and feel compelled to prove it.  See?  I have the paper and all" sorta’ way.  Arrogance has its time and place, and trust me, there are much better ways to go about it.  Proclamations of a high IQ, followed by an actual number as though your audience much cares, are the shallowest and least effective means.

The grandest flaw in waving your IQ card under people’s noses is the IQ test itself and what it represents.  First, the test is usually administered when we are young, most commonly just before entering high school.  It is a means to rapidly categorize children into groups and cattle-drive them into the schools and programs that will benefit them the most (for expanded info, read this short yet concise article HERE).  It is frequently used as a qualifier for private schools.  It does not take into consideration experience and knowledge over time, it’s merely a measure of how well you take tests.

Guess what?  You can jockey a #2 pencil like nobody’s business.  Congratulations, you’re a number on a page — part of a formula to find the right pigeonhole to stuff you into.

Some of the smartest folks throughout history were written off in their youth as being of average or below intelligence.  Do a little hunting around, you’ll find a few names you recognize.  Time and experience proved otherwise.

As Mensa has pointed out to me, there is another problem with whipping out that IQ number like a crucifix in front of a vampire.  He says that the folks you’re brandishing it against will fall into one of two categories: those of a lower IQ who will think you’re an asshole for being higher and pointing it out, and those of a higher IQ that think you’re a fool for calling attention to your obvious deficiency.  The only audience that will give you any credit are those with the exact same number.  Great — form a club.  Meet for drinks once a month and pat each other on the back.

An IQ test is no measure of common sense, personality or actual knowledge.  It is a poor test of the capacity to learn.  It is barely a measure of cognitive ability and base comprehension.  The greatest myth perpetrated in the last century is that the IQ test is the be-all, end-all measure of a human’s brain power — a yardstick by which to measure one’s worth.

Most commonly, it seems that those who cling to that magic number are compensating for a deficiency elsewhere.  A truly intelligent and secure individual has no need for it.  They know how smart they are and are also clever enough not to brag knowing that they will eventually be wrong about something, and therefore not come off as an ass.

Humility and judicious application of one’s opinion and the statement of facts are more a measure of intelligence than patting one’s own back and shooting off at the proverbial mouth.  More often than not, the IQ medal when worn around the neck comes with the mystical ability to make someone seem aloof and uncaring of the opinions of others, when in reality approval and awe are being sought like a candle in the darkness.

As an aside, some of you might find THIS article an interesting read.  I’ll leave you with a quote I swiped from it:

"I pensieri stretti & il viso sciolto. — Closed thoughts and an open face."
– Sir Henry Wootton to Milton in relation to his visit to Italy in the 1630’s

The world has reached the end of another year, and like a good cigar, it’s time to snuff it out.  Of course, we light another in its stead.

It’s a bloody miracle that things didn’t go more wrong with world affairs than they did — and there was potential for gargantuan fuck-ups on all sides of the fence.

We picked a fight, whether it was right are wrong, and have had the balls to stand and deliver on our schoolyard threats.  We’ve wrangled up one bully and his thug-like chums, with more mopping up to do in other neighborhoods and school districts in the very near future.  All told so far we’ve lost 339 of our best and bravest in the desert, but thanks to better living through technology that is a considerable improvement over the 405,399 we lost in World War II.

Michael Jackson is finally getting the attention he deserves.  I don’t care if it’s for poking his willy at a kid, or the EPA comes down on him for polluting the environment with the plastic emissions from his ugly, stretched, obviously crafted by a blind amputee, face.  He should be burned alive in that Mary Shelley-esque mansion of his.  Toss a few of his precious menagerie on top to enjoy after the flames have died down — I hear giraffe tastes like chicken.  Maybe we can feed Jacko to that lovely German cannibal fellow.

The Space Shuttle Columbia went up like a roman candle.  What a waste. They could have waited till tonight — December 31, 2003 at midnight to light it up.  Imagine the pyrotechnic lightshow from that… better than the Great White concert.

The "Governator", assisted by his campaign manager Sarah Conner, took office in the "shaky state".  He won after successfully freezing, then plunging Gray Davis into a vat of molten recall votes.

A considerable amount of the northwest US and Canada lost power for an extended period of time.  Apparently Richard Gere was "borrowing" the hamster for a bit.

Well hell.  I could go on for a considerable amount of time, and have on numerous occasions.  I think I’ll stop right about here.

I do, however want to wish everyone a wonderful and safe New Year’s Eve.  Please, oh please try not to set yourselves on fire.  Unless someone has a camera ready.  I want to laugh heartily at your smoldering corpse for years to come.

Let’s hope that the coming year holds a few good surprises in store.  I can laugh at the bad news all day long, but I’d rather rejoice in some genuine mirth-worthy events.

Safe journey to you all.

…but it took man to hack it down and hang decorations on it.

Shock and surprise, we’re having a party in honor of this special time that everyone looks forward to all year long… cold and flu season.

No, wait.

It’s Christmas time. A time to exchange gifts, then bitch about the cheap sonofabitch that gave you an obviously used and scratched ‘N Sync CD. Which just so happened to be boosted from your own CD collection.

Bastard.

So, in honor of this festive time of year and the coincidental graduation formals of Xples… er, Dimples we are having a party. Pretty much everyone knew about this one, I’m just formalizing the plans.

The date is Friday, December 19th. Start time is 7:00pm.

We intend to start the evening out with a brief, yet meaningful trip to visit Krazy at work. He’s a beloved member of our gang of miscreants, and due to his work schedule has been unable to join in all of our past shindigs. This time, we take the shindig to him. The intended time to get to JJ’s is 7:00pm. We’ll hang out, drink and be obnoxious for about an hour. We’ll lavish Krazy with our love and attention. We’ll beat the ever-loving shit out of the cook. It’ll be fun!

After the bar trip, we’ll retire to our house for the rest of our descent into an alcoholic haze. The target time is 8:30pm. Those of you who cannot/will not be going to the bar can meet up at the house then or afterwards.

We have a new webcam to try out on the Intoxicam Network. Likely we can convince the Cali Crew to hook up and we can enjoy a little coast-to-coast get together for a while.

See y’all there, if sight there be. Likely it will be blurry by the end of the evening.