The Kid Fights Norms

This morning:

The Kid: Mommy, why do only boy's voices change when they grow up, and normal people's voices don't?

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Because.......

Here's the funny thing about rape cases. Something you may not have realized. Something they don't tell you.

It's not the victim who is on trial.

See, this is the way the system works:

1) Innocent until proven guilty holds true even in rape cases.

2) This means that even the victim is innocent.

3) No, seriously.

4) I don't care what Fox News said. She's still not the one on trial.

5) Yes, even if she has kids.

6) Yes, even if having kids doesn't mean she'll marry whomever ejaculated near her in a means of becoming a proper little lady.

7) Hell, even if she won't bleach her skin all shiny-white like.

So, if you have an urge to delve into the depths of self-hatred, check out Feministing, where the "debate" is raging between one self-hating woman who can't figure out why no matter how much she get's her hate-on against other women, she still hasn't bought herself a hubby (see: me again), one little white boy who's terrified of the possibility that being white may not be a "get out of sin" card after all (see: hujo), and a nineteen year old punk who's really hoping that the interweb will hide his acne from all, and make everyone think he's a Real Man (see: no name).

Some fun quotes for your parusal:

I don't doubt your statistics either. The problem I think is that blacks aren't very well educated and they don't seem very inspired. I'm not sure of all the reasons why this might be, but I know black people are capable of being much better than they currently may be.

My bad. By 'quotes' I meant 'quote'. Figured I head on over there and pick up some good ones, but that right there hit me in the face right off the bat, and well, that pretty much says it all, doesn't it?

Fuck.

Patio Thoughts

Last night I went out on my balcony for a smoke, which made me think of how much easier it will be in a couple of months when it will stay light out late enough for me too do some readings while sitting outside. Which made me realize I should go inside and do some reading. Which led me to distracting myself with thoughts of how we evaluate GDP and how annoying it is that so many people think that it alone can be used as a means of evaluating the standard of living in a state. Which reminded me that a) Bono is (what? preaching?) at the church downtown and b) apparently U2 makes up a major portion of the GDP of Ireland. Which got me thinking about how little I know about Ireland, other than IRA, U2 and that movie with that kid that dances (Billy something?). Which made me realize that the movie with the kid that dances was the second to last movie I saw in the theater, and the last time I actually went somewhere by simply making plans, putting clothes on, and leaving the house (marina/motorhome/parking lot/whatev) without worrying about finding a babysitter, or whether I can actually get to where I want to go without being to late for whatever I want to do, or whether I can get home early enough, or whether my plans are even worth paying a babysitter for. Which reminded me that I'm supposed to go day-camping, and therefore may have been a little pre-emptive in grounding The Kid. Which made me want a beer. Which made me realize that I don't got no beer, and since The Kid was finally in bed, could not get any, despite the fact that I live within a block of four liquor stores. Which brought me back to the Irish-dancing-kid movie. Which made me realize that I could really use another destressor. Which reminded me that my vibrator is still broken. At which point I made a mental note to invest in a new one. Which reminded me that I have to replace the fish tank this semester. Which reminded me that I still have to get new contacts and glasses if I want to see anything. Which made me realize that there is no way I can afford a new vibrator.

Which made me cranky.

I need a vacation.

Night of the Inane Comment IV

Or Maybe III. I Don't Know.


The Kid is learning how to spell. So far she's mastered her name, and such other key words as mommy, no, Lilly, Michael, Roxenne, Briell, and Corinna. She really likes Corinna. As a matter of fact, that's the name she uses to sign all her artwork. Except she writes it backwards, which does make it easy for me to recognize which of the daycare art was done by The Kid, and which was done by the real Corinna.
Come to think of it, The Kid writes everything backwards. I chalk it up to her left-handedness. Or maybe she's just working on mastering the word du jour: RED RUM.
I'm hoping it's a lefty thing.
Anyhow, I figure that since she's getting the whole writing thing down, she ought to throw reading into the mix. I can teach that shit. I watched Sesame Street. So the process goes something like this:
Me: Goose must be stopped, what shall we do....What's that word there spell, Kid?
The Kid: I don't know.
Me: What does D say?
The Kid: de
Me: Good! Now what does O say?
The Kid: ooohh
Me: Nice! Now put'em together. Say both sounds.
The Kid: de ooohhh
Me: Great, now faster!
The Kid: de ooohh, de ohh, de oh, dohhh, doooo
Me: Great! What's that word?
The Kid: uuuhhh.
Me: de ooo. de oo. de oo. doooo. do. What's the word?
The Kid: Goose must be stopped, what shall we do!!
Me: Okay, that's the line from the book. But what does D O spell?
The Kid: Goose!
Me: D O. de ooo. dooo. do. I'll give you a hint: The word is do. So what does it spell?
The Kid: Bear!
Me: It's do. The word is do. D makes a de sound, o makes a oooo sound, put them together and they say de oooo de ooo deooo doooo doo do. The word says do. D O spells do. It's do. D O spells do. So what's the word again?
The Kid: Satan's Cat!!!
Me: Fuck. I need a beer. G'night. I'm blowing this room.
I will never, ever teach kindergarten. Never. Fuck that shit, I hate kids.

Speaking of ducks: I can't help but wonder when they're all lined up real pretty like if that mother duck is actually quacking, "Don't step on my heels. Don't you step on my heals. Back off. Back the fuck off, do you have to do that? Christ, enough already, you're stepping on my motherfucking heels every freakin' step! You kids are driving me bloody well insane! Back Off!"
I'll bet she is. Heck, I'd lay money on it.

I was wrong when I suggested that Stephen Harper may look like a playskool little people. He looks more like a penguin.
There's nothing as embarrassing as seeing your nation's leader in a photo shoot with Bush, and realizing that Harper makes Bush look good. Not only that, but I think ole' Stevo actually tugged at Bush's sleeve once, while Dubya mugged for the camera, glorying in the fact that the Great White North had finally come to it's senses and elected a man who thinks George Is God. That image has been burned into my memory for the last couple of months, and I don't think I'm going to be able to get over it. I've been trying to move on, think of other things, happy thoughts or volatile rants, but it ain't happening.
We elected a penguin. And an asshole of a penguin, at that.

Speaking of feminism...
WTF?
Never mind.
Okay.
Movin' On:
Speaking of feminism, part of the package is the right to be assholes. Hard concept? Not really. Just say, "She's an _______ insert insult of choice" and move on. It's not a feminist thing. It's not that we're power tripping 'cause we've got you buy your little politically correct balls, it's that sometimes women are assholes.
Here's the deal. I can be an asshole, without it being because I'm a woman. In return, you can be an asshole, without it being because you're black, white, hetero, homo, an immigrant, an ex-pat, a foot fetishist, a catholic, or a republican.
Imagine the possibilities: You could actually act like a jerk, without worrying about whether you're living up to your stereotype, or, worse yet, adding to that stereotype. It's a thrill. I could use some more.

Dialysis Cat is still alive. It just occurred to me that it's been nearly one year since The Mother dropped off that half-dead, kidneyless, obese asshole of a cat on my doorstep while they vacationed in Mexico. And they've kept that poor thing alive all this time. See, that there's cruelty. That cat doesn't eat. Anything. Ever. He collapses regularly. And by regularly, I mean every five steps, he just flops. That's fucking pathetic. Seriously, there's a point where one has to understand the difference between helping someone live, and extending their death throws for as long as possible. In Ye Old USSR, that would've constituted torture. In the here and now, it's just livin' the Schiavo dream.
With fur, in this context. But balding rapidly. And possibly with fleas.
Satan's Cat, on the other hand, is rockin' her middle age for all its worth. She is currently sprawled out on the dining room glaring at me, ears flat back. There's a very good possibility I could lose a limb in the next couple of minutes, but it's all in good fun.
My extremities grow back. It's a useful talent to have.

Damn. I'm getting old. It's one a.m., and I've just erased the same paragraph three times.
This Night Of The Inane Comment is declared a bust. Fuck it, I'm going to bed.

Admendament: I realized that my past Night Of The Inane Comment's are so far gone that ya'll probably need a refresher in what a real NOTIC ought to look like. So click to your heart's content:

Night of the Inane Comment III

Night of the Inane Comment II

Night of the Inane Comment I

An Open Letter To Pro-Life Activists:

Jesus Hates You.

You know it, I know it. It's time you accept it. Jesus may be some dead preacher with a penchant for metaphor, but even so, he's rolling over in his grave at the sight of your "I Love Missisauga" baggy assed t-shirts, and your cheap assed wannabe mullets.

Jesus is pretty fucking disgusted that you've allied yourselves with him.
Yeah, you know that kid in junior high, the one who thought ya'll were friends, but you were just too nice to tell to fuck off? The one that you'd put up with when no one else was around, but you'd avoid like the plague when ever any one else was around?
To Jesus, you're that kid.

Don't go announcing yourself there, with your fetish for sinking your gnarled, fungal nails into other peoples uteruses. Eventually, Jesus is gonna have to acknowledge you're constant sidling up to his table in the lunchroom, and he's gonna snap.
(And lemme tell ya, it's never pretty when the dumb fuck finds out that their idol feels nothing more than a deep, long-abiding disgust for them.)

Yeah, I realize it's hard for you. Nothing like living your life being told that your worthless if your not loved, and loved by one particular man only. Jesus don't got much love to give, what with being dead and all. And even if he wasn't, he sure as shit wouldn't be spreading that love your way. Why, you say? Well let me count the ways:

1) Jesus has a lot of demands on his time. He's got people left, right and center who'd do just about anything for a five minute interview, let alone a reciprocation of that "undying love" you say you've got to give. The man's gotta be picky. Hell, who wouldn't be, in his situation? Fuck, I'd be picky in my situation if I had an ounce of brains, and I'm a motherfucking single mother/college student. Just imagine for a minute how picky I'd be if I had a couple billion people lusting over me. Pretty fucking picky, that's how.
That's right, you've just been cut. Thanks for coming out, now go find a new religion to suck up to. Jesus has bigger fish to fry than your sorry ass.

2) Jesus doesn't give a fuck about Missisauga. He can't spell it, he don't like it. Jesus really hates Hamilton, but you there in Missisauga; you're not much better off. Jesus don't like smog. He don't like pollution. Think: The man commuted by donkey for fuck's sake. Your dashboard factory days are killing your odds of meeting with the Big J.
He also hates mosquitoes. And he doesn't differentiate between damp and dank. Missisauga sucks (Although still not as much as Hamilton). So if you live there, or anywhere else in Southern Ontario for that matter, you're off the list. Jesus doesn't have time for your sorry ass. Quit trying, and start living up to some real standards of decency and morality. The second coming ain't coming your way.

3) Jesus is not going to sit his ass down on your Martha Stewart line, Tropicana patterned sectional. He's not gonna drink your weak assed tea, and listen to you revel over how Joan Across The Street has put on more weight than you. Jesus also does not give a fuck about Joan. Jesus is certainly not going to eat that same bumbleberry pie - family recipe or not - that you fed to Joan, while counting the slices she jammed down her gullet so you could spread the news to all the other locals.
Your bumbleberry pie sucks. The crust is dry, and the only reason no one's told you before is because they know that it's all you have going for you.
It doesn't matter how long you spent on that pie; Jesus has better shit to do. Like make poor people be not as poor, and dead people be not as dead, and banks give fair interest rates on savings accounts. Your petty gossip and crappy pie does not fit in the itinerary of the Jesus Reunion Tour.

4) You annoy Jesus. See, there's four types of decision makers, and Jesus fits into the Director/Lion type. Big on leading, low on whining. Jesus just wants to get shit done, solve some problems, and do it without getting into all the details about how this'll fuck up his schedule and screw with his manicure. Jesus doesn't want to hold a focus group on how we all feel about leprosy, he wants to wipe that shit right off the planet.
Come to think of it, Jesus kinda wants to bitch slap you right now. Don't take it personally, directors are known for that.

5) Jesus does not give a flying fuck about how you feel about other peoples uteruses. If there's anything Jesus can spot a mile away, it's a slacker. And the best way to slack is to sit around finding new ways to make shit other peoples problem. Jesus doesn't buy that shit. You got a problem, solve it. Your neighbour's got a problem, offer whatever you can to help them through that shit. Your neighbour's best friend's son's dog's mother's owner's cousin's got a problem, well help them the fuck through that shit. Don't be asserting your control over other peoples shit. Or eggs. Or semen. Or any combination of the above.
Seriously, you expect Jesus to come to your rescue when the motherfucking washing machine breaks down, you damn well better be willing to put in the time to make that shit worthwhile for him. He ain't gonna fix your dryer if you ain't gonna at least cure cervical cancer. It's easy. Pass out a couple of fucking vaccinations, and your done. You have all this time on your hands to protest on behalf of the zygotes, why not take it to the next level and actually do something for people that are already living, kicking, independent beings in their own rights?

5) Jesus knows that the only time your money is where your mouth is there's McDonalds involved. How many foster kids you got? What, to broke/old/busy to adopt/foster? Well, fuck you too. You expect salvation from Jesus, yet you can't even live up to what you expect from the nearest pregnant woman? Don't be slapping his name on that. He don't like it. You want poor people to be forced to raise babies, well, adopt ten of the little shits. You'll be poor, you'll have babies. Done and done.

6) Jesus is deeply disturbed by your obsession with other peoples sex lives. Jesus feels this may be a real problem for you. Jesus does not remember anything about going on and on and on and on about who's getting laid, with who, and with what parts. Jesus feels you may need to just fuck and get over it.
Otherwise, Jesus strongly recommends a Rabbit Pearl, although Jesus also would like to dissuade you from buying the floor model, as it may not last that long.
Jesus also recommends starting a toy company that offers warranties. Jesus feels this may be a good business investment.

And there it is. You've spent your whole lives vying for the love of this guy, and it ain't gonna happen. You're too demanding. You don't reciprocate. And you're probably from Missisauga. Basically, You're Fucked.

You still want the love of the Big J? Well, start living up to that shit. Add a fun little clause to that anti-abortion campaign you've got going on. You know, that clause that states that you're not allowed to be anti-choice unless you're willing to be chosen by others, at random, against your will, to raise a child. And support a pregnant woman for nine months prior. And heck, if she should die in childbirth, throw in some hari-kari while your at it.

Then move on to shit that Jesus actually gave a fuck about. Like ending poverty, and disease, and making people live decent, human lives, regardless of race, class, sex or religion.

Then maybe Jesus will look twice at you. But just maybe.
And if you're still wearing that ugly assed t-shirt and haven't done anything about that fungus, he's not contemplating small-talk over a latte. Seriously. Deal with that shit.