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Art Crime

art crime

Hey, y’all, I’m in an all-day meeting in the Boston office today. The good news is, my old Mazda dealership can fit me in. The bad news: the Weaselmobile is currently due for about $1,200 in routine maintenance. Yay!

I’ll leave you with this. Oklahoma County Commissioner Brent Rinehart decided the best way to reach voters in his district was to mail them his own personal comic book. The article calls it “edgy”. I call it “a huge steaming pile of loose monkeyshit” — which is, come to think of it, what “edgy” usually means.

It would be a lot more fun if these vile, psychotic drawings were his own, but he actually hired somebody to draw them. Somebody who, presumably, got paid. (Somebody named Shane Suiters, who may or may not be a tattoo artist. Lots of stuff bounced up when I Googled his name, but nothing I felt confident enough to print. Try it! It’s fun!).

Sadly…yes. You guessed: Brent is a Republican. Though really mostly what he is is a nutter. He’s had conflicts with fellow Republicans on the board, at least one of whom has played the “I urge him to get help” card.

You can (and I encourage you to) download the whole masterpiece here (3 megs, .pdf). Now, don’t tear the place up while I’m gone. And somebody please remember to let the dog out at least once today. That wasn’t fun to come home to, last time.

August 7, 2008 — 6:10 am
Comments: 40

Caring is not helping

bellcurve of caring vs helping

My mother taught special ed for years and years. She said you could tell when a volunteer was going to wash out in the first week, because she’d be all, “oh, the poor darlings!” You have to be able to make retard jokes to hack it in the retard biz.

Me, I tend to be pretty far over in the boo-hoo end of the scale. “Well, isn’t that special, Princess,” I says to myself, “you care too much to help. We call that: FAIL.” So I make myself do whatever half-assed stuff I can manage, like give blood or visit the pussoes. Then I go home and drink. I’m Mama’s special little throbbing raw nerve ending.

I have huge admiration for the people who shovel the world’s shit for a living. Doctors and nurses. Soldiers. Cops. There’s a reason all the hardest professions have a reputation for black humor: it’s the only way they can bear to do what they do. And it’s awfully easy to slip off the tippy top of that bell curve into one of the unhelpful places on either side.

I got here thinking about Ingrid Newkirk, wondering if she started out okay and went batshit insane staring into the abyss. I don’t think so. There’s another kind of person that thrives in dark places: the kind for whom misery is like oxygen. Doctors, as a class, have given the world more than their fair share of serial killers.

Sometimes I think only religious people should tackle the hard jobs. Specifically, religions which teach of an afterlife (or a future life) chock full of justice. Or retribution. At the very least, a damn good reason why things have to be the way they are.

August 6, 2008 — 2:57 pm
Comments: 16

Happy Underpants Day!

Just heard it on the radio. It’s National Underpants Day! Yeah, can you believe it? Before you know it, National Underpants Day rolls around again. Phew, time flies!

I know it’s legit, because Hasbro is teaming up with FreshPair.com to put underpants on the Operation guy (whose name, disturbingly, is Cavity Sam). Only, I can’t find anything on Hasbro’s site about it.

Sadly, both NationalUnderpantsDay.com and its sponsor FreshPair.com are blocked from work, so I can’t tell you how NUD is observed. Some minion without Websense filtering will have to tell us what we’re supposed to do today. And no making shit up!

Gyah. You know? I try to keep the true spirit of National Underpants Day, but they’re not making it easy.

Edit: fixed the link (thanks, Musli). I guess, since
I can’t follow it myself. Sadly, it’s National Underwear day,
which isn’t nearly as amusing. “Pants” is a comedy word.

August 5, 2008 — 10:02 am
Comments: 35

There ain’t no God but Allah, y’all

shelbyville tennessee

Workers at the Tyson chicken plant in Shelbyville, Tennessee get eight paid holidays a year. Under the new contract they just signed, Labor Day is no longer one of them. Instead, they traded it for Eid al-Fitr — the last day of Ramadan, when Muslims break fast.

That’s because more than half the workforce (700 out of 1,200) is Muslim. Mostly Somali.

Shelbyville. That’s like Bugtussle, folks. Possum Holler. East Dawgtesticle. Shelbyville makes Mayberry look like Gotham City. Or did.

Somalis. Aren’t they the guys that dragged our dead soldiers through the streets? Why are we importing them? In quantity? To little bitty towns in Tennessee? Seriously, WTF?

August 4, 2008 — 8:23 am
Comments: 69

You are feeling verrrrrry…kitty-adopting-able

bee-yootiful pusso

This little semi-feral so-and-so tried very hard to adopt a weasel yesterday by sheer force of will. Cross your fingers for him today; Saturdays are when the cats are mostly adopted (Caturday! Ha!). Posted in all his Technicolor glory in the comments (he’s gray and white, so it ain’t much).

August 2, 2008 — 9:02 am
Comments: 14

Ingrid Newkirk killed a thousand dogs and cats with her own hands

ingrid newkirk is crazier than a whole pack of rabid baboons

Meet Ingrid Newkirk, found of PETA, self-described ‘press slut’ and crazier than a whole six-pack of post-experimental laboratory baboons. Her Wikipedia entry (from which I pinched all this) makes it clear she’s a complete nutter — and it was written by a sympathizer. (How do I know? The author describes an experience Ingrid had in India, watching villagers bind a dog’s “arms and feet.” Dogs don’t have arms, sweetcheeks. It’s legs all the way around. Only an animal rights activist can be that retarded about actual animals).

Ingrid was born in Ware, England (sorry, Uncle B) in 1949. Her dad was an engineer and the family moved to India when she was young. There she rescued strays and helped her mother (a volunteer for Mother Teresa) roll bandages and prepare medicine for the lepers. There, I suspect, she learned to loathe every living creature that moveth in the waters and every creature that creepeth upon the earth. Just a guess.

The family moved to the States in the ’60s and she didn’t do anything batshit insane, that I am aware of, until 1970. That year, she took a litter of kittens to the shelter in Poolesville, Maryland where they were promptly gassed. Also, it was a horrible place and the woman at the shelter was rude to her. That really, really upset her, so she decided to work there.

Does that make sense? No, of course it doesn’t.

She describes how horrible her co-workers were, kicking the animals around and “stepping on the animals, crushing them like grapes” and how she complained to management, but nothing was done. Did that happen? Maybe. But it has the thin, high music of a personal sadistic fantasy to me. Anyhow, her solution in her own words:

“In the end, I would go to work early, before anyone got there, and I would just kill the animals myself. Because I couldn’t stand to let them go through that. I must have killed a thousand of them, sometimes dozens every day.”




Oh, look! More crazy:

“On my way down into the District, I would stop in Potomac and pick up triple-ground prime meat … I would break a raw egg and take onions and capers and I would mix it all, and I would go about checking on the animals while eating this raw food right out of my hand.”

Before she went vegan, obviously. Handling animals and munching on a fistful of raw meat. Jesus fucking christ in a cornfield, that’s some serious crazy. Of course, eating excellent quality raw meat in front of an animal on a meager shelter diet would be a great way to tease the shit out of it. Just saying.

But wait! There’s more:

“Shelters cannot humanely house and support all these animals until their natural deaths—they would be forced to live for years, lonely and stressed, in cramped cages or kennels, and other animals would have to be turned away because there would not be room for them. Turning unwanted animals loose to roam the streets is not a humane option. If they don’t starve, freeze, get hit by a car, or die of disease, they may be tormented and possibly killed by cruel juveniles or picked up by dealers who obtain animals to sell to laboratories.”

Noticed what’s not listed as an option: adopting them out as pets. Because people like Ingrid believe animals that rub along pretty well with humans are traitors and must die. That’s why PETA shelters adopted out LESS THAN ONE PERCENT of the animals they took in in 2007. Ingrid must’ve called in sick the day those 17 animals found homes.

You know what? I’m not even going to talk about the good things PETA has done. Because they have done good things along with the stupid things, and on issues that are very important to me, and I’m madder than hell that a sadistic fuck like Ingrid Newkirk got her attention-whoring psychotic stink all over them.

Furylanche! Rottweilerlanche! Malkinlanche! (And anyone else whose kind link got buried under the giant footprint that is Michelle Malkin). Welcome! Stay! I’ll do my best to continue pissing you off in the worst way. Wait…that’s a good thing, right?

August 1, 2008 — 9:41 am
Comments: 48