THE SNOWY DEATH APPROACHES
The East Coast/Mid-Atlantic region in which I live is all abuzz – or, more accurately, apanic (if that wasn’t a word before, it is now, I am nothing if not lexicologically ambitious) over the approaching weather system which newscasters are calling – repeatedly – catastrophic. Really? The predictors of doom and ratings-whores are also bandying about the words “unprecedented” and “deadly” and various and sundry other adjectival combinations meant to terrify and scarify us into tuning into them for endless details about this winter storm, which, if one actually believed what they said, might well be a harbinger of the new ice age.
Bring it on, I start a new house-sitting gig later this morning and I have ten books to read before I become a fossil in some new glacier. I’ll die happy, if frozen.
Speaking of which, personally, I think this whole ice-agey-storm thing is all another Disney ad-campaign-trick to bump-up the grosses for Frozen even more. You can’t tell me Disney doesn’t control the weather. Well, you can tell me, but I won’t believe you.
BIG BROTHER WALT
HOLY SHIT – after I typed the previous sentence, my computer went mad and I could NOT get to ANY websites anywhere. Yikes, worse than controlling the weather – Disney controls the interwebs. Oh well, at least my dronedom to the Walt-ists in their world domination will be accompanied by soaring ballads, and, honestly, what else have I ever wanted?
ASSHOLE OF THE SOCHI DAY
Speaking of drones – as in a parasitic, mindless drudge without capacity for human consideration – while I have been actively NOT watching the Olympics because of what I consider to be the contribution of the IOC and its sponsors to enculturated homophobia, I cannot AVOID all news of it; alas, mostly the bullshit, bad kind. And the latest dick – though I hesitate to use as descriptor a word representative of an object of which I am so fond – is luger, Christian Niccum, who has gotten his genital and ass-hugging Spandex all in a twist because of an ad by the Canadian Institute of Diversity and Inclusion meant as a commentary on the vileness of the Russian go-ahead-and-kill-the-gays law that DARED to depict luging as gay. Niccum finds it “sad” that they are using his sport to “promote diversity” and a “lifestyle.” Hey fuckhead, this isn’t a “lifestyle” I’m having – it’s a LIFE, and I’m not a “diversity” unless you live in a world of the presumptive superiority of heterosexism, you jerk. And if you find it OFFENSIVE and SAD to see something important to you PRESUMED or IMPLIED to be other than YOUR sexuality, take a moment to imagine what it is like for any of we “DIVERSITY” types – i.e. non-white, non-heterosexual, non-males on the planet – to have spent decades seeing everything PRESUMED to be about WHITE HETEROSEXUAL MEN LIKE YOU.
Fuck you, Christian Niccum. I am SO SICK of people like you with this thoughtless drivel of hatred and bigotry and the way you feel free to SPEW it at every goddam turn. I hope you do feel threatened. I hope you do feel shaken. I hope you do feel offended and put off by NOT being represented and included for one stinking ad – because then, maybe, if you have enough non-drone brain-cells left, you’ll consider for one moment what it is like to be DIVERSE and OTHER in the closed-off, vanilla, Disney-fied white-male world in which you apparently wish to continue living. Poor you, somebody said your sport might be a little gay. Get a life, Christian. (Wow, how many times have I wanted to type and say that before? And now, thanks to Mr. Niccum, I can.)
ON A LIGHTER NOTE … THE VAGINA DIAGRAMS and NEIL DIAMOND . . .
I live in a multi-generational situation, which is usually pretty great. It is nice to share time and perspective with people in their 80’s, 60’s, 40’s, teens, and pre-teens. I am known (and relied upon) for my ability to shovel – not just snow, but bullshit – and the making of elaborate birthday and holiday meals. Yes, I can cook too. (SHOWTUNE ALERT!)
And, too, the number of times a day I have to pee! (SHOWTUNE ALERT)
And, well, the way I lie about my age. Or, perhaps, a better choice of words would be “to deny” about my age. Yes. That’s nicer, isn’t it?
In any event, my nephew (really, my great nephew, and I mean that in all senses of the word) C, this week began the health unit at his middle school. So, yesterday, I’m standing in the kitchen and he comes up to me with a diagram on which he has filled in the various parts of the female reproductive system. He says to me, “This is a vagina, Charlie. I guess a guy like you has never seen one, so, here you go.”
LOL. I pretty much died.
This morning I was up before he left for school, which is unusual, and went into the kitchen to get my Keurig fix. I am also well known for NOT wanting to talk before having had at least two cups of coffee, and if I am FORCED to do so, well, the affectionate sobriquet C came up with for me – Uncle Potty Mouth – is usually MORE than accurate.
C is eleven. And he likes to goad me into swearing. And he did again this morning. At which point he said, “There he is,” and broke into Neil Diamond’s Sweet Caroline, only he changed the words to, “My sweet Uncle Potty-Mouth; good words never come out of his mouth.” He is a freaking comedian. I can’t stop laughing.
But, honestly, Neil Diamond? I mean, how the freak does he know Neil Diamond? AND MIGHT I ADD – he knows NOT ONE showtune and has NEVER BEEN TO A MUSICAL! I suck as an uncle, but, he has told me in no uncertain terms he WILL NOT go to a musical. This, despite me having gone to any number of his hockey games.
Oh well, he’s not unaffected by the culture. He also disdains my love of ice skating. No doubt, he too, is afraid he’ll grow up with the untenable urge to – PLEASE SAY IT ISN’T SO – luge – and we all know what that means, don’t we Christian Niccum?
I WANT SOME CHICKEN
Later kids, gotta go get ready for the coming ice storm – I have my books lined up, now need to buy a flashlight and get my hands on some chicken. NO, not the kind of chicken meaning Twink-boys age 18 to 22 – not today. Although, I do have a story about this town being over run by Twinkie Hookers – who knew? I guess unemployment really IS a problem. Where was I? Oh, right, no, by chicken, I mean the fried kind. Like I said, I’m off to a house and pet sitting gig so it will just be me and the dogs (and a cat – but, you know, who counts a cat) and so if I’m going to freeze to death, well, I might as well hog it up, right? Because, it doesn’t look as if I will again be squeezing my sorry ass into spandex so I can get lain on that sled with my doubles partner and hurtle to a little death brought on by the big . . . never mind. Christian, if we live, call me?
SOCHI FOREVER! (And Charlie is kidnapped and beaten to death by a CraigsList Luge Trick. The end.)