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Friday, 20 January 2012

Friday's Random Thoughts

Posted on 18:58 by pollad
Random Product Review
According to me and Kate, this stuff tastes awful. According to Jacob, "It's not that bad."

Random Fox News Ridiculousness

This column by Dr. Kenneth Ablow a-blows. I'm not sure I've read anything quite so silly before. Dr. Ablow, Newt Gingrich's history as an asshole is not indicative of what a great president he could be. The fact that three women have wanted to marry him and that women have been willing to commit adultery with him is not impressive in the least. You know who else gets a lot of women wanting to marry them? Convicts. That's right, there are women who write letters to convicted felons and want to marry them. Three women wanting to marry Newt Gingrich speaks to nothing other than that Newt knows where to troll for women who are attracted to racist, condescending pricks.

What Newt's history as an asshole really does is speak to just what a hypocrite he is. It highlights the hypocrisy of a major representative of a party that claims to be the party of "family values" and wants to define what the word "family" means for everyone, a party that wants to use the phrase "sanctity of marriage" so often that it loses its meaning. It's not your political opinions that bother me so much, IT'S YOUR HYPOCRISY, STUPID! (OK, it's your political opinions, too.) You're suddenly saying that this doesn't matter? Really? I'm not saying it does or doesn't. What I'm saying is that if you actually BELIEVE the crap you're trying to sell the American people, then you shouldn't change your mind now just because the candidate you like is a horrifying excuse for a human being. Oh my God, never mind, why even bother?



In related news, Chuck Norris has endorsed Newt Gingrich. Are there people who truly care who Chuck Norris endorses?

If you are the sort of person who makes voting decisions based on who Chuck Norris endorses...



Random Kardashian Bull Shit




I am 100 percent certain this rumor was generated by the Kardashian family themselves. When it comes to famewhoring, they are geniuses. I have to admit, this is one of my favorite stories of today. I mean, how awesome would it be if O.J. really was her dad?! That's some nighttime-soap-opera-level drama right there.

Random OJ Simpson Sighting


I once saw O.J. Simpson in person. Charles and I had driven to a Ford dealership just outside Shreveport. We were thinking of buying an Expedition or some other stupid SUV we couldn't really afford at the time. When we pulled into a parking space, I looked up and saw a tall, handsome man talking on the phone on the pavement right in front of the spot. He looked familiar, I thought maybe we'd met before, and I automatically smiled and he smiled back, and then, BOOM, it hit me who it was. My heart started racing and I said, "Holy shit, that's O.J. Simpson."

O.J. kept talking on the phone. He walked along the pavement back toward something red and sporty, a Mustang or a Thunderbird. We went inside the dealership and everyone in the place was losing their minds. The place was buzzing with whispered conversations. Everyone was trying to stare out the plate glass windows without seeming like they were staring out the plate glass windows.

Word was that O.J. was good friends with the man who owned that dealership. This man had once owned a dealership in L.A., everyone was saying, and HE was the one who sold O.J. the white Bronco. I have no idea if this is true.

Honestly, it freaked me out. Charles, of course, was cool as could be and walked outside and introduced himself to O.J. and shook his hand, just so he could say he had, I think.

At the time this happened, I was working at The Times newspaper in Shreveport. Not once did it occur to me to approach O.J. and ask why he was in town, to pull out my little reporter's notebook and try to get some information for some lame news story about O.J. being in town for a family reunion (this story ran in the paper once a year, I swear, because the reunion happened once a year).

I don't want to call family members of crime victims. I don't want to ask the mayor if he's having an affair. I don't want to approach a guy in a parking lot just because he was accused of brutally murdering his ex-wife and Ron Goldman. Ick.

This was one of the times (not the first) that I realized I was not made for news reporting. I'm a features girl.

In Other OJ News


Not that long ago, I went on a date with a guy and somehow the topic of O.J. Simpson came up. This guy said to me that he thought O.J. was innocent. Here was my reaction:

Random Video About Iowa


I saw this video today. It is awesome. Someone should make a video like this about every state that's not New York or California. Every time someone makes an assumption about the places they've never been and the people who live in those places, I think about how that person is unknowingly revealing just how woefully ignorant they are. 

When I still worked at a very popular regional magazine, the powers-that-be started sending lots of New York folks (and one British woman) down to tell us what a Southern magazine should look like. We had to battle all their assumptions about the people and places that make up our part of the country. One day, I made up a little ditty that went like this: "We're not all racist and we do wear shooooooes." I never made a video of it, though. 

Random Pet Peeve: Someone Telling Me I Have a Lot of Pet Peeves

The other night, a male friend called to suggest something I should blog about. During the conversation, something I'd posted on Facebook came up. I said, "That is one of my pet peeves-" and he interrupted me and said, "You have a lot of pet peeves." 

Um, OK. 

Then he said, "I just don't get worked up about what shows I don't like or what celebrities are doing." 

Well, thank you for your condescension. You're so right. I talk about stupid things. 

From now on, I shall only post the most important and meaningful things to Facebook. I will post status updates about how I know that addiction runs in families and that I am deathly afraid that one of my children will become an addict. My status is that I sometimes see horrible things in my dreams and they are nothing compared to the things I have seen in real life. Update: I sometimes think that if I was dead my life insurance policy could take care of all the things I can't currently take care of and, bonus, I'd never have to get out of bed again. You making me feel like a bitch who complains about stuff adds to my very real worries that I am a bad person.

How's that? Important enough to get worked up about? Good fodder for a fucking Facebook status update? 

Or maybe I'll stick to talking about how Are You There, Chelsea? is a shitty sitcom and how I love Community, and we'll leave it at that. Yeah, that's what I thought. 

This seems like something some men do. They like to accuse women of "getting worked up" and they like to imply that whatever they are "getting worked up" about is superficial. What I'm doing is expressing an opinion. 

There are plenty of people who go on Facebook and lurk and never say a word. When they do occasionally deign to type a comment, they always begin with, "I try to avoid commenting on Facebook, but..." My wonderful friend, the genius Todd Childs, said, "What you're really saying is 'I usually just creep around, but I'm about to say something sanctimonious and douchey now. I just thought I should tell you how beneath me it is first.'"

I like to post stuff that I think is funny. I'm not sure what's so wrong about that. Maybe you don't think it's funny. That's OK. Maybe you think I have "a lot of pet peeves." Maybe I do. But if it wasn't for people like me, you Facebook lurkers wouldn't have jack shit to look at on there.

I like to make jokes and do funny bits about the things that don't really matter because I spend every minute of every day thinking about the things that do matter.

And, yes, maybe my "shit list" is too long. In fact, it just got a bit longer. 

Thanks for giving me something to blog about.

Now, please allow Mr. Grant to show you the door.






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