Likeotomy
Doctors performing likeotomy on a volunteer subject.
A reading from the book of Demotivational Dictionary:
likeotomy |līˈkätəmē|
noun (pl. likeotomies) [ usu. in sing. ]
usage of the “favorite” button on tweets about my lobotomy: too bad you are now unable to grok the likeotomy I gave you.
A reading from the book of Demotivational Dictionary.
I’m pretty much a collector of likes. Feel free to share one of your own. I always appreciate them. I think.
[I] want to say thank you to you. I haven’t had an orthodox career and I’ve wanted more than anything to have your respect. The first time I didn’t feel it, but this time I feel it. And I can’t deny the fact that you like me. Right now, you like me! Thank you.
–Sally Fields, March 25, 1985
Sally Field about to bludgeon a cretin who failed to favorite her tweet.
Thank you, Ms. Fields. That’s exactly how I feel each and every time one of my tweets gets a star on the Twitter Walk of Shame. I’ve personally counted more visits by Halley’s Comet, though.
It works like this: You see a tweet you like (or some other masturbatory form of social media expression) and you like it. So you click the little icon that means favorite, like, upvote, star and/or what not. What’s so hard to understand about that?!
It turns out that “like” is sometimes the wrong tone.
“My father molested me every single day until I was eight years old.”
Do you think, somehow, that “like” seems misplaced here?
No GMO
It helps to know some Lonely Island to get the joke in the subject line. -Ed
The citizen initiative in Oregon that would require labeling of GMO foods is polling very tight. It’s still within the margin of error and the undecideds but the nays appear to be holding an ever-so slight lead over the ayes. It is already the most expensive initiative in Oregon’s history. The nay money is pouring in by the millions. Companies like Monsanto, PepsiCo, Mead Johnson and Dow AgroSciences. Isn’t that telling?
As this process is proceeding apace, I thought I’d take a few moments to splice one last point on this important issue.
One thing is being made excruciatingly clear. The people who make food don’t want you to know what the fuck is in there. They don’t want you to know how it’s made. They don’t want you to see how they treat animals. (See so-called Ag Gag laws.) They want to hide unpleasant-sounding ingredients, things they know you decidedly do not want to hear about, behind clever euphemisms like “natural flavors.”
Which would you rather eat? All new fortified Tasty Anus or “natural flavors.” Gosh golly gee willickers. What sounds better in your tummy?
So I thought it over and decided, what if the debate was presented like this?
Suppose I was the food industry and I invited you over to my place for dinner.
I might try to do something nice, assuming I actually gave a shit about you, and find out if you have deadly allergies, like peanuts. After all, I’m not out to kill you, right? I want you to enjoy your meal.
Maybe you tell me that you don’t like yams. Are you allergic? No. Will it kill you? No. You simply don’t like them. That’s all.
How should I react to your humble request? What are my options?
Well, I could honor you as a person and forgo the ingredient. Hahahah! Thanks for the tripe laugh! We all know that’s not gonna fucking happen. Seriously, I didn’t just fall off the pesticide-resistant turnip truck yesterday.
Don’t be so goddamned naive. My dinner is a business. It’s kill or be killed. Nothing matters except profits.
What choices does that leave me?
I could simply say, “I’m not telling. Are there yams in here? You’ll never know!!!” That’s called being a good host.
My other option is lie. Hide it. Distract. Obsfucate.
What would you do? Isn’t this a nice way to treat each other? Doesn’t this sort of attitude help make the world a better place?
I make. You eat. Shut the hell up about it. I’m your host, Mr. GMO. By the way, I can’t believe you ate that. Ha ha ha!
My lies and hate. It’s what’s for dinner.
Breeder Outrage
Artistic rendering of “stabby.”
Note: Hippie Cahier proactively assisted with a single instance of grammar in this post. The remainder of errors are, as always, solely my own. -Ed.
A teacher quipped on Twitter one day that her students made her feel “stabby.” Outraged parents, obviously, well-provisioned with torches and pitchforks, demanded that her head be removed and braised like an oxtail and served on a silver platter as a delicate amuse-bouche at the next school board meeting. Now that is justice deliciously served!
Yeah, that sounds like an appropriately-measured response. Because, yeah, I’m so sure they’re all such wonderful people and perfect parents to boot.
Fact: On average, Americans shop six hours a week and spend only 40 minutes playing with their children.
Source: PBS.org – Affluenza
In the world of social media umbrage, judgement can be swift and final. Make an ill-advised joke before boarding an airplane and by the time you land your employer may have already knee-jerk terminated your career. That must have been a really good joke. (I’m not attempting to evaluate the social content of the joke here.)
Sometimes the target of ire may really “deserve” what they get. I guess in some cases the downside of not waiting for actual facts can backfire. Oops. Too bad, so sad. At least you got your 15 minutes of notoriety, right?
No Good, No Bad
When one is an atheist in small town conservative America, one learns to play things close to the vest. Maybe later, after getting to know someone, the truth may be divulged. But it is known that premature sharing comes with a significant amount of risk. It’s a lovely place where the wrong bumper sticker will get your car keyed.
One company in that small town, named after a biblical location no less, asked about my religious beliefs during a job interview. That was my first clue that the game was afoot.
Later, when applying for another job in that same small town, my due diligence ended up freaking me out. I didn’t particularly get a good feeling from my research and, thanks to the internet, learned the owners of the company were flamboyantly religious. I was on a quest to get out of the frying pan and into the fire, so naturally I didn’t let this slow me down.
Despite shouting his religion for all to see, the man was one of the most unethical business people I’d ever met. And that’s saying a lot. He was no slouch. Yet there he was, up on the high ground, at least in his mind, looking down his nose at everyone else. Compensate much?
When office discourse finally turned to matters of politics and religion, I defiantly let fly with my disclosures. His reaction was one of thoughtfulness and class. “Atheist, eh? I have a question. Why don’t you kill people?”
Although flabbergasted by the audacity, I still think I handled it with style and aplomb, especially considering the source. “You don’t kill people because God forbids it,” I said. “I don’t kill people because I choose not to. It’s my decision.”
Booyah.
Right and wrong. Good and evil. Yin and yang. Night and day. Black and white. Betamax and VHS. DVD and Blue-ray.
But now, after assessing more empirical data, I now think, perhaps, I was a bit hasty. It’s time to bust out with yet another theory. I got a million of ’em.
Continue reading →
Lemming My Eggo
Sometimes I feel a bit like a lemming who looks around and says, “Hey. Sup with that cliff, yo?”
Is there free will? If not, then it sucks to be you. Because, those dies that were cast are mighty damn cruel. Think about it. If there’s no free will then you have to act like this. Somebody clearly doesn’t like you.
If there is free will? Then you’ve got a hell of a lot of explaining to do.
“What happened? Why did you run over and kill those pedestrians?”
“I couldn’t see. The sun was in my eyes.”
“Uh, okay. Follow-up question: Why the fuck was your car moving?”
“I don’t know. All the other cars (that I couldn’t see) were moving, too. I had faith we were all moving together. It seemed like the thing to do.”
“Seriously. How do you expect us to allow you to continue to roam free? Shouldn’t you have been crushed upon the rocks at the bottom of the sea cliff by now? And, just curious. I have to ask. Have you reproduced yet?”
Next!
“Hey, you. What’s your story?”
“I decided to teach my 10-year-old son how to drive. A truck. Right by a river. And, for good measure, I brought all of my other sons along for the ride.”
Good plan. After all, what could possibly go wrong?
Long story short, I choose to do things like not walk in front of moving vehicles. To each their own.
Shouts from the Abyss 
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