That Logic is Gay
Humans tend to get into trouble when failures of logic fail to kill them.
That’s because a logic failure that doesn’t produce death is interpreted by our evolutionary brains as “success.” The more complex the logic the greater the opportunity for a false assumption of a logic win.
That’s all. Let’s explore
our sexualities together a simple example.
“Gay people can’t reproduce.”
That must make managing teh gay very, very easy. Simply cull from the herd anyone missing reproductive organs, right?
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The NOT heard round the world
The Not can sometimes be a silence louder than any shot.
All that is necessary for evil to triumph is for good men to do nothing.
–Leo Tolstoy, War and Peace
Who knows? Maybe that applies to shithead assholes, too.
What is The Not? It is pitiful inaction at the moment when one could make a difference. It is failure to correct a wrong. It is the refusal to put doing the right thing ahead of other factors like personal gain, power, and celebrity. It is choice of self over preventing the pain of others.
It seems Penn State had several practitioners of The Not in their midst. Apparently they were afflicted by the disease known as Collegiate Sports. This disease makes otherwise ordinary people do almost anything in the name of competition, power, profit, and prestige. Rather than the sport itself being about the beauty and capabilities of human beings, it becomes all about the money. Winning is everything.
You want to see the evil and corruption that dwells within us all? Look no further than college sports. The strong prey upon the weak and rules are made to be broken. Nothing is more important than the all-important win. And these are ostensibly organizations dedicated to higher learning. That is, quite possibly, the biggest irony of all time.
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Caucus: The Congressional Reach-Around
Contrary to rampant speculation, I am not a woman.
Clearly, I’m not a man, either. I guess I fall somewhere in the middle. There’s an ambiguity about me unlike, say, Mike Rowe, who literally sweats testosterone. Damn, just the act of typing his name made my testicles flex. I’d sure like to find out what would happen if my negativity field ever crossed streams with his masculinity. It would probably destroy the space-time continuum and everything in it.
Once upon a time there was a Congressman named Weiner. He was the hot dog of the Democratic party. You just can’t make up shit like this. And I just read a headline that said, “Weiner’s seat could go Republican.” Damn. Even his own ass is turning on him? Wow. At least his staff will remain fiercely independent. (Heh!) All three political parties represented within a single man. Impressive.
Repeat after me: Caucus. Caucus. Caucus.
That word has absolutely nothing to do with this story. But it’s still a word that needs to be said. Preferably out loud.
So, what’s the take away here? Oops. Bad choice of words. You know, this isn’t easy. It’s hard. So I’ll try to be brief.
There’s something I don’t understand about men. Once I had a mailbox and I was asked by a friend if she could use it for a personal ad in the local newspaper. The ad instructed respondents (men) to send replies to “occupant” at my mailing address. The ad was not sexual in any way, shape or form. It was cleverly and humorously written and was a sincere attempt to find someone to date.
If you’ve put two and two together regarding this post so far, you can probably guess what happened next. Yeppers! A mailbox jammed full of letters containing photographs of men’s junk.
A Safety Tip About Mail Boxes
My mailbox was with a private company, not an official USPS Post Office. And because the letters were addressed to “occupant” they went ahead and helped themselves to my mail, even though the letters were properly addressed to my box. I checked with the local postmaster who told me that since my mail was addressed to their address, they could legally open my mail and they was nothing I could do about it. Good to know. And I was paying for this privilege? Safety Tip: Never use a mail drop except those offered by the official post office. Great. Now those people thought I was some kind of pervert, like I collected pictures of penises. I was so pissed, I canceled my box.
What gives? Aside from Congressmen and NFL quarterbacks, who seriously thinks this is a workable method of approaching the opposite sex? Is it good form? Does it have a high success rate? Is this really the most important attribute that women care about, the thing they want to see most when making dating decisions?
Like I said, I’m no woman, so I can only speculate, but if I had to guess, I think it would go a little like this:
Woman: Tell me a little bit about yourself.
Man: I have a penis.
Woman: You know, I assumed as much. What else is interesting about you?
Man: I have a penis. Here. This is a picture of my penis.
Woman: Ugh. What do you do for a living?
Man: I have a penis.
Woman: Where are you from? Have you ever been married? Politics? Religion? Hobbies? Travel? Volunteering?
Man: I have a penis!
Woman: Okay. Great. This has been very informative. I’d like to say it has been a pleasure, but, you know. Don’t call me, I’ll call you.
Man: I have a penis.
Woman: I said, “Good day!!!”
I’d have to say, in my humble opinion, there’s a big problem with The Penis Gambit. What I mean is, if it actually works, is that really the sort of woman you’d be interested in? Erm, scratch that. I forgot to think like a man there for a moment. Forgive me.
It actually boggles my mind how offensive this sort of thing is. The audacity required for The Penis Gambit is literally staggering. It must require an ego the size of Greenland.
Getting down on the Farm
Say it with me. It just rolls off the tongue. State Farm.
Think about it, though. “State.” And “Farm.” State Farm. The name conjures up images of a government run co-op. Yet it’s an insurance company.
A commercial they’ve been running recently shows three guys chillin’ around the house. Suddenly their ribald conversation is interupted by a baseball crashing through the window. No problem, says one of the young men. He sings, “Like a good neighbor, State Farm is there.”
Poof! A pretty, vivacious agent is standing in the living room. “Hey, Dave,” she says. Wow, she even recognizes her customer! And she’s dressed nice, too, her shirt unbuttoned pretty darn low. I won’t even go out in public with my shirt unbuttoned that low.
The young men quickly realize the power of the State Farm jingle. So they bust out with their second wish and waste it on … a sandwich??? Seriously? WTF! That had better be one damn good sandwich.
Then the customer ramps up his game, though, into some good oldfashioned sexist kidnapping. “And the girl from 4E,” he says, and suddenly his hot neighbor is sitting next to him on the sofa, sitting cross-legged with her laptop. Apparently she was doing some computing when she was abducted by the guy’s State Farm agent.
The state is now set. The three young men now have two attractive females in their domicile and their sandwich. Everything is ready. The third young men now gets in with his wish.
“And can I get a hot tub?”
Woop, there it is! That agent must be holding one powerful clipboard, eh?
The baseball is forgotten and we all know what happens next.
As the scene fades, the announcer wraps it all up nicely. “Find out what else State Farm agents can do for you.”
So, if you live in an area prone to be hit by baseballs, and you like abducting women, sandwiches and hot tubs, make sure you consider State Farm as your insurance company.
Funny, back when I was a State Farm customer, I never met my agent a single time. She had legions of secretaries who did all that stuff. In fact, I never even talked to her on the phone a single time. And I can guarantee you she wouldn’t recognize me by sight. And when I did put in a claim, not only did I not get my wishes answered, they canceled my policy for the audacity of putting in a claim once. (Something that almost cost me my chance of buying a new home when no one else would cover me, either, after one claim in 20 years.)
And they call that being a good neighbor?
“Sorry, Bob. I appreciate you helping me with my house six times in the last five years, but when we made that deal my fingers were crossed. I’m afraid I can’t help you fight that fire right now. Survivor is on! Good luck, buddy. Let me know how it works out.”
Insurance companies don’t exist to grant wishes. They exist to take your money and deny claims. That’s how they turn a profit. That’s what they do.
A 2007 investigation by CNN reported that major car insurance companies, including State Farm and Allstate Insurance, are increasingly fighting claims from those injured by their insured members. In some cases the settlement proposed amounts to just $50 or the threat that any lawsuit would be made so expensive and time-consuming that it wouldn’t be worth the victim’s time. State Farm and Allstate have denied these allegations. This followed on the heels of criminal investigations by the states of Louisiana and Mississippi, which found that State Farm had wrongly denied claims stemming from Hurricane Katrina. (Source: Wikipedia.)
Perhaps insurance companies should make real commercials rather than ones that look just like a horny adolescent’s sexual Weird Science fantasy.
The Sex Abacus
Unless I miss my guess, today’s post is another milestone for the blog. This is the first time ever the word “sex” has appeared in subject line. How did I ever survive without it? Bring on the traffic!
The other night I took a buddy out for drinks. He needed someone to talk to about his marriage. When I offered, he asked, “Are you sure? I’m going to unload some pretty serious shit.” I assured him I was ready and up to the challenge, and I prepared myself for an evening of remaining in listening mode and not blathering on about myself, like how my life sucks and how I can’t seem to find a good job. In other words, I was going to try really hard to act like someone else.
Over a pitcher of beer and hot wings he related some issues in their marriage. There were several and they pertained to some of the usual suspects like sex, money and work.
Along the way he made a passing comment I found intriguing. He said, “And tonight I’m going to get me some [insert very specific sexual activity here] tonight. She owes me.”
Immediately I thought of an abacus. Or a ledger. Or some accounting system for the bedroom to keep track of who owes what. What an odd concept. Apparently my buddy is a sexual abacist.
“Remember the other day I let you eat a bacon double cheeseburger? Tonight I will enjoy some mandatory repayment in the form of a Kentucky Derby with a Twist.”
“I allowed you to buy that fancy dress in the store window. Next week I’m going to be expecting a little Aurora Borealis, if you know what I mean.”
Yeah, I’m trying to invent my own “clean” sexual terms here like the young kids do these days. I’m not very good at it.
So, anyway, it turns out his wife “owed” him because she lost some kind of bet and he was going to cash in that chip for a certain kind of sex. Apparently it’s a kind of sex that he likes, she doesn’t, and therefore he doesn’t get that often.
And it occurred to me, “I can’t imagine why they have problems in their relationship.” What a shocker, right?
I think love is important to a marriage, and should be about things like kindness, compassion, and affection. A balance sheet, especially in the bedroom, feels out of place.
I listened to my buddy as best I could, and sometimes I saw his points regarding the various issues and sometimes I didn’t. But I couldn’t help but keep thinking about that abacus. I suspect it represents the true danger to their relationship.