Help Me Help You, Or, Show Me The Money

Dear Suddenly Impassioned Political Neophyte Blowhard Who Keeps Interrupting My Lunch With Breathless Tirades Of Lunacy,

I appreciate your recent concern for our country and the state of the world in general. However, after much consideration, I've concluded your daily bouts of crap mongering are not unintentionally funny attempts at saving my political soul, so much as they are desperate pleas for validating yours. While I must regretfully decline participation in such endeavors, by no means am I requesting you discontinue your idiotic rants, as they are extremely entertaining. Especially when you and that other guy, the one who supports the other candidate, engage in a lunchtime huffy puffy spittle-slinging battle royal. Like, you’ll misquote something Keith Olbermann told you to say, and then he’ll retaliate with an inaccurate compilation of what Bill O'Reilly told him to say. Oh, ho ho! Good times.

Unfortunately, despite your protestations to the contrary, you and your counterpart are not making a difference. You’re making a sum. Huge sums. For the FoxNewses, for the MSNBCs, and for all the other political ESPNs out there that grow richer and more powerful by telling you which team to root for, and by filling your head with bullshit. You get enough of that already from your respective candidates.

I’m truly going to miss the quasi-intellectual lunchtime debates once the election’s over. However, I sleep well knowing that, should the other candidate win, you will immediately declare him the Antichrist. You will spend the next four years ignoring the few things he gets right, and instead focus on, embellish, or completely fabricate the colossal fuckups that are sure to dominate his administration. Conversely, should YOUR candidate win, you will spend the next four years making highly suspect arguments for why the country should excuse, forget, or forgive his equally colossal—possibly monumental—fuckups, which he will have perpetrated on the American public solely because he is, some will say, the Antichrist.

The good news is your political nemesis from Accounting is going to do exactly the same thing! This means unending lunchtime entertainment for me! For the next four years! Or at least until you lose interest, so… maybe January. But I’m sure you’ll be ready for the 2012 election. And with that three and a half year rest, you’ll be even more amped about the same hot button issues you don’t fully understand. The same irresolvable issues upon which the President has no constitutional authority to act. In fact, the only real change four years from now will be your hair style and the capabilities of your cell phone.

In the meantime:

The Federal government will continue to grow;

Members of Congress will continue to fail in their duties, while continuing to convince their constituents that term limits are a bad idea, all the while chuckling to themselves because as long as they bring home the pork and refrain from making unseemly foot gestures in airport bathrooms, they’ll be reelected;

The Federal Reserve will continue to fiddle with a house-of-cards monetary system while discreetly wondering if sneezing is a valid option;

And human beings will continue to fight wars, because that’s what human beings do.

All of this will continue because real change—no matter the ideological flavor—is never as politically or financially lucrative as the appearance of change.

And I’m sorry to say that the ills of this country are not George Bush’s fault. They’re not Bill Clinton’s fault, and they won’t be John McCain’s or Barack Obama’s fault. They’re your fault, for being continually fooled by deceptive language. And they’re my fault, for not giving a shit anymore. They should probably put that on our tombstone: They were fooled by deceptive language, but they didn't give a shit.

But hey, don’t let my cynicism spoil your fun. Go ahead. Don your blue “Obama’s #1” foam hand, or your red McCain version, swill your beverage of choice, and shout your hackneyed insults from the cheap seats. The Super Bowl of politics is underway, complete with expensive-much-hyped-yet-meaningless commercials. I hope, for all our sake, that your guy doesn’t experience a full-scale wardrobe malfunction during the halftime show. But if he did, would you tell him he has no clothes?

All the best,

Your Mildly Amused Co-worker

P.S. If you use my stapler again without asking, I’m gonna kick your ass.


Okay, my original plan was to just let that post fly and see what happened. It was meant to break the ice and possibly make you angry, though it pretty accurately conveys my current thinking. I know a lot of people avoid talking politics on their blogs for the sake of not offending anyone, but I think that's a mistake. All these smart people around, surely we can learn something from each other.

I've been down the rabid partisan political junkie path, and as odd as it sounds, that's actually much easier than calling bullshit on everything and everyone. I would like nothing more than to concede the wrong-headedness of my thinking, but every time I try, I run up against the immovable wall of insidious, deceptive bullshit language. From the politicians, from the talking heads, from news articles, from candidates' websites, from uninformed co-workers… and I get pissed off all over again. So please, convince me there’s more to it than that. Doesn’t matter if you have no stake in American politics. Bullshit affects us all^®. Help me help you help me.

If you're interested, here's what we'll do. I won't insult or personally attack you in the comments, but if the need to lash out overcomes you, feel free to direct your venom at me. I only ask that you be creative in your name calling, otherwise what's the point? However, you cannot take pot shots at other participants expressing their political views. I have no way to enforce that, and I won't delete anyone's comments, but the confrontational neener-neenering—while great for TV ratings—is boring and trite, and if you try it we’ll all know you’re a lame unthinking stupidhead and you probably still suck your thumb and wet your bed crib. Neener neener.

If you're not interested, that's cool too. I won't take you off my Christmas card list or anything. Unless you don't celebrate Christmas. Or you're offended by the mere mention of the word Christmas. Or you—okay, I don't have a Christmas card list. It was just an expression.

Oops, Forgot To Post This Yesterday

If you're reading this, odds are you already know about Agents and Editors Week over at Book Roast, so what are you doing here? If you're not reading this then you--

OK, wrote myself into another logical corner.

Just go.

Time To Grab My Mail Sack

Not only have I failed to post much over the past month and a half, but I’ve also neglected to answer any reader mail, and as a result, my mail sack has swollen to an ungainly size. Hopefully, this will lessen the load:

Hi Blogless!

I’m having trouble figuring out when you’re being honest and when you’re full of crap!!! What ever happened to the Truth-O-Meter? Will it be back anytime soon?

Thanks!!!!!
Debbie from North, SC

Debbie,

I appreciate your enthusiastic, if somewhat self-serving, concern for TOM. Actually, I recently had a sit down with him, and for the time being at least, TOM’s taking an administrative leave of absence. To spend more time with his family. Don’t even think it’s because he ran out of clever semi-relevant ways to say “True” or “False” (his words).

By the way, I Googled “North, SC” because, frankly, I thought you made it up. I was a little troubled to learn it actually exists, and what’s worse, it’s located smack dab in the middle of the state. No wonder you’re confused. So, to alleviate your confusion while TOM’s away, here’s a helpful rule of thumb:

Every lie contains 85% truth.

Therefore, I’m lying 15% of the time. Of course, as you’ve no doubt guessed, that last statement was a lie, and right now you’re busy calculating 85% of 15%. I’ll save you the trouble. It’s 12.75%. A reduction in the amount of lying of 2.25%! So you see? The more I lie, the closer I get to the truth. I hope this helps. Maybe you should move to Arkansas.

Hey BT,

I clipped this headline from the Drudge Report and sent it to you in case you missed it.



Given your propensity for tearing dolphins a new one, and your equally unhealthy attitude toward sports related mass hysteria, I’m surprised you haven’t devoured this story with the ferocity of a rabid pit bull in a kitten nursery. What gives?

Surprised? You’re surprised? How about proud? Do you know how much restraint I’ve exercised over the last three days? Look, to be perfectly honest, the last time I ragged on the dolphins I received a handful of thinly-veiled death threats from exactly the type of lunatics you don’t want to piss off. We’re talking major chemical imbalances here. And now you want me to do it again? And make fun of Michael Phelps at the same time? Surely you jest. Besides, what am I going to say about him? The guy’s kicked so much ass his feet are permanently stained brown. And if he wins the last two gold medals, and at least breaks the world record in his remaining individual event, then I have no problem calling him The Human Dolphin. Though maybe we could shorten it to “THD” because that sounds less dorky.

But I’m warning you. Don’t think for a second those wiley dolphins will take it all in stride… er, stroke… whatever. They can’t deny he’s won all those races, so instead they’ll probably try to discount his slew of world records. I look for them to implicate the Chinese in some kind of construction scandal, claiming the ChiComs built the Water Cube pool an eighth of a meter too short, or something like that. Sure, it’d be a tough sell, but hey, they’re dolphins. And wouldn’t you love to see the Human Dolphin go head to head with smarter-than-human real dolphins in the court of popular appeal? Confronted with that choice, people would spontaneously explode.

That reminds me. I watched the entire Women’s All-Around Gymnastics Event last night just to see if Bob Costas would refer to sixteen-year old Shawn Johnson as “the adorable Johnson.” He did. Twice! It was like, something, something "is about to embrace the adorable Johnson." So-and-so "must now try to beat the adorable Johnson." My inner Beavis couldn’t stop laughing.

dear dolphin hating jackass

I,m goig 2 kill u! I;m exactly the type of persen u DON”T, ie DO NOT want 2 piss off. what gives u the rite 2 talk about things u no nothing about, spefically dolphins aka marine mammels of any kind? watch yor back. u;ve been warnd!

Anonimuss

ps if u think im telling u my real name u r crazy! it,ll surprise when I sneak up on u!!!!!

Dear Anonimuss,

Regrettably, I’m not a legal scholar, so I’ve taken the liberty of forwarding your inquiry to the experts at the FBI. Hopefully, with their resources, they will be able to assist you in your quest for the origin of “rites.” Don’t forget to vote in November.

When The Troll's Away, The World... Is Still Insane. So It Doesn't Rhyme. Screw You.

It’s been so long since I've posted, I forgot how to come up with a topic. So I wrote some random phrases on strips of paper, put them in a hat, and picked a few. Here they are in no particular order.

Citius, Altius, Fortius Concussio: Is it just me, or do you sense the dark cloud of impending doom over Beijing? Not that I give a shit about the Olympics. The ChiComs could censor the entire thing, from flame-on to flame-out, and I probably wouldn’t even notice. I mean, if you’ve seen one doped up athlete you’ve seen them all. And I don’t think I could stomach another athlete-triumphs-over-personal-obstacles story. Just thinking about it makes me want to vomit on Bob Costas. Are any of you planning on watching the Olympics? And if so, why? What’s the appeal? Seriously. I’m not being sarcastic. I honestly don’t get it.

Wish I Knew How To Quit You, Joker: Saw The Dark Knight. Hope these guys saw it too.










And took notes.

What I Really Need Is One Of Those Crazy Ass News Stories So Fantastically Loony That No One Would Ever Believe It If I Didn’t Provide A Link: Cool.

Gone Baby Gone: Don’t know if or how closely you’ve been following Caylee Anthony: Without A Trace (cue theme music). Unfortunately for Caylee, Greta Van Susteren is on the case, which means she’ll likely never be found. Say what you want about Greta, but she knows an eight month ratings booster when she sees one. Just ask the Holloways. What I really like about Greta is the way she goes from talking about the fate of a missing little girl to Brangelina baby pics to Brett Favre shenanigans and back again without ever changing the expression on her face, as if all three were equally significant. They don’t teach that in TV school; it takes natural broadcast talent. Or excessive cosmetic surgery, I’m not sure which.

Greta’s been in North Korea for a week or so, but she was back last night discussing—with Mark Fuhrman no less—the forensic fine points of whether fingerprints, hair, urine and defecation stains found in the trunk of a car were more or less suspicious than finding them in the back seat. And as I hypnotically listened to them tease out the salient threads of their hypothetical analysis, I couldn’t help thinking: O.J., you sonofabitch! If you hadn’t butchered your wife, I could be watching two totally different schmucks exploitatively furthering their careers under the guise of investigative journalism!

Wouldn’t it be great if all the Caylee Anthonys of the world, all the Natalee Holloways, all the other kids who go missing every year and are never found—the ones who aren’t cute enough or blonde enough to sustain a 24/7 media circus—wouldn’t it be great if Greta Van Susteren had them all? You know, just… stashed away somewhere, like at her secret underground mansion in Colorado, or “North Korea,” and she used them to periodically bolster her ratings? And wouldn’t it be great if they were all living somewhat normal secret underground lives, making somewhat normal secret underground friends, and playing somewhat normal secret underground games? And like, Mark Fuhrman would stop by from time to time and bring presents and they’d all run up to him and give him great big hugsies and call him Uncle Mark and he’d pat them on the head in a totally non-sexual paternal manner and dispense wisdom and life lessons to them via humorous parables and they’d all say, “Thank you, Uncle Mark!” Wouldn’t that be great? Wouldn’t it?!

The media’s been using kid gloves on the mother because some of them feel stupid for having cast Elizabeth Smart’s parents in a dubious light. But hey, innocent until proven guilty, right? Or until the cops offer you immunity in return for the slightest bit of cooperation in the search for your two-year old daughter. Who knows? Maybe this IS a bizarre and convoluted kidnapping case worthy of an episode of Without A Trace. Maybe the mother WANTS to talk but she CAN’T because the mysterious kidnappers have threatened to harm Caylee if she does. Maybe her lack of cooperation is all a ruse designed to bamboozle the kidnappers, and she’s secretly working with authorities behind the scenes to arrange a clandestine meeting/ambush, in which Caylee is returned unharmed, the bad guys arrested, and everyone happily ever after fades to black, roll credits. Wouldn’t that be great? Wouldn’t it?

I SAID, Hold The Mayo: All right, just so we don’t end on a depressing note, here’s some of that whacky Florida-ness everyone likes. I actually kind of sympathize with this guy. Many a time have I restrained myself from leaping over the sneeze guard and pummeling the sandwich artist because he didn’t understand the phrase, “No fucking olives!”

UPDATE: It must be an airborne virus.

UPDATEST: The good people at Yahoo have some of the Subway 911 call available here.

My Abbreviated Presence

Got back from some R&R, during which I administered a little CPR to my WIP that’s been DOA since Jan/Feb. Add some increased BS at work, and the available blogging tick-tocks have dwindled to nil. QED. So I’m going OTG for the time being.

I’ll probably throw up the occasional post, but it’ll be at a Wonderwood-like frequency. (That guy’s always right, BTW.) So don’t think of me as AWOL or MIA. It’s more like I’m LOLing in the dark.

Whoa! He's On Vacation And He STILL Found Time To Plug This New Blog? That's Dedication.

Check it out. A brand spanking new book roasting/review blog by the same people who brought you... some other blogs... and stuff.

And hey, there's prizes! So go! Go now!

Signs Of The Apocalypse #1

I see a lot of these. Crystal clear markers that the end is nigh. They're everywhere. I figured I'd start cataloging them, so at least I could say I told you so…

Today's sign: Upscale Pringles in a bag!

©2008 P&G

What the hell is going on here? Either you’re sophisticated, or you eat Pringles. Not both. I know what you’re thinking. You’re thinking, “All right, Blogless. Clearly Pringles has jumped the shark, but signaling the end of all life as we know it? C’mon.” Well, you can bury your head in the sand if you want to, but my eyes are wide open. You know what happens when you put Pringles in a bag? They break. And any Pringles eater worth their maltodextrin will tell you, the only reason to buy Pringles in the first place is to make the patented Pringles duck face:

And that’s impossible to do with chip shards.

The Pringles people have seen the writing on the wall. They know unusual behavior is the norm when the sand is almost through the hourglass, much like how animals go wacko right before an earthquake. So they’re cashing in while they can. Do you really think their intent is to be taken seriously when one of their other products, the Sour Cream and Onion Pringle, is responsible for producing some of the worst smelling gas in the history of mankind? I think not.

The end is nigh.

My Town… Is It Monday Already?

Once again I've overestimated the number of hours in a day. If I was a comic book villian, I'd be called Imprompt-O; I'd just cackle maniacally and make people late for stuff. My costume would be yesterday's clothes and a Flavor Flav clock necklace with The Riddler's question mark on it.



Anyway, we'll try My Town Monday again next Monday when I've got some time. In the meantime, feel free to share your villianous alter ego.

Stoo Pid Bits

This Page is Rated

NC-17

bloglesstroll.
blogspot.com

I’ll admit, I was a little surprised by this. But I don’t know if it’s NC-17 like Henry & June, or NC-17 like Orgazmo.

Guess it’s Orgazmo.





Apparently, “fuck” is a now a cuss word.

And here's some local news. Seems a young black bear has been hanging out at the Hard Rock Hotel. Please take the time to watch the video. The on scene reporter does a bang up job of pandering to the stupid by showing a picture of the “type of bear” they’re looking for, I guess so people won't confuse it with other kinds of bears roaming the area. And kudos to Lt. Jeff Hudson of Florida Fish and Wildlife for explaining the situation by quoting Bugs Bunny. Opposite of kudos to him for botching the line. It’s: “should have taken that left toin at Albuquerque.” But now I’m curious. Do all wildlife officials quote cartoon animals? Is it like a game for them? To see who can slip in the most references while keeping a straight face? If it’s not, it should be.

I’ll be on the road again next week and away from the computer, which totally screws me for June trivia, but I’m gonna start doing My Town Monday, Travis Erwin's invention, and I hope to have the first one up this Monday. Tuesday at the latest.

UPDATE:

What Classic Movie Are You?
personality tests by similarminds.com

Figures.

The Lolita Effect

If you’re reading this, you already know that today Ello is hosting a Q&A with Dr. Gigi Durham, author of The Lolita Effect: The Media Sexualization of Young Girls and What We Can Do About It. So what the hell are you doing here? Go. Go now.

When I think about all the ridiculous media-driven bullshit my two young daughters will all too soon have to navigate through to reach adulthood intact, not to mention b-b-b-b-boys and s-s-s-s-se-seh-sehhh-stuff, I feel kinda like this:




And no, that’s not Hayden Christensen driving the boat.