Thank god I didn't give up trolling the bowels of the internet for higher intellectual persuits on new years, as I briefely considered. Otherwise, I would have missed Samwell's internet video debut. I would have been mortified to be the last on the block to catch this one.
Ladies and gentle readers, I submit for your entertainment, Samwell's first single, a viral classic before its time, "What What (In The Butt)."
Lord knows my gentle readers love a dose of olde fashioned homo with their chocolate starfish . . . ugh, er, mousse, or . . . long john? Um, brioche? Damnit, now everything sounds faggoty.
Fucking queers. Why do they have to take all the good music video ideas first?
In other, non-anal news, I currently have long hair. Most of it isn't mine. In the spirit of costumage, I applied a goodly ammount of hair weave to my scalp in hopes of gaining waist-length platinum strands. You know, to look like Barbie. For this doll fetish party I went to. To great effect. I include the following photograph, during which I was not only smashed, but trying to talk to the cameraman, when he closed the shutter:
I bought the hair and the glue at a "ghetto ass" beauty supply store. About sixty bucks. The boy and I spent an hour and a half gluing it in. Apparently the effect lasts a week or so. I'm on day 5 and about to go to work. As long as one doesn't wash her hair, it'll stay, I'm told. About another day or so is all I can forsee going without shampoo, baby powder be damned. I wonder if I can reuse the hair . . .
Those interested in the technique should consult this page. It's really not hard. If I can do it, any crack whore can do it.
Wednesday, May 09, 2007
My Kitty Has Herpes or Eye In The Ointment
I wasn't until after I'd sent the news to a dozen or so online pals that all implications of the phrase "my kitty has herpes!" became apparent to me. I must really be concerned for my cat's health. Otherwise a saucy slutten like myself would have conceived of the phrase as a double entendre before anyone even received it.
*sigh* Poor kitty.
Actually, as of today, it's kitties. Plural. As I have two.
What, you hadn't heard? Oh yeah, that's right. I'm a neglectful-ass whoremongering authoress. And stuff. Ok, here's the straight dope on the twin kitties.
About two weeks ago, I couldn't stand the loneliness any more. I went all the way to Katy to visit the Citizens for Animal Protection shelter so I could pick myself up a new pal. May I say that their adoption procedure is probably the most irritating and involved I have ever witnessed? In the spirit of finding an appropriate and loving environment for the animals, they almost certainly screw a good number of pets out of a new home. It took over 3 days and a tank of gas to get my new friend. And his sister. Yeah. They were having a two-fer-one deal, and I can never say no to a bargain.
Plus, they look so cute together. They're litter mates. Couldn't split them up, even though they're adults now. I mean, they came from the same household and lived in the same cage at the shelter. They really love each other. I named the boy Aniki and the girl Aurora.
Arturo wasn't sure about having two cats at first, but the little fuckers have really grown on him. This pleases me, as we're all crammed into a two room apartment.
So I brought the kitties home and all was well. For a few days. Then I noticed Aurora's eye was swollen nearly shut. A trip to the vet revealed . . . get ready for it . . . occular herpes. Ouch. True to form, my first question to the vet was whether or not I could contract herpes from the animals, for I remembered touching them many many times without washing my hands afterwards. The vet assured me that I could not. A hundred smackers later, she sent me home with a very irritable Aurora(she wasn't too keen on the themometer in her ass), some ointment, a bottle of liquid antibiotics, and a bottle of gel.
Ever tried to give oral antibiotics to a cat after smearing petrolium based ointment in her eyes? My hands are in absolute tatters. A veritable sive.
Then Aniki got the same thing. Miserable herpid cat times two. They didn't have a pair of eyes between the two of 'em. They're starting to get better, but I can tell this is going to be a long road.
Friday, April 13, 2007
Concrete Rose Sucks or The Worst Batchelor Party Ever
Child of Mists: dude, i went to see this "burlesque" troupe Child of Mists: the only one in the city Child of Mists: it was the most pissweak thing i'd ever seen GrimJim in exile: Yeah? I'm sensing you don't think they're much competition... Child of Mists: i mean, even if they called themselves a plain old dance company, it still would have been a patently stupid show Child of Mists: they didn't go down beyond bustiers and mini skirts GrimJim in exile: The burlesque I've seen up here went down to pasties, easy. Child of Mists: they weren't even hot. Child of Mists: it reminded me of my highschool talent show GrimJim in exile: Hahaha! Child of Mists: at least our cheerleaders had tight choreography Child of Mists: Ugh, so these girls danced to all modern music, too Child of Mists: like, christina aguilerra. like lenny kravitz GrimJim in exile: Sounds sad. Maybe they are merely PCD wannabes. Child of Mists: pcd? GrimJim in exile: Pussycat Dolls. Child of Mists: yes. YES. that's what it was like Child of Mists: exactly Child of Mists: actually that is exactly what it was like Child of Mists: except with ungainly, rhythmless dancing from half of the foursome GrimJim in exile: Yeah, they started off in burlesque. I guess that's what passes for it in some places. Child of Mists: one girl was so strung out on meth and starved to death that she looked like a dancing skeleton Child of Mists: she was so weak she couldn't move her chair during the routine Child of Mists: a stage hand had to help her move it Child of Mists: a folding chair Child of Mists: but i'm not even done GrimJim in exile: It gets worse? Child of Mists: so, out of their alotted hour, they did about 20 minutes worth of dancing, took a huge 35 minute break with no filler, and then came back for what was apparently the grand finale . .. Child of Mists: five minutes. Child of Mists: one girl didn't even reappear until halfway through the song Child of Mists: obviously fucked up Child of Mists: it gets better GrimJim in exile: No filler? Geez. The show that I saw in town had a guy do his take on Vaudeville style comedy, talking to the audience with his routine. Child of Mists: that's what I'm going to do! Child of Mists: get a juggler or somebody and an MC GrimJim in exile: Right on! Child of Mists: so, at this final act, we find that it's actually someone's batchelor party Child of Mists: and that's why they were hired in the first place Child of Mists: so they drag the guy on stage, put him in the middle Child of Mists: and completely ignore him Child of Mists: they didn't even look at him as they danced Child of Mists: he was there, stone cold in the center, wondering how to involve himself, and every time he'd try to dance with them or something, they'd push him away Child of Mists: he was obviously not having a good time GrimJim in exile: Sounds like they've got big egos with no room for others. Child of Mists: yeah Child of Mists: and then . . . get this GrimJim in exile: *nod* Child of Mists: the crowd is made entirely out of the most bland generation Y hipsters you could ever find Child of Mists: and they clap Child of Mists: they give a standing ovation Child of Mists: arturo and I had an 8 person table to ourselves Child of Mists: no one wanted to sit with us. we weren't even scary looking! Child of Mists: but we weren't little snotnosed emo kids Child of Mists: there were people standing in the corner, rather than sit with us GrimJim in exile: Boomer babies, spoiled by a spoiled generation. Child of Mists: and the troupe gets an ovation Child of Mists: how sad is my generation that such a pathetic performance merits a standing ovation? Child of Mists: i mean, what the hell GrimJim in exile: Maybe merely for the guts to get on stage at all and humiliate a guy? Child of Mists: what the hell. Child of Mists: they're a burlesque troupe. getting on stage is mandatory GrimJim in exile: How inebriated was the crowd? Child of Mists: not very Child of Mists: ever notice that the emo hipster kids just don't know how to have a good time Child of Mists: no one doing shots GrimJim in exile: Probably too poor? Heh. Child of Mists: whatever. i saw their phones GrimJim in exile: Spent all their money on clothes and phones. Child of Mists: yeah Child of Mists: maybe GrimJim in exile: Generation iPod can't afford a drink? Child of Mists: that, or they're terminally dull Child of Mists: i think they can Child of Mists: i think they're just idiots Child of Mists: these days, you can't walk up and chat with someone in a bar Child of Mists: even if you're not hitting on 'em Child of Mists: but whatever GrimJim in exile: All caught up in their little cellphone-mediated cliques? Child of Mists: The best part of this was the name of the "burlesque" troupe. Child of Mists: Concrete Rose Child of Mists: i think it's stupid Child of Mists: now, i don't know about you, but the image called forth to my imagination by the juxtposition of building materials and a floral cliche isn't exactly sexy . . . Child of Mists: it's . . . well, essentially what i saw last night GrimJim in exile: Well, "concrete rose" makes me think of an old Concrete Blonde song. GrimJim in exile: "Up through the cracks... [redacted] roses grow..." Child of Mists: it makes me think of crack whores GrimJim in exile: Well, yeah, run-down Hollywood. GrimJim in exile: Heh. Their choice in name is a bit pedestrian. It doesn't echo enough of the past that you want to evoke. GrimJim in exile: They're merely run down and recycled.
Tuesday, April 03, 2007
Selling Out or My Only Hate, Sprung From My Greatest Love
When I first discovered Pandora, I embraced it with joy, never knowing that some months later, it would become the leading device in my slow, but sure, sell out. Oh dear lord. Oh dear sweet jesus.
As I have mentioned briefly before, my latest hairbrained exploit has taken the form of weekly DJ lessons with DJ Steve (or Icey White, as he was once called), the DJ at my club. First bartending, now this. Who knows if these pipe dreams will actually make it anywhere. But I digress.
Obviously, my knowledge of hip hop, rap, and R and B . . . in a word . . . sucks. And that's how I like it, damnit. Nothing but the finest electronica, 80's, and psychidelic rock for yours truly. Well, no longer. I don't mind brushing up on alternative rock and punk. However, "black" music, as I've always called it (very un P.C., but most accurate) is very very popular these days. Fucking cultural takeover, it is. Ugh.
There's nothing wrong with the beat. I love trip-hop, for example. You know, a dose of the old Bristol sound. It's the fucking lyrics, for the most part. Ladies, mercedes, want some more, get on the floor, nice and ice, grills and bills, *puke*. That and the rap. I have never been able to enjoy rap. I mean, aside from a very very few isolated songs - like "Intergalactic" by the Beasty Boys, for example. Or Drop it Like It's Hot by Snoop Dogg. And stuff.
I gotta bite the bullet.
My search for greater knowledge began with the top 50 pop hits. I swear, 5 out of 6 songs are hip hop or R and B of some sort. Ok. Nothing I didn't already know.
So I ran over to Pandora and tentatively popped "Fergie" into the station generator. Pay dirt. All the top crap. I swear after a minute, I wanted to puke. After an hour, I realized that I would never get that hour of my life back. After two, I was convinced that pop music is a mass media conspiracy.
Over that two hour period, I not only heard almost every song we play in the club on a nightly basis (minus the smattering of rock and dance), but that most of those 30+ songs were by the same 4 artists. Oh. My. God. Ciara, Beyonce, Fergie, Gwen Stefani. Shoot me now. Now. NOW!!!! Somehow, I never imagined that we'd play seven to ten Fergie/Black Eyed Peas songs in one night. What the fuck.
I gotta get to work. It's almost 7.30 now.
Sunday, April 01, 2007
Promises, Promises or Something Fishy
Before I launch into a self-indulgent recapitulation of the last month's events, I bid you, gentle readers, to watch this parody:
There, don't you feel better?
Anyhow, I'll see if I can't keep it to ten sentences or less. Let me see how well this works . . .
1. Arturo and I have moved into a little one bedroom apartment in the Montrose/Westheimer area.
2. We are about to paint the walls obscene shades of indigo, turquoise, and cinnibar.
3. In an attempt to expand my marketable skills, I've begun to learn how to DJ.
4. My hair is still blonde, much to my discontent.
5. I may not have mentioned it previously, but Arturo is a chef, which explains why we went to a food and wine festival in Austin on Thursday morning.
6. At the festival, we served ceviche canapes to 350 tipsy socialites.
7. That's a lot of fish, man.
8. Later that night, Arturo and I hit up the famed bars of 6th street, and ended up at Plush.
9. The Brazilian drumb and bass group that was spinning that night rocked my socks so hard that I hands down, flat out, hardcore won an impromptu dance off.
10. I gotta go get dressed, cause DJ Steve is waiting for me at the club.
Wednesday, February 14, 2007
Ego ego ego. I have too much time on my hands.
Tuesday, February 06, 2007
Suite Deal or Possessed Slut
So here I am, gentle readers, sitting in an extended stay hotel, wrapped in a sheet, completely unable to go back to sleep. I figured a little light internet usage would help me relax. Maybe a funny video or too.
Well, you know how it goes. My research may start out innocent, but somehow always seems to veer into appalling or otherwise obscene territory. Thought I'd share this little nugget of joy: The Possessed Slut. If you've a taste for gritty film, give it a go. It's not a porn. It's a character study. It seems like someone filmed their interactions with a prostitute over some months/years and spliced together the most telling portions of dialogue. Note, this is not safe for work on account of topless nudity (and one brief flash of frontal, I think) and is definately disturbing, although it (mercifully) contains no violence.
I like this a lot. I mean, not that I like seeing girls in such a state. I like the presentation, because it makes me feel genuine pity and nausea. The editing is what gets me.
Thursday, February 01, 2007
You Make Me Complete . . . ly Miserable. or Midlife Crisis, Part II
I'm leaving Zack. Yup. There's not much I really want to say about it other than "it's over." Those months pulling all the bills alone really wore me out and invited all other kinds of trouble. I'll leave it at that.
In the next few weeks I'll be looking for an apartment in Midtown or the Montrose area. I'm still dancing at Legends. Hopefully I'll be going back to school in the fall, moving on with my life. Maybe get a day job. Maybe start writing again.
Meet Arturo. I don't think I'd be alive right now if it weren't for his support. Get to know him. He'll be a regular character in my egocentric little stories from now on.
First a sports car, then blonde hair, and now a Latin lover. What's next, spring break in Mexico? Hmmmm.
Monday, January 29, 2007
Bombshell or Thank God I Own A Wig
In the depths of my depression, I made the typical compensation of drastically altering my hair color. My target hue: platinum blonde. Don't ask me why blonde, why now. Probably because it's the one shade I've never attempted to achieve, whether natural, unnatural, or otherwise. (Does anyone remember black-light reactive rainbow striped?)
Well, I fucked it up. 29745 applications (approximately) of built-up dayglo pigment turned all manner of crappy orange/mauve when I tried to remove them with bleach. So I double processed. Barbie pink resulted. So I processed a little more.
I finished with a head full of spider's silk the color of wilted lettuce. There's a few blue spots in there too. Don't ask.
FUCK. I'd post a pic, but I'm too ashamed.
My hair has never EVER looked this bad before. EVER. EV. ER. This is a major crisis for someone whose self-concept revolves around coiffure. My strands are so fucking damaged, I'll be lucky if they survive a good brushing, much less another color treatment. Fuck, fuck, FUCK!
In a fit of desperation, I popped over to Sally Beauty Supply and picked up three deep conditioners - a hot oil treatment, henna and placenta, and one named "Last Call: for battered and abused hair." I'd never tried the last one, but the package spoke to me. I also grabbed a package of L'oreal colorzap. It's supposed to remove artificial pigment without damaging hair (much) further. They say it's good for funky undertones and stuff.
I've got the "Last Call" on my head right now, under a plastic cap to keep it moist. Depending on what I end up with after rinsing, I'll either break out the colorzap, or put another treatment on. Probably the hot oil. Once the color zap has done its thing, I'll see what I end up with. If it's ugly yellow, I'll have to go back to Sally's and get some fucking toner, mix it with some diet coke, and drink a toast to the end of the world.
Although the color stripper didn't work for shit on my funky bleach job, I still managed to find a way out of hell. Red glaze. You know, the stuff I usually put on my flame red hair to keep the color in longer and make it shiny? Believe it or not, it actually turned my hair BLONDE. Champagne blonde. It erased the green tones, turned the blue to honey brown, and added some cute reddish tints to the white/lemon yellow. Seriously. It's not the cool platinum I originally wanted, but fuck it! I can dick with that later!
Finally, I have the courage to post a picture.
Saturday, January 20, 2007
Everybody's Doing It or Up All Night
When you work in a nightclub, you have to be prepared for anything. You work with, and for, all types of people - ex cons, rehabilitated junkies, single parents, transexuals, the occasional WASP working her way through college, illegal immigrants, what have you. We've all got something going on. We wouldn't work nights if we didn't. You learn to let steriotypes fly out the window. As long as everyone does their job correctly and keeps discrete, you learn to turn a blind eye.
In the locker room last night, I saw two girls huddling over the vanity. When one of them said "Oh shit, I spilled my cocaine!" I shouted back "We'll then you'd better clean it up fast!" and got back on the floor as quickly as possible.
Later, I teased her gently about the incident. You know, to show her that I was a cool chick and pretty much live and let live. "How much do you think that spill cost you?" I asked. "About three bucks," she said. "I ordered a case of them from California."
Boy did I feel like a dumbass.
You know, the funny thing is, this isn't even the first time I've been thrown by the name of an energy drink. A few months ago, a girl asked me for "Sum Poosie." I told her I at least need a dinner date first.
Monday, January 15, 2007
Mid-life Crisis or You Bought A What?
If there's one thing that capitalism has taught me, it's that when life hands you lemons, gentle readers, buy a sports car. Yup. That's right.
On impulse, I scooted down to the local carmax and snagged this 2001 mitsubishi eclipse GT. God only knows why I need fucking TURBO built in when I'm just gonna use it to get to work and back, but isn't she a beauty? You should see the leather interior! She's zippy as all hell, too. A real fun toy, any way you slice it.
Pretty crazy, huh? You haven't seen the half of it. Wait till I find a Latin Lover to go with it.
Oh my god, I can't believe that anyone still reads this piece of shit. I was going to write a post saying that Shiny Objects was over - that it had been a good run, and thank you all very much for participating. However, when I took a gander at my site meter, the 43 hit per day average gave me pause. Someone must still like me. Someone must still want to read a little bit more . . .
I've become someone I don't like very much, gentle readers. I work all the time now. Morning, noon, night. Even on my days off, I constantly seek supplimental income to support my 3 person/1 income household. One husband, one roommate, and myself all live off of my earnings. I feel like a single mother.
It's pathetic. No longer do I have the time or mental energy for leasure. Aside from the occasional bout of drinking, I can't remember the last time I've allowed myself to relax.
And it is driving me crazy. I've turned into a heinous bitch most of the time. The worst part is, I don't see an end to it any time soon. No matter how hard I try, I can't get rid of my debt. I can scarcely make ends meet. No matter how much I beg for support, I always find myself carrying the financial burden.
I know my temperment is ill-suited for life and its many pressures, but something about the situation seems excessive. I can't stop fantasizing about suicide. Not that I actually want to die, but I do long for an irreversable and abrupt event to completely rearrange my existence and remove me from the current circumstances.
There is only one thing that would help, so don't bother yourselves trying to cheer me up. Find Zack a job, if anything.
Sunday, December 17, 2006
Wants and Needs or The Meaning of Christmas
You know, the holiday season is one of the few times of year during which I feel content to be alive. While all the other "adults" I know are stressing themselves over family gatherings and gift shopping, I find myself unbelievably tranquil. Why? Because I'm a penniless student, and therefore no one expects anything of me. In fact, they feel obligated to ply me with charity. Bwahaha!
What? Shouldn't my presence be gift enough?
However, charity is not without its shortcomings. Usually the benefactor just goes out and buys me whatever they think I need (say, psychiatric care - I'm not making this up) and not what I really WANT (say, whiskey, or a new corset). Fools.
So I've come up with a fantasy wish list, primarily for my own amusement, but also with the faint hope that my desires will therefore worm their way into the collective unconscious - and later, perhaps, my possesion.
1. Nihilist gum. This item is self-explanitory. And lord knows I love little more than wearing misanthropy on my goddamned sleeve. Or shoe. Or wine glass, or wherever the wad winds up when I've tired of it.
2. Huge angel wings. Why? Because they're just too fucking cool. I'd never really have a place to wear them (except maybe the Ren Faire), not to mention the fact that they're almost as tall as I am, but damn they'd make for some grand entrances. And no, I don't want them in black, smartass. I want them in white.
3. Liquid latex.I've never actually worn the stuff, but I'd sure as hell like to try it out. And then go clubbing. Brings a new meaning to the phrase "barely legal."
4. A hood piercing. Because if people won't respect me for my intellect, at least they'll be able to respect my tolerance for clitoral discomfort.
5. A Jennings gag. You can't have a proper medical fetish set up with out at least one scary method of prying someone's mouth open, and keeping it that way.
That's all I can really bare to come up with right now without getting depressed over my lack of affluence. I need a distraction. Thank god for adult swim.
Friday, December 15, 2006
Every day, I find another reason to move to Europe.
Sunday, December 10, 2006
Urine Luck or I'll Take My Chances With Oil Of Olay
A friend of mine recently divulged the dirty secret behind her excellent complection. You'll never guess what it is. Her own pee pee! I'm not kidding. And she absolutely swears by it.
Apparently, she picked up the trick from her granny, who (so I hear) has nary a wrinkle. (Whether or not that's because the old bat's extended stay at the state mental facility kept her from the light of day for 4 decades, I couldn't tell you. It's all speculation on my part.) Just pee in a cup, grab a cotton ball, and smear it on. But don't wash it off afterwards - just a brief rinse with water will do. It'll clear your acne, open your pores, and soften the skin.
I'm vain, but I'm not sure if I'm THAT vain.
This isn't the first time I've heard about the miraculous properties of urine. Apparently it cures cancer. My god, think of all the research dollars poured down the drain. Who would have known that consuming nothing but your own wastewater for forty days was the answer! Here's wikipedia's take: Urotherapy. Pretty cool quackery. Makes me wonder how desperate you have to be to drink your own piss.
If that's not your bag, mankind has found many uses for urine beyond the medicinal. Rotten.com provides a comprehensive list. Thrilling.
That's all for now. I gotta take a leak.
Thursday, December 07, 2006
I can't do this anymore. I can't do anything anymore.
Tuesday, November 21, 2006
How Many Babies Does It Take To Paint A House? or It Depends On How Hard You Throw Them
You know, my last post about atheism got me thinking about all the other extreme, inflammatory viewpoints I zealously espouse. Like human extinction. So I decided to rant some more. Man, this is gonna piss someone off, but I can't resist. It's like I've opened a bag of cheese curls and can't stop picking at them.
I have personal reasons for desiring the end of the human race, starting with the inception of new life. Pregnancy itself offends my taste. Why any woman would want to infect herself with an abdominal parasite, I will never know. They are slaves to the maternal instinct I suppose, or else immersed in such vanity that they think their DNA is worth doubling in the human gene pool.
Of course, contraception is the first line of defense. However, should it fail, I recomend abortion. Kill the damned things, I say, before they ruin your life as well as the planet. Here's a website that makes me happy: I'm Not Sorry.net.
Yes, I really detest children. My opinion of them is almost entirely negative. Sure they have their cute moments (I mean, don't we all?) but on the whole they are appalling, squirming, putrid little things. Babies, especially. Not only do humans have the longest infancy of any species on the planet, but their young are the most demanding of care. A four month old puppy will play with its master, walk about, eliminate on newspaper, bite when provoked, and more or less independantly carry out the basic functions of life. A four month old human baby is essentially a screaming sack of meat. (For the record, I know I was a baby once, too. I hold my own childhood in contempt as well.)
The human gene pool is getting murkier by the day. Thanks to medical science, natural selection has been superceded by socioeconomic status. Survival of the richest. Cavemen that didn't have the intelligence to find food or fitness to avoid danger just didn't stay alive long enough to replicate. The modern world, however, swaddles defective individuals and raises them to a protected status. Society can't keep up with technology. Every year we learn just enough to make our breed a little bit sicker.
Don't get me wrong - I'm not of a superior sort or anything like that. In fact, I volunteer to keep my genes entirely off the market. As should everyone else.
Human extinction. It's the wave of the future. Luckily I'm not the only one who thinks so. Thanks to the magic of the internet, I've found the Voluntary Human Extinction Movement. Count me in. Unlike my schizoid extremist rants, their site is well written and gives careful thought to every natural question about the movement's intentions, members, and policies.
Hate mail is encouraged.
God Is Dead or A Student's Guide to Practical Atheism
Today's article goes out to those of my gentle readers who, in their search for identity, have experienced or are currently experiencing a crisis of faith. I wish to tell them that it's alright. Many individuals - especially those with proper education and above average intelligence - endure periods of diffusion. They begin questioning the church in which they where reared. They commence their own research, sometimes trying on various doctorines like so many pairs of designer jeans. This is perfectly normal. With the proper counseling, most of these individuals live out their lives as healthy, functional Atheists.
What one must realize is that all religion is crap. CRAP. You heard me. Don't make a face like I've said something shocking. Any monkey with a grasp of basic logic can deduce that the very principle of theism is TOTAL HOGWASH.
You Catholics out there, you Muslims, Jews, Shintos, Santerians, Goddess Worshipers, Neopagans, Wiccans, Baptists, Lutherins, and all other denominations I'm too lazy to list: you are all delusional. It's time to get real.
So how does one go about "getting real?" I recomend starting with the following film:
Bit of a mind bender, isn't it?
Now that we've loosened a thread, it's time to unravel the gunny sack wrapped around your head. Don't be shy. A little H.L. Mencken will keep you picking at it all night. In his book "On Religion," he poses a plausible theory of the origins and development of theism - that it sprang from the most human of traits, such as fear, greed, and the desire to control others. It's a good read. A bit dry, perhaps, but well worth it.
While you're waiting for the book to arrive from Amazon.com, go ahead and read through 50 simple proofs that theism is nothing but a delusion. It's a great website. Plain language makes it all the more digestable.
Don't you feel better now? Sure, you've lost your safety net, but there's no more cosmic big brother, either.
Only an Atheist can live a truly moral life, for moral behavior performed out of duty to god is simply blind obedience. An atheist who behaves morally and ethically does so out of genuine humanity.
Tuesday, November 14, 2006
Larkin's "Your Mother Woke Up In My Second Best Nightshirt" Flapjacks
Serves 2 hungry bitches
1 cup whole wheat flour
1 cup milk
1 egg (or 2 whites)
2 tbsp butter
2 tsp baking powder
1/4 tsp salt
a few dashes of cinnamon
2 tsp vanilla
Mix flour, baking powder, salt, and cinnamon in a bowl until well combined. Beat egg/whites in seperate bowl untl frothy, and add to dry mixture. Stir. Add milk bit by bit, stirring mixture all the while, and continue mixing until batter is mostly smooth.
Set frying pan on Medium heat. Drop little bit of butter in pan - about 1 tsp. When butter sizzles, pour about 1/6 mixture in pan. Flip pancake when bubbles rise to the surface of the uncooked side from center of pancake as well as edges. Remove from pan when both sides are golden brown. Repeat 5 times with remaining mixture.
Makes two short stacks of 3 pancakes each. Top with spreadable edible of choice.
DISCLAIMER: Nothing here is true . . . names may have been changed to protect the not so innnocent.
A poor substitute for social interaction since 2001!