This is my front page. All comments here are screened; if you don't have my email address, you can drop me a line here. If I know your email address, I'll reply by email -- if not, I'll reply to your comment, and then rescreen both your comment and my reply.
It's also got every tag I have -- this is because my current LJ style doesn't include a tag index. (At least half of my participation on LJ is on my Treo. I chose this style because it loads quickly and it's still readable on a small screen.)
I'd tell you more about myself, but that's what my profile -- and the rest of my journal -- are for.
In places like cf_hardcore those of us who have no kids and want no kids have a few fun pejoratives for bratty kids: "snotleigh," "bratleigh," "nose-miner," "crotch-dropping," "cunt-nugget," "twat-waffle," and many, many others. We also have words for stupid parents, like "moo" (mom) and "duh" (dad). The thing is, parents hear these terms, and don't grasp that we're not bashing parents or children, just lousy parents or bratty children. Fifteen percent of any group are assholes, and we like having terms to refer to them.
(It doesn't help that fifteen percent of us childfree types are assholes ourselves, and use these terms indiscriminately to refer to all children, or all parents. That's why parents have their own pejoratives terms for us, like "freetard.")
So, to educate people (but mostly as an excuse to post some things I found amusing), I'm going to illustrate one of these terms: "entitle-moo." Basically, an entitle-moo is a mother who thinks the world owes her a silver platter and everything that will fit on it, because she's doing the Most Important Job In The World.
So! An entitle-moo is a mother like this one. Or this one. Or these three:
So. My original plans were to see Saw VI with a friend, smuggling several single-serving bottles of good whisk(e)y into the theater. Sadly, the way my work schedule and other commitments have been, I had to jump to see it on relatively short notice, so there I was, alone, with four single-serving bottles of UV vodka in blue and pink.
I am not happy about this.
But on to the review -- I have never cheered so much for a horror movie villain as I have this time. First things first: a booby trap! This one involves two predatory lenders wearing mechanical headgear who find themselves contestants on an ultra-hardcore version of that weight-loss game show The Biggest Loser, except that instead of dieting, they have to use knives and cleavers. Oh, and instead of winning any prizes for losing all that weight, the winner gets to live, while the loser's headgear drills two large holes in his or her temples.
Then, having gotten a swipe in at the banks, Jigsaw decides to go after the Health Insurance industry. An executive for Umbrella Insurance (no relation to that other Umbrella Corporation) finds himself navigating a series of traps, deciding who lives and who dies along the way -- in other words, business as usual for him, except that many of his subordinates -- janitor, secretary, clerk, attorney, and six people who pore over insurance claims, looking for excuses to deny coverage -- are stuck in the traps. (One of the traps involved inflicting steam burns. Steam is nasty stuff -- it can actually set cloth on fire under the right conditions. I'm surprised that they didn't use this, since it would have been spectacular to watch.)
Finally, having faced ten of his subordinates (and sacrificed seven of them), this executive finds himself face to face with his sister (a reporter), and the son and widow of someone who died because he was denied coverage for bullshit reasons... and the son and widow have access to a switch that will shoot him full of hydrofluoric acid. The widow finds she doesn't have it in her to pull the switch. The son, on the other hand, turns all Luke Skywalker and shit. "You killed my father! Prepare to die!" Except with lots more swearing. And screaming, and hissing, and screaming, and oozing, and more screaming.
You rich executives want to bitch about "class warfare?" This is class warfare. Nothing you've seen yet even comes close, so quit griping.
Meanwhile, remember the FBI agent that got caught in the Death Star Trash Compactor in Saw V? Well, he's now giving Jigsaw 3.0 a hand. Literally. It turns out that R12 is useful for preserving body parts, and despite having not been produced for about fourteen years, it's not terribly difficult to obtain. (One of the investigators made it sound like R12 is a rare substance. Sorry, no. I know people who work in HVAC. It's still around, banned or not.) Jigsaw 3.0 ends up getting discovered, which he escapes by killing everyone in the room, thinking he's getting away scott free...
...only to get subdued by Jigsaw 1.0's ex-wife, who was apparently not the red herring I thought she was two movies ago. She puts him in the jaw trap that got used for Amanda in the first movie, and he gets half his face torn off. The end. Unless the ex-wife decides to continue "testing" people, but she's made it clear that she finds that really distasteful, so the writers are really going to have to stretch for a sequel.
I actually liked this movie. Quite possibly, I would have liked it even without several bottles of overly sweet vodka. It actually tied up most of the previous movies' loose ends. And as much as I'd never -- never, I tell you! -- advocate doing horrible things to the people who've helped to create massive problems in this country for their own financial success, I must admit there's something satisfying about seeing it happen on the big screen.
And this isn't all. Soon, I'll be seeing Saw VI, almost certainly drunk, and hopefully with storost, who started me writing my Series on Shit Sandwiches by loaning me copies of Saw and Saw II!
This bit of filk is dedicated to the most hardcore of the hardcore anime fans -- the ones who watch it for ten hours a day and think that watching it makes them an authority on Japanese culture. The ones whose devotion to Japanese cartoons overpowers all other concerns, like nutrition or basic hygiene. The ones who... ah, you know what I mean. The original song can be found here, but if you haven't heard it before, what rock have you been hiding under, really?
Turning Wapanese
I've got some manga! You'll like it too! I've got some manga! To share with you! I watch it every day, I've nothing else to do!
I buy my manga! Right here in town! I've got more manga! Can't put it down! I wank and read it when there's no one else around!
I've got some manga! I've got some manga! There's lots of manga here on all of my shelves! I've got some manga! I've got some manga! And lots of anime dvds as well!
I'm saying nan-deo and nan-des'ka and baka-baka-baka-baka...
Chorus: Turning wapanese, I think I'm turning wapanese, I really think so! Turning wapanese, I think I'm turning wapanese, I really think so! Turning wapanese, I think I'm turning wapanese, I really think so! Turning wapanese, I think I'm turning wapanese, I really think so!
I want to see the! Vending machines there! For the pocky and used undies they sell! I've got stale pretzels! I've got stale pretzels! But when you cover them with chocolate they're swell!
I'm saying nan-deo and nan-des'ka and baka-baka-baka-baka...
Chorus: Turning wapanese, I think I'm turning wapanese, I really think so! Turning wapanese, I think I'm turning wapanese, I really think so! Turning wapanese, I think I'm turning wapanese, I really think so! Turning wapanese, I think I'm turning wapanese, I really think so!
No sex, no job, no life, no sunlight, No fun, just me in mom's cellar, no wonder I'm dull. Everyone around me sees my chibi boner. Everyone avoids me and my body odor. Everyone. That's why I'm --
Chorus: Turning wapanese, I think I'm turning wapanese, I really think so! Turning wapanese, I think I'm turning wapanese, I really think so! Turning wapanese, I think I'm turning wapanese, I really think so! Turning wapanese, I think I'm turning wapanese, I really think so!
(Links lead to the same movies. I only include them because embed tags are giving me grief lately.)
This is a scene from the straight porno This Ain't Star Trek, in which the Starship In-her-prize (or some other, no doubt, equally cheesy and entendre-riffic name) takes delivery of a cute female alien. Of course, this porno is a spoof of the classic Star Trek series, with Kirk, so we all know what's happening next, don't we?
This is a scene from the gay porno Whorrey Potter and the Sorcerer's Balls, in which Fag-Hag(rid) takes Whorrey Potter to Diaphragm Alley to purchase school supplies. This bad dialog is deliberate, and includes puns and other wordplay so horrible that even Spider "The Pun-nisher" Robinson would likely consider it beneath his dignity.
First, some fail. I'm sure you're all at least passingly familiar with Barbie, right? About a foot tall, with measurements on the unrealistic side that have inspired little girls into eating disorders for years? Well, guess what? Some idiot designer thinks she's too fat. She has cankles, don'tcha know?
Now, some funny. Ralph Lauren has this horribly photoshopped ad of a woman who looks even more skinny and undernourished than usual for fashion models. It got criticized in a few places, including Boing Boing and Photoshop Disasters... and then they got hit with frivolous DMCA claims. Boing Boing didn't cave. In fact, their response was wonderful.
Finally, some hot. The fashion industry considers these women (slightly NSFW) to be "plus size models." Personally, I consider each and every one of them not only stunningly beautiful, but a refreshing change from the industry's usual ideal female form, which looks suspiciously like an underfed fourteen-year-old boy.
(Nothing against skinny women, mind. Skinny women can be beautiful, too. I just object to the fashion industry's insistence that only skinny women can be beautiful.)
Thanks to a little program called LJArchive, I have an easily-searchable backup of all my posts on LJ. On a lark, I decided to look up the word "hummer" in my LJ, and I found that it appears in four of my posts. Perhaps unsurprisingly, I also not-so-subtly hinted in all four posts that men who buy hummers are driven by an obsessive impulse to compensate for very tiny penises... which backfires, because the rest of us see him driving a hummer, and immediately assume the worst.
Well, I decided that those four posts were a bit lonely, so I'm adding a fifth. The following cartoon is stolen from matrexius, with signposts from ms_daisy_cutter.
(Obviously, I'm not speaking of people in the Armed Forces here. They don't always get a choice in what they drive, and even if they did, the original hummer is actually useful. The H2 and H3 are the ones that we see on the roads here in the states, driven by civies with compensation issues.)
Way back when I was a senior in High School, Madonna released a book called SEX. It was the most controversial thing evar™, it was a collector's item, it was specially made, and all the media was going batshit over it. Well, one of my classmates got his (or her -- I don't remember) hands on a copy, and I got to see it.
I was disappointed. To quote from Tom Hanks in the movie Bachelor Party, "I don't normally like my filth this clean." And I was disgusted -- disgusted, I tell you! -- by all the things that Madonna was almost-doing in that book. (In my defense, this was during one of my celibate periods in between manslut periods, so I had a bit of a stick up my ass at the time. Also, in my defense, she did include a photo that was intended to be easily mistaken for her straddling a dog, probably in a bid to piss off a few recording executives.)
But seriously, the book was terrible. It should tell you something that I remember the faux stamped-metal cover of the book more than I remember any of the contents, and this was back before I'd ever seen a pornographic website, let alone had a hand in creating one, so I was not as jaded back then as I am now.
Well, someone at weepingcock found a copy online, and it's just as awful as I remember. Well, the few pages I looked at. I felt no need to look through the whole thing.
A few of you here may be familiar with a pair of evil filksters named Jeff and Maya Bohnhoff. For those of you who aren't, the two of them are responsible for some really hilarious songs, like a song about Iron Chef called "The Night Kaga Brought the Lutefisk Down" to the tune of "The Night They Drove Old Dixie Down," a song about a crossdresser in the King's service called "Knights in White Satin," and a song that started out as "Everybody Wants to Rule the World" by Tears for Fears but was all about Pinky and the Brain by the time they were done with it.
(Their two filk CDs are Retro Rocket Science and Aliens Ate My Homework. They have other CDs that, while very good, aren't filk.)
At a guess, only a few of you have heard them... and of those few, even less are going to start randomly entertaining questions like "what if the Bohnhoffs had gone into progressive rock instead of filk?" If you are one of those two or three, a prog-rock Bohnhoff duo would sound a lot like Illumion.
And if you're not, Illumion is still good. A little tame for my usual listening habits, but still, quite good.
Roman Polanski is clearly a great director. There. I've said it.
Having gotten that token acknowledgment of his artistic merit out of the way, let's get down to brass tacks. He plied a thirteen-year-old girl with drugs and alcohol, and raped her. He admitted it, in court. Well, he admitted the statutory rape in court, mostly to avoid all the more serious charges he was facing.
I realize that many news services are saying he "had sex with her." Bull, fucking, and shit. He was in his forties, she was thirteen. The term sex should not even be used in the same sentence as Polanski's name, with respect to this incident. The correct terms are "rape," "child molestation," and "pedophilia." Harsh terms? Hell yes. He could have avoided having these terms applied to him by, I don't know, perhaps not being a dirty old man who drugged and raped a child?
I also realize that his victim wants to put this all behind her, to the extent of not wanting him to be further prosecuted, and all of Polanski's apologists are saying things like "let's respect her wishes and not lock him up." Let's ignore, for the moment, the likelihood that they probably wouldn't be so eager to "respect her wishes" if she wanted to castrate the sick fucker with rusty garden shears -- this isn't just about her anymore. Child molestation is one of the most reviled crimes there is. We, as a society, are rightly sickened by it. By encoding our disgust for child molestation into criminal law, we've taken on the obligation of dealing with people who perpetrate it. We aren't magically let off the hook because it happened thirty years ago¹, or because he's such a gifted artist, or because the victim has moved on.
Further, perpetrators don't just stop. Certain criminals, like pedophiles and other rapists, tend to keep doing it until they're forcibly stopped.
I hope he gets his ass nailed to a wall. And sadly, it appears I'm in the minority -- a wide variety of film industry movers and shakers, actors, actresses, and even political figures are defending him. What the fuck is wrong with all you people?
(By the way, I doubt that I really have to say this, but just in case? Please don't defend him here. Judging from prior controversies in my LJ, I feel safe in saying that you'll get torn to pieces for it -- and not only will I do nothing to stop it, I'll probably join in. If you absolutely must defend that scumbag, do it in your own LJ.)
A lot of people unfamiliar with the details of this case or US legal procedure might wonder about things like a statute of limitations. That doesn't apply here. It could conceivably apply if he'd managed to evade arrest and criminal charges for thirty years -- or not; I don't know what statute of limitations exists, if any, for this particular crime. He didn't evade justice, though. He pleaded guilty, clearly hoping for a token punishment, and ran like hell when it became clear he could actually get prison time.
So, a friend of mine (who shall remain unnamed, unless she cares to comment here) found herself the owner of two tickets to an opera, and didn't want to go by herself. As a result of this, I recently got my first taste: Il trittico, by Giacomo Puccini.
(Unless you've lived under a rock, you've heard Puccini. Trust me.)
It was amazing. The hall itself was a marvel of engineering -- everything you've ever heard about the acoustics in great theaters is absolutely true. Despite being over a hundred feet away from the stage (and the orchestra pit below it), I could hear every note clearly, and there wasn't a microphone or a speaker to be seen. In the second of the three acts, there were several ailing children onstage; the sounds of their crutches making contact with the floor, and the wheels of their IV stands clattering on the floor, were all clearly audible. In the third act, in which several people are rummaging through papers to find a will, I could hear paper rustling.
The lyrics were all in Italian, but for the benefit of those of us who don't speak Italian, there was a screen above the stage, about ten feet tall and sixty feet wide at a guess. As the actors sang, the translated lyrics were projected on this screen. A nice touch, that. I don't know if all opera houses do this, but I can hope, right?
Anyway, the opera itself was three separate plays, each told in a single act, and all of them were wonderful. The first, "The Cloak," is about a married woman who takes a lover, and it ends in a murder. The second, "Sister Angelica," is about a nun who discovers that the child she birthed before going to the nunnery (and hasn't seen since) died at the age of five, and it ends with her suicide. The third, "Johnny Skeevy," is about a bunch of people who engage a swindler to forge a will, and it's hilarious.
(These three plays are frequently performed separately. Puccini never liked this -- he felt that they all belonged together, despite having nothing in common thematically. I'm inclined to agree with him. They all just seem to fit.)
Anyway, I has half-worried that I'd be bored to tears at the opera, despite the fact that seeing an opera was on my list of things I want to do at least once before I die. I was also half-expecting to be completely confused, like Spike Jones going into Pagliacci expecting a western, and then being surprised to see a fat guy in a clown suit onstage. (You can hear that tale here. It's amusing.) Anyway, it turned out these fears were needless.
If I'd tried to go to an opera at the age of twenty, I'm sure I would have hated it. As it is, I was not only well-entertained, but enchanted. At the end of each play, the performers all came onstage and took their bows -- I suspect that they do this partly to get some well-earned applause, but also to gently bring their audience back down to Earth.
Opera is not a cheap habit to get into, and I don't expect to be able to go very often... but I am very glad I got to go this one time.
This is the last two songs from Carmina Burana. (Actually, it's the last four songs, but it's the last two I want to inflict on you.) The very last one you've heard -- the one before it, probably not unless you own a copy of the opera.
A while back, Sam and Dean Winchester (from the TV series Supernatural) discovered that there are quite a few girls out there who would love to see them fuck. Someday, they may discover this (NSFW!!!!1111), but I'm sure it will never make it on the show. Someday, Jared Padalecki (the actor as opposed to the character) may discover this LJ, in which case he'll probably have a bunch of discussions with a lawyer, followed by a bunch of stiff drinks.
(That link is to the LJ of a photoshopper. Behind that link, you'll find lots of shopped images of Sam, with head pasted on yay, cock pasted on yay, ginormous rectal prolapse pastede on yay, and plenty more worse things. Do not click that link. You have been warned.)
For those of you unfamiliar, Magic: the Gathering is a collectible trading card game. It's designed to give you some hope of winning if you bother to develop any skill in it, but really, most of the people who win with any consistency in it are the people who spend thousands of dollars on cards. Still, it can be amusing.
My plans for today originally included spending a significant portion of the day in bed. Unfortunately, while the letter of my plans still obtains, the spirit has very much changed.
Yeah, I'm sick. I ache all over, there's a fog living in my brain, and my voice has gotten lower to the point that I can sing a C2, where my limit is usually an E2 when I'm healthy.
I'll be online quite a bit more than I usually am, today and tomorrow. However, if you catch me on chat, I may suddenly go silent with little or no warning. Don't take offense. I'm making canned soup, or throwing honey/lemon/booze together, or taking a nap.
(I'm using the worksafe icon for now. In a week or so, when this has fallen off your front page, I'll switch to this icon (NSFW!)... unless it turns out that one of the pornos includes Edward and James getting it on after having shared Bella as a snack, in which case this one will be my choice.)
Someday, I hope that they come up with a penis enlargement pill that actually works.
No, not for my benefit, though at first glance I suppose I could see why one might think that. Like many men, possibly even most men, I do have a little tiny voice in the back of my brain that wishes my dick were bigger, and this voice is impervious to reason -- it keeps going, despite assurances by assorted close friends that I have more than enough already. (A guy claiming to have a big dick on the internet. I bet you've never seen that before!)
No, I want to see a genuine penis enlargement pill for grander, more world-changing reasons. I started hoping for this when crackpig suggested that if guys could just take a pill and get big dicks, they would probably drive much smaller cars. Then, the implications just spread out in front of me. Guys who feel the need to compensate for small genitalia do so in a variety of annoying and obnoxious ways, ranging from huge gas-guzzling cars, to car stereos so loud they make your teeth rattle two blocks away, to insanely fast driving. With just one pill, we could have peace and quiet, and cleaner air.
That's not all, though. You've heard of the massive skyscraper forest over in Dubai, right? Think of that in terms of a whole bunch of people with more money than God, and a good deal less sense, all goading each other into ever greater acts of architectural excess. "My steel-and-glass cock bigger than your steel-and-glass cock! (Or it will be when they finish it.)" If these guys actually had respectably-sized cocks of the flesh-and-blood variety, maybe they wouldn't be pouring billions of dollars into building these massive penis substitutes. (And at a guess, there'd be no Trump Towers, no Trump Jet, no Trump et ceteras...)
And lately, someone else proposed a new one: we'd have less fraud in the world! Plushie Schwartz -- blogger, fursuiter, and spectacular internet trainwreck -- shares with us his belief (NSFW!) that, had Bernie Madoff had a bigger dick, his life -- and the lives of all those he swindled -- might have turned out differently!
But was this gigantic financial assault committed by a man trying to compensate for other shortcomings? That’s what a new book titled Madoff’s Other Secret claims. The author, Madoff’s alleged longtime mistress Sheryl Weinstein, writes:
"Bernie had a very small penis. Not only was it on the short side, it was small in circumference. That he was now pointing it out to me was telling. It clearly caused him great angst..."
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flamingchords's journal
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weepingcock found a copy online, and it's just as awful as I remember. Well, the few pages I looked at. I felt no need to look through the whole thing.