In which I get all squishy about Melania.

Good morning, I’ve had a most

instructively contrary twenty-four hours and damn it, I mean to share.

I’ve bashed my erstwhile Monday Man-Crush, The-Person-Called-Trudeau (I didn’t mean it, baby, it must have been the string beans, honest!) in broad daylight on The Guardian’s website (on the other hand you never picked up your cell, and you dance like a str8-tard, nyah!); and now, in response to » a deliciously spiteful article on Medium, I’ve stood up for The Great Mannequin, Her Royal Trophy-ness, The Missus Melania—and may every Progressive worthy of the name heave great gobbing globules of spittle on me should I dare show my face in public again.

And how much, I ask myself, do I really care?  And do I agree with myself?  Politics is so confusing.

Here’s the link to the Medium article:

» Melania Trump Isn’t a Black and White Issue

And here’s my response:


When I, progressive as I am

Melania-trump-wife-of-donald-trump-modeling-pictures
Melania deserves – less Photoshop?

down to my toes and up to my increasingly wrinkled brow, see a — critique? Article? such as this one — searching for the right word here. What do they call it when someone is denounced from a pulpit? Anathema.

Anyway, when I see an, err, anathema, I have a strategy. First, I read it through, even though I may have to prop open my eyelids like they do to Malcolm McDowell as the protagonist in “A Clockwork Orange”. I find cocktail toothpicks work well for this.

It’s not that I’m bored. Far from it. In fact, in the case of this particular anathema, from the first sighting of the words “gets what she deserves” I’m filled with revulsion. Now, as a writer and an artist, I know that revulsion is often a good sign, a sign that the work has had a profound effect on me. I mean, I didn’t set out to read anything with the word “Trump” in it expecting a day in the country and a hamper from Holt Renfrew, you hear what I’m saying?

Second, and I know you’re all following along here, I put on my conservatard-proof full-body nuclear jumpsuit, ready for the onslaught of “you liberals” and “nothing better to do” and “nyah nyah you lost we won” off-the-rack progressive-bashing, which involves little imagination but a lot of spraying saliva. Check.

And third, I attempt to fashion a reasoned response, because though I don’t agree with a lot of what you say — and maybe even you don’t agree with a lot of what you say — I am darned determined to back you up as much as I can, as though we were a divorcing couple who hold hands in public but fight at home with the curtains closed.

So honey, now that the curtains are closed — I understand your righteous indignation, and I’m all for it, but let’s talk. Let’s leave “she’s costing the taxpayer money”, because that’s just silly. Anyone in the role of FLOTUS is costing the taxpayer money, vapid or not. And it’s interesting to speculate on the hand-brushing-away thing, but neither you nor I nor anyone has the slightest clue what that is about, not really. You are reading into that gesture a confirmation of a story you have built up about Melania.

Melania Trump made choices that many women might have made had they had the opportunity, and I don’t particularly see anything vile or even surprising about them. She had, as far as I’ve read, a successful career, she married a wealthy man and took every advantage of that—and what would the rest of us do, eat Pot Noodles and shop at the Sally Ann?— and now, (here’s my story) to her astonishment, and possibly horror, she’s married to the President, with every eye upon her. She may be unfit, she may take a deep breath and rise to the occasion. I suspect the latter.

No, let’s be honest, I hope for the latter. I want women to be strong and successful and rise to the occasion; I’m just a sucker for hope, that way.

But in no way, no way, is she responsible for her husband’s performance or his policies. No way is she responsible for his crass behavior or his beliefs, assuming he actually has some. No way does her position as first spouse necessarily mean that she supports him.

What am I saying, ultimately? Resist the urge to blanket condemn anything that Trump touches, including his wife. It’s not a black and white issue, your words, not mine; but your insistence on having Melania play the role of “evil consort” leaves no room for nuance, and nuance, god help us, is what we crave more than ever.

Have some empathy for someone caught up in a role they never anticipated, have some faith. And never, never put your sister down.

Great piece, by the way.


After All I’ve Done For You— ! (a.k.a. Shameless Self-Promotion)

Look into my eyes. Sink back, back,

back into your chair.  But not so far back that you fall out of the chair onto that straggly-looking cyclamen your grandkids brought you six months ago and that you keep “forgetting” to water, and have to lie there helpless on those freezing-cold tiles for eight hours with your day-time-casual hospital gown all hiked up around your waist as you watch the cleaning staff come in, point at you and laugh.

You know, like last time.  Just a little bit far back, OK?

OK.  Now look into my eyes and hear my voice. Feel the soft—honestly rather pervily-sensual— squish of your filled-to-the-brim adult diaper. Oopsies!  Press the big red button to call for help from the nursing station—except they’ve all gone to smoke crack in the utility closet, and you know, can I just say, honestly. This is how socialism always ends up.

Or is it capitalism, I always get them confused.

‘Cause I’ll tell you something.  No matter if they’re gussied up like Chairman Mao and eating monkey brains with chopsticks—or stuffed into a three-piece suit from Brooks Brothers and scarfing duck confit at Per Se—

—no matter whether the rulers you never voted for are crushing protesters in Tiananmen Square with army tanks—or driving stretch Hummers through Times Square as they toss Planet Earth out the windows like so much used kleenex— It’s the very same one percent.

The very same one percent with the very same hairy forearms shoved up the servants’ entrances of the very same bent over, wide-opened ninety-nine percent, just exactly the way it’s been since time immemorial—and pardon my cliché, but I haven’t had my coffee yet.

Well, then.  Let’s set that aside for the moment and just listen to my voice. OK?

OK.  Life is good, here at the Sunset Lodge.  Oh yes.  You’ve made a lot of friends.

People you only ever read about until now! You’ve met Napoleon, that li’l ol’ freckle-faced rascal!  Oh, and Liz Taylor stopped by. Always flogging that cheap cologne! Well, it keeps the flies off, you told her with a saucy wink, then you cackled with laughter!

Dear Liz, absolutely love the child to bits, what a poppet, but she is not known for her self-deprecating sense of humor.

You’ve met Bernie Sanders!  Yes siree, our very own trouble-haired Nutty Professor himself, and you’ve stolen his Birkenstocks, because—

Just because.  Tee hee.

But though life is generally good, one or two details could use some improvement. Like those hot roast beef sandwiches. Gravy???!!!  Seriously??! They call it curry, or dipping sauce, or sports drink, but it’s all the same brown, viscous glop.

You’d ring up The Toronto Star about it, but your arms are still a bit stiff from “exercise time”, and since when does exercise always involve a 200-lb filipina-lesbian nursing assistant and a leather strap?

But hey!  Let’s just wrap that up in the Pepto-Bismol-pink cloud of love and send it to live the rest of its natural life with Jesus. Or Mohammed, or whoever.  Just fucking try to listen the fuck to my voice or I’ll really give you something to fucking cry about!! OK?!?

OK.  Now that you’re in a state of full relaxation, here’s what I want you to do.  I want you—or your Power of Attorney, I couldn’t give a fuck which one of you—to open your wallet and take out your credit card.  That’s it, hold it lightly between your thumb and index finger.  And you know what’s coming next, don’t you?

I want you to BUY MY PRODUCTS.

OH, YES.  BUY. MY. PRODUCTS.

And whether you’re chasing some extra sympathy by dribbling saliva down your chin, or just hangin’ with your homies while finger-painting with the yolks of your soft-boiled eggs, these witty, wearable Gandhi T-shirts—in baby-bottom-soft cotton—are designed to look great AND start a conversation that doesn’t begin “You naughty boy, look what you’ve done!” pendant toute la journée !

These heart-stoppingly beautiful tees with my original “quotes” and design are totally up-snappable @ $25 CAD.   Don’t you think Dad would love one of these <hint hint…> ?

 

Visit my Facebook Store to message me about purchasing.

House Rules: A Tiny Epic


~ HOUSE RULES ~

houseRules1
NO you can’t

move in your girlfriend
fight with your girlfriend
move in your new girlfriend

have a party
have a rowdy party
have a party that makes the neighbours call the cops
have a party with your new new girlfriend and your old girlfriend
sleep all day and party all night
party all day and sleep all night
party in any way shape or form
have a party anyway cause after all you pay rent

NO you can’t
park your bicycle on your bed
start a stolen-bicycle version of ZIP cars
ride your stolen bicycle naked down the common hallway (my neighbours are sticklers for originality)

have a party with

your old girlfriends
their friends
their friends’ friends
your two new girlfriends
their friends
their friends’ friends PLUS
that really cool guy you met while cutting the U-lock off a bicycle

NO you can’t
make three-month oatmeal-and-cockroach-ragoût in my mother’s Rosenthal fruit bowl

see the sunshine with the curtains closed
be invisible with the curtains open
see reality with your eyes closed

convincingly pretend to listen

NO you can’t use

my computer
my computer chair
my computer while kneeling since the chair “broke”
my new computer, acquired since the old one “broke”

my phone
my charger
my army boots
my passport
my pornhub account
my keys
my fob

my spray cleaner which would make you
break your sacred vows
of non-cleaning

NO you can’t use
my new phone, acquired since the old one “broke”
my one remaining army boot (the left one, if you’re keeping track)

my crème brûlée torch
(to clean up the caramel latte you didn’t pay for, then
spilled all over the keyboard
of my new computer, acquired since the old one “broke”)

my wifi, since they cut me off for the overage incurred
when you downloaded two hundred movies
using my pornhub account
while kneeling, cause you broke the chair,
in front of my new computer,
acquired since the old one “broke”

Where are my fucking keys??!!

NO you can’t have

a complete pair of socks
two matching gloves
special wire cutters
a screwdriver with all the bits
four pounds of no-name peanut butter
my new scissors
a monkey wrench
my new new scissors, since the old ones “broke”
a taser disguised as pepper spray for grizzly bears
my passport, since gone missing
my password for my Windows account
my passport, since returned to me
by the Queens Park detachment
of the OPP
my Zippo
the rest of my cigarettes
my new password for my new Windows account

my new new new scissors

my credit card which you didn’t realize was pre-paid HA !

Where’s my fucking lighter??!

NO I can’t lend you

twenty dollars
five dollars
any fucking amount of dollars
my new new new new phone

a toonie
a loonie
a quarter, a dime, a nickel
or a penny, now deprecated, unless you can find some under the chair cushions

that pair of panties which, trust me, were never mine in the first place
that hoodie discarded by a 10-year-old midget
my Zippo that’s stopped working since I lent it to you
some fuel for the non-working Zippo I lent you
some fuel that no one can find
some weed that you’ll pay back
sometime

my ATM card cause there’s
no money left after
all the money
I lent you

Where’s my fucking phone??!

NO I can’t make youhouseRules2

a fake police badge
an improved fake police badge

a twelfth iteration of the
fake police badge with the
font a TINY bit bigger and
more to the left

a battery label for the fake battery to store the weed I lent you
that you’ll pay back
sometime

a peanut butter sandwich ’cause you already ate
the four pounds
of no-name peanut butter

any kind of sandwich
until I take
eight hours to make
more bread to replace the two loaves slathered with no-name peanut butter which you ate in
seventeen
minutes

a glass of ice water with fraises-de-bois-congenital-deformity
flavor drops

a glass of ice water that tastes like ice water because
you didn’t refill
the ice cube trays

NO I can’t make you

wash your dishes
change the toilet roll
buy some actual food
excavate your room since simple cleaning will no longer suffice
take out the garbage cause it probably doesn’t appear to you as garbage

NO I can’t make you
move out your new new new new girlfriend, acquired since the old ones “broke”

NO I can’t make you
remember your kids

NO I can’t
make you
an honest
man

That’s it!
And if all that’s perfectly clear—

I think you’re gonna love it here!

You never asked for it! You don’t want it! AND HERE IT IS!!?: A FREE Bonus Photography Tip from David DeLaRoddis!


copyright2-small-delaroddisAnd now your extra-special “oh no, not him again!!??” treat

A Bonus Free Photo Tip from the un-F-stoppable, digitally inexcusable David DeLaRoddis, ‘The Guy With The Eye’™!

This photo tip is totally free* to readers of this blog—that’s right!  It won’t cost you a red cent! Nothing, and when we say nothing, we mean absolutely $0!  Nada!  Niente dollars! Gar nix!  Rien de rien!  Je ne regrette rien piastres!  Un bon zero de monnaie!!  Je suis so fucking désolé but it’s ever so gratis, oui oui!  NOTHING!!!!  OK?  FREE*!!


SPECIAL FREE* BONUS TIP!?  

*Free tip is free for 10 minutes, after which your credit card will be charged a recurring t ransp eye$37.50 per month which you can never alter or cancel or charge back no matter how hard you try.  You’ll die with this recurring charge still going, OK?  Call a trillion times, it will never cancel. Never


Hi little photog people! This is David DeLaRoddis, The Guy With The Eye™!  Hey, there’s my eye right there!  Today’s free* tip:

The Internet is a dangerous place!  Don’t post images without protection!  L O friggin’ L!

The second you post your image on the web, literally kajillions of rapacious image stealers—who have been following your every click waiting for you to become famous so they can kidnap your children, shove them in an old refrigerator that someone neglected to take the door off of and convey your helpless, crying children in that rusty, stinky old death trap of a fridge to Goat Island Observation Deck, Niagara, where they will proceed to inch the refrigerator containing your doomed, suffocating, screaming children closer and closer to the edge of the Horseshoe Falls until you pony up with the ransom money—yes siree, these rapacious image stealers will pounce upon every deathless pic you’ve ever taken of the sunset from your back porch YAWN and monetize every single one of them in perpetuity worldwide without recourse and WITHOUT PAYING YOU A FUCKING NICKEL!!!

Does that make your blood boil or what?  Exactly!

copyright2-delaroddis
This image is probably safe. But you can never be sure!  This image is copyright, by the way.  Yes!  So please don’t steal it.  And I don’t have any kids.  You’d have to kidnap my Swiss Cheese Plant!  They’ll laugh you out of Niagara Falls!!

That’s why I always protect my image with a watermark that says discreetly but firmly:

“Get yer cotton-pickin’ hands offa my moneymaker, bitch!  I shoot first, then make the simple logical deduction that might have saved all our lives after I’ve finished screaming, Oh God what have I done!!!, later.  Capisce? ”

Here’s my example, though god knows even with these protections in place it’s a sitting target.  So there goes your non-existent career right down the ol’ crapper, sunshine!

The other option of course is to become a rapacious image stealer, and more on that exciting career choice next time!

This is goodbye from—The Guy With The Eye™  !!!

R O T F L MAO friggin’ L!!!!

“I Feel Like I’m Dressed Really Faggy Today” : A Meditation. ++PLUS++ The Reviews are in!


Director’s notes:

This video is, like, about that moment when you’re, like, walking downtown OK and then you suddenly go all wtf I’m dressed really faggy lol ! LMAO!!

And you want to go home and change but, like, you have no home and the world feels dangerous? Like WTF???!!!

©Male Camel Toe Productions, a wholly-owned subsidiary of slowpainful.com


Thank you for watching “I Feel Like I’m Dressed Really Faggy Today?!”~

I thought it would be a cool, kinda “groovy” thing if I updated this page with some of the reviews and stats for those of you who are, you know, independent film nerds and stat wonks.

So far, the other person who watched it besides me—

btwI am taking the unusual step of not including myself in the viewing stats, which marks a radical departure in my methodology,  which to some of my more wonky, nerdy friends constituted inflating the stats artificially.

Oh gawd, saying words like “methodology” makes me break out in a thin film of greasy perspiration all over my upper body, and I get that red “map” thing on my chest.  I look almost exactly like Julianne Moore in one of her raunchy scenes from “Boogie Nights” and yet I’m not even fair-skinned with red hair and freckles!

What was I saying?

Oh yeah, stats. Well the other person who watched said, “This is, like, totally RANDOM?????!”.

Her name was Katt and she was a kind of cool chick who wandered in with my str8 roommate and then wandered out again after a day or so.

So, up to now the critical consensus is “awesome!” (which is me) and “random” or “totally RANDOM?????!” [sic] from the chick.  This could get, like, TENSE!  LOL!

~