satire

Thank heaven—for little girls—! +PLUS+ Facebook Life Event #209a: Slept. In a Bed. With Covers. Vaguely at night.

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“Vogue Enfants”:  Sexualizing little girls is only wrong when it doesn’t make someone vats of money. Got that?  Crude Photoshop composite ©David Roddis, 2017.

First, I need you to know that Donald Trump was right:

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But Roy Moore, that li’l ol’ freckle-faced rascal —you know, the Alabama guy with the eight arms, that long overcoat with pockets stuffed full of candy bracelets, and the dog-eared copy of “Lolita” on his bedside table—lost.

That’s the LAST thing America needs: A victory for bad on Crime, Life, Border, Vets, Guns & Military Dems; an ignominious defeat for All-American, good-clean-fun, national-anthem-standing, horned-for-young-girls Republicans.

You, know, and can I just say, seriously. There’s just no predicting how voters can suddenly get all un-American and decent on you.  Talk about fickle!

Nonetheless, I really, really need you to know that Donald Trump was right:

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Strange indeed, then, that Roy’s numbers, as opposed to anything else of Roy’s, did not “go up mightily” at the siren call of the Great Mouth Breather’s endorsement.

(You do know how to endorse, don’t you, Donald?  It’s easy—you just put your lips together and blow.)

But what do you expect?  Hard as Roy might work, huffing and puffing and giving the task at hand his best shot—those fickle voters were just too well-stacked.  It can happen!

So to make this all perfectly clear:

Trump was unequivocally right, in that uniquely wrong kind of way of being right that’s endeared him to world leaders from the Palace of Westminster to the Dome of the Rock and every point in between.

Are you great again yet, America?  ‘Cause I have to be honest: Your continuing attempts at again-greatness are becoming a terrible strain on the nerves.

~

This just in: Are black women inherently smarter than and superior to white women? Ah DO declare!

Exit polls after the Alabama Senate vote show that nearly two-thirds of white women in Alabama voted for Roy Moore.

Yes, siree! Nearly two-thirds of white women in Alabama voted for Roy Moore!

(At least, we’re pretty sure they were white women.  It’s hard to tell who’s under those pointed hoods until you get the secret handshake.)

On the other hand, 98% of black women voted for Jones, who fought the Ku Klux Klan and won, as opposed to only 34% of white women.

Stats for the Presidential election show similar divisions. Black women, regardless of education, voted 95% for Clinton.  But only 34% of non-college educated white women voted for her, and an only slightly more encouraging 51% of college-educated white women.

Think of that. Black women, whatever their level of education, voted monolithically for Jones/Clinton; that is, after they updated their ID’s, hired a notary public, then walked with the notary public thirty-four miles to the polling station and cut through the barbed wire fence.

But white women went to college and, at least in Alabama, got only 17% smarter!  Their complacent Confederate stupidity, compounded by too many years spent doling out jello salad in their church basements and inhaling bleach fumes as they soaked the bloodstained linens, is apparently as impenetrable as Roy “Huff-‘n-Puff” Moore’s thirteen-year-old nymphet.

~

Meanwhile, in another part of town, Twitterers

were all a-twit at the Netflix employees who got bored one rainy afternoon and decided to publicly tease three people about their obsessive viewing habits. On Twitter.  Just for, you know. Fun.

Use customer data irresponsibly?  As if!

Ever since the revelation that three “Likes” on Facebook will predict with high accuracy whether you’re gay or not—for the record, they are: “All About Eve”, “Barbie Collectors” and “Cute Guys in Jockstraps”— I spend a full third of my waking hours telling youngsters about the necessity of using super-secure, ephemeral messaging apps, like Wickr, for example, only to receive, via Facebook, something like, “Whatever, grandad, and could you score us some more of that awesome weed??!!!?”

Similarly, a Greek soldier once said to his colleagues,

“Cassandra says she has a funny feeling about the big horse thingy, though I think it was kind of thoughtful of the Trojans and I do agree it would look smashing in the atrium as a begonia planter!”

Yes, peeps—it’s time for another in my recurring series:

Facebook Life Event  #209a:
Slept. In a bed. With covers over me. Vaguely at night.

24899721_1595842147128580_6752123882156218646_nLast night, around 2 A.M., while “working” (surfing the deep Internet in search of the most time-wasting cat videos I could possibly find), I started falling asleep at various inconvenient moments (at one point finding myself unaccountably naked on Skype) and slamming my face into the computer keyboard.

I’m not sure how many of you understand that this blog does not magically appear on the internet via my voice-activated, machine-learning-capable supercomputer responding to my command of “Hey, Cortana, write my blog, bitch!”, but involves real effort.

As a way of illustrating the concept “real effort”, compare, say, me staying up three nights in a row smoking twelve-dollar packs of cigarettes and risking carpal tunnel syndrome in order to produce sly, humorous material that I pray an average person will even understand, never mind laugh at the appropriate moments; to you, say, starting to make a cup of instant coffee, getting bored halfway through, then returning to your master bedroom and texting Starbucks to see if they’ll Uber you a Grande Caramel Latte made with Lactose-Free Low-Fat.

Now that we’re on the same page about real effort, I can tell you that my falling asleep problem was exacerbated by my complete failure to find a thread of right-wing Amerikanischer nut-jobs frothing at the mouth about transgenders and the dangers they pose to American public washrooms, so that I could engage and eventually end up screaming for the millionth time that Canada’s healthcare system is not “Socialist Satanic Hillary Socialist Obama Communism”.

The fourth time I nodded off, I slithered in a Martha Graham-type slow motion off the chair and landed scalp first on the sharp corner of the surge-resistant power bar by Ikea that only extends three inches from the socket so bored Swedish children won’t trip over it when they’re finger-painting the walls with lingonberry crumble.  This was the first time I’d ever hit my head hard enough to understand the term “seeing stars”.

Well, you know— It got me to thinkin’.

So having stanched the flow of blood and suppressed my hysterical screams, I went into my bedroom—which I haven’t had use of since 2014, when I rented it out to a top-secret provincial mental-health project as a cheap alternative to biohazard disposal—lay down on the futon, pulled the duvet up over me and—slept for about five hours.

Slept. In a bed. Futon, I mean. With covers over me. Vaguely at night.

I don’t necessarily recommend it. If you try it yourself, don’t expect too much. You might not say, “That was AWE-SOMMMMME“, for example. My response was sort of, “Well, that was different, eh?”

I didn’t say “eh”, really, I just added that to fulfill the expectations of any American friends who happen to read this. It’s always good to live up to people’s expectations of you. You’ll find that’s a really effective strategy for your life.

About The Pictures (PG)

You may be wondering. The luscious pics have nothing to do with the above life event. I just chose to share them ’cause of how fucking hot they make me look.

Above: Me being hot as fuck as I sit in an expensive chair 24900075_1595842420461886_7722705345910293837_nin an expensive condo on the Île-des-soeurs, Montréal and catch my breath so I can be super fucking hot in the next pic.

Right: Me, in the same expensive condo on the Île-des-soeurs, Montréal, being super fucking hot after my rest (see above).

Some people have suggested to me, from a respectful distance, that being as fucking hot as I am is actually a potential danger to the public and should be illegal.

But I disagree. There’s always room at the party for one more hot-as-fuck guy, and that guy right now just happens to be me.

Since you asked.

~

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Today’s question: Why are Americans such drama queens?

But first, a little about my mother.

My mother was a crazy lady, and we, my two sisters and I, were the cats a crazy lady adores—when she’s not stuffing them in the wringer washing machine, shutting the lid and turning the dial to “Extra Hot”.

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My mother had a way of structuring her time, and that way was drama.  Armed with her ready-to-deploy signature facial expression of carefully-calculated aggrieved martyrdom, that gal knew how to fill an empty day: conjure a crisis from thin air, work herself into a frenzy over a thing-she-made-up-in-her-head, then act on that thing.

A simple phone call to her adult child—this was in the days of answering machines, and not even the ones that you could remotely call; to pick up your messages you had to get home, then play the tape, preferably with an HB pencil at the ready in case the actual tape got smooshed in the mechanism—such a call proceeded inexorably; entirely, grimly predictable, like Greek tragedy, but without the catharsis to make the misery worthwhile:

[Scene:  Mother calls David, but he does not answer.]

First message (brimming with childlike hope): “Hi dear, it’s Mom, call me back.”

Second message (a brisk, secretarial tone, masking panic):  “David, it’s Mom.  Please call me back.”

Fifth message (debt collection agency determined to wear down its target):  “It’s your mother.  Please stop ignoring me.  Answer the phone. I don’t think I deserve this!”

Tenth message: (At 100 dB, and well into Maggie-Thatcher-in-extremis-rails-against-the-striking-miners-with-optional-aneurysm mode. Industrial ear protection recommended):  “WELL I THINK IT’S JUST TERRIBLE THE WAY YOU TREAT ME AFTER ALL I HAVE DONE FOR YOU AND IF THAT’S THE WAY IT’S GOING TO BE I WILL TELL YOU RIGHT NOW THAT —”

But you see—I wasn’t ignoring her. I wasn’t even home. I was at work, unaware of her calls (that’s right, because no cell phones; any millennials following along may need to take their medication at this point). “Ignoring her” was that day’s particular drama, the thing-she-made-up-in-her-head; the way she kept that narcissistic spotlight relentlessly and mercilessly on HER:

Mom:  Hi, it’s mom.  You sound like you have a cold.

Me:   Yeah, I’ve been a bit under the weather this week—

Mom:  WELL, I’VE BEEN SICK, TOO!!

Which is probably why I spent half my life slurping sloe gin out of a dog dish.

Why am I bringing up this admittedly fascinating chunk of get-to-know-me?  Because the penny dropped for me last week, about, you know.

Americans.

It dropped when I was perusing the comments in a Facebook group called “Trump Haters”, where every other post went something like this:

“We must take to the streets!  Expose that liar, that womanizer, that traitor Trump, Putin’s puppet!  This is revolution, it’s civil war, we must indict the bastard, impeach him, we must throw off the chains of tyranny!!

O my fucking god! Guys, guys, guys! You voted him in!  Just—vote him out.  Kind of thing?

Americans are such drama queens.  I mean, I love you, truly I do; you’re the most decent, friendly, innocent and optimistic, arms-wide-open, set-a-while-and-have-some-pie down-home people.

You’re just a great, big, sloppy, drooling, pee-the-carpet-you’re-so-excited Golden Labrador, collectively speaking.  But shove a demagogue down your pants and, whoah!  Pit Bull, no muzzle!

American voters are like battered spouses, hoodwinked by the good times into believing it was just an anomaly, never remembering the nights of whisky breath and black eyes and promises he’ll change. Back to the polls believing the rhetoric, voting against your best interests, then awakening with a broken arm, a few missing teeth, a tax grab in favour of the forty-seven old white guys, the one percent that’s so bloated with wealth, the whole country would sink under its weight if they hadn’t already stuffed every greenback into a Swiss Alp.

But at least it passes the time.

Speaking of the War on Christmas:

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There is something about Paul Ryan’s smarmy, self-satisfied smirk that just makes me want to grab his Jughead ears and shove a boot into his face.  Do you get that, too?

Mitch McConnell and Ryan both look like they’ve just popped a woody for their Corporate Cash Grab, the real War on Christmas; squirming like guilty little boys who know there’s something unmentionable, yet oh-so-special, in their sweaty underpants that mommy and sis will never truly understand.

The Great Mouth-Breather looks on.

Why, America, why?  Why do you do this to yourselves?  Call Canadians boring if you will, we don’t actually care. We recognize that there is a place for heart-stopping drama, and that’s the CBC. Government is supposed to be boring.

Is it as simple as that? Some misprint in a civics textbook that hasn’t been updated since 1964, because you’ve defunded schools?  Is it a Milton Friedman thing, that alter cocker?  You can tell me, baby, there, there.  Daddy’s here.

You may be wondering. To an outsider, there’s not much to distinguish Canadians from Americans.

Wrong!

As a Canadian I am at pains to let you doubters know that we are, in subtle ways, and not all of them to do with stretch Lycra, quite different.  For example:

Americans:-

  • wouldn’t be caught dead in a Chairman Mao suit, however time-saving and practical, and value individuality rather than conformity—though this frequently involves shooting you in order to steal your sneakers that light up when you walk so they can look like everyone else;
  • would rather not pay for that neighbour’s triple-bypass, thank you very much! except when it’s your dad, in which case there’s always “GoFundMyTripleBypass dot com”; and
  • are rarely seen inviting members of their childcare collective to a hearty “pemmican brunch to be followed by a session exploring toxic whiteness.  Raffle for odd sock from Justin’s last jog!” kind of event.

Canadians, on the other hand:-

  • generally do not carry firearms to an Anglican christening, unless this takes place somewhere north of Moose Factory, in a clearing;
  • value consensus (our word for “there’s a person-called-Trudeau on the ballot, and I like his hair—DONE!”) over drama (“let’s vote in a moron, then organize a March on Washington to vent our outrage when he does moronic things”); and
  • realize that universally-health-cared citizens make better workers, which we call “capitalism”, and we’ll even pay for your carburetor replacement, eh?,  which we call “insurance”.

Canadians can be smug, no doubt about it.  But secretly, we fret about our place on the world stage.  Our continual role as peacekeepers and rabid do-gooders makes us, we fear, the Cinderellas of global conflict.

We lack, it must be said, the gumption to bomb the fuck out of the Middle East for decades, and, adding insult to loser-dom, we lack the iconic tall buildings which would invite iconic terrorist attacks once the Middle East gets “peeved”.

Americans have so much gumption, so much derring-do, they’d probably bomb the fuck out of the Middle East, then go there and create the terrorist organization for them!

Hey, just goofin’ around!

Canadians are confused, too, at least this one is.  Because I don’t get why multiculturalism— that old Canadian canard whereby lots of different people from all different cultures are free to do their own thing—is “communist”, anathema; or why “e pluribus unum” —“out of the many, one”—is thought to express “individualism”.

Because it seems to me the kind of slogan, the paean to total conformity, that would eventually net you, oh, just off the top of my head, a President who gets an endorsement from the KKK.

As if that could ever happen.

Planting little kisses all over my face in the mirror…

I mean, normally that’s YOUR job, gentle and misguided reader.  But I’ll give you the day off from following my EULA to the very letter.   You deserve this not for any action on your part – puhLEEEASE! – but  because I have triumphed over the forces of darkness that have been swirling around my ankles like a choirboy’s cassock at a Vatican audition.

But first:  What was your favorite Trump moment of the past week?  Mine was his retort to Theresa May, PM of Britain.  In case you hadn’t heard, Prime Minister May, in an unprecedented public shaming, chided Trump for displaying extreme, and almost certainly fake, racist, anti-Muslim videos obtained from extreme UK right-wing group “Britain First”.

May’s office condemned Britain First for its use of “hateful narratives which peddle lies and stoke tensions.”

The statement continued, “The British people overwhelmingly reject the prejudiced rhetoric of the far-right, which is the antithesis of the values that this country represents — decency, tolerance and respect.”

Then, unequivocal condemnation:  “It is wrong for the President to have done this.”

Trump, like a defensive high school kid caught red-handed smoking behind the recycling bins and sent to the Principal’s office, decided to “Back atcha” her with a little arrogant, patronizing cyberbullying:

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How was he to know that he targeted the tweet to the wrong Theresa May?

Yup, that’s right.  Although this sounds like something lifted verbatim from satirical magazine The Onion, it is unfortunately true: Theresa May Scrivener, a 41-year-old British citizen with a protected Twitter account of six followers, said, “I haven’t been able to leave my house. I’ve been bombarded and contacted by press from around the world.”

She added,

“It’s amazing to think that the world’s most powerful man managed to press the wrong button,” she said. “I’m just glad he was not contacting me to say he was going to war with North Korea.”

No kidding.  Britain First, a hate group, is reviled by most British citizens (who, despite May’s brave words are no slouches in the racism department), is in trouble with the law, and represents possibly the worst candidate for publicizing by a President of the United States that you could possibly choose. From a fringe position of near invisibility to world-wide notoriety in one instant—all thanks to The Donald.

I wonder what the gaffes are that we DON’T hear about…?


And now, back to me, thank ya JEEEEEEZUS!

A-fobbin’ off we go, a-fobbin’ off we go…!

 

I appear to have reached an all-time low,

which, seeing where the bar is situated, makes me limbo champion of the universe as I touch the back of my balding scalp to my yellowed heels.

I had been thinking it was time to post again, but, being too beaten down and so very dangling on the edge of extinction to really care, I dithered.  I dallied.  The only thing I had ready was a video, and that would make two videos in a row.

For some reason, I imagined my readers would really care about this.

As if! And once again possessed with that profoundly cynical Weltanschauung—which is a brand of German washing machine that tells you to at least rinse out your skivvies, dude, then locks you in the basement until you comply— I  rallied!

What is my solution?  Post a cute cat video that’s not even by me!  I oughta be horse-whipped.  Horse-whipped, I tell ya!

Altogether, now:

“This is the only cute cat video I will ever post.

“Today.”

From My Squalid Kitchen: Episode 6—Mature Mayonnaise Marathon

UPDATE: I received this heartfelt email from a “fan”:

Dear Wannabe Film Maker Who Can’t Even Operate His Smartphone:

Me and a couple of other male colleagues booked maternity leave so we could watch your “Mayonnaise” epic, which clocked in at 20 minutes of nothing but you stirring an egg in a bowl. Talk about bait and switch! We tried to cancel and go back to work, but you know. Until Planned Parenthood mans up and drops the pro-female PC liberal bullshit, we’re basically fucked.

It’s like, over for us, but maybe you could edit it down a bit, for the sake of. You know. Personkind.

Also, do you know where we can score some good weed? We’ll be at the food bank today, just before it closes. Thanks, dude.

So I had another go at the edit and I’ve got it down to 12 minutes – that’s seven minutes less. This video is now tighter than Kirstie Alley’s thigh warmers.  Sorry, culottes.

And THAT’s the way (uh-huh uh-huh) we all now apparently LIKE it (uh-huh uh-huh).  Enjoy!

~

What can you do at 62 with an egg yolk and some oil? If you guessed “get a guaranteed seat on the subway”, you’d only be partially right.

This is the second attempt at this episode, after I forgot to turn the camera on, dropped the yolk in the sink, and watched a large roach stampede by during the first attempt. But if you’re into the “gross factor”, never fear—I make the mayo while smoking.

There’s no planning in any of this, you know. None.