That's right, kiddies, it's your lucky day. Every Tuesday I'll be bringing you commentary on the most important and scintillating news stories of the week. And by every Tuesday, of course, I mean every Tuesday that I actually feel like doing it.
Today's piece of frightful and disturbing news comes to us from Denver, Colorado. The headline reads as such: "Jury Finds Gay Porn Actor Guilty of Murder". The story revolves around former porn actor and gay male escort Timothy John Boham who murdered a wealthy businessman who had hired him for sex.
As far as I'm concerned, this officially marks the death of civilized society as we know it. Look, anyone who has watched an episode of CSI, CSI: Miami, CSI: New York, CSI: Small Abandoned Mining Community In The Mountains Somewhere, etc., is aware that virtually every police officer, public official, doctor, lawyer, architect, or other seemingly upstanding citizen is most likely a depraved murdering psycho*. But until now we have always been able to rely on our gay escorts to provide us with a danger-free anal reaming and the occasional light spooning afterwards (for an additional fee, of course). Now, suddenly, we find that hiring an anonymous stranger for sex is no longer the wholesome family activity we've come to know and love. This is saddening, no doubt, but the truly devastating effects of this story are even more depressing.
*With the exception of David Caruso, of course, who has earned our unquestioned trust via a constant well-timed application and removal of sunglasses.
It would be one thing for us to be forced to reconcile the heinous actions of Timothy Boham with our previously held beliefs regarding the adult entertainment industry, but the reporting body in this case has infinitely widened the scope of the danger by including Timothy's middle name. I, for one, tend to scan a story like this before reading it in full, and upon my first glance I misread the name as being Timothy John BONHAM. Could it be? John Bonham? I mean, it's bad enough to know that I'll be forever looking over my shoulder (or sometimes up at a mirrored ceiling) wondering if my escort is going to unceremoniously end my existence, but to think that I could be gunned down by the long-deceased drummer of one of the most influential rock bands in history is a whole different ballgame. Will we ever again be able to hear the lyrics "Oh, oh, child, way you shake that thing, gonna make you burn, gonna make you sting" without wondering if John Bonham intends to actually, literally, light us on fire? Where once we could innocently listen to "Kashmir" and wonder only "Does anybody know what the fuck this song is supposed to be about?", we now must sit huddled in a corner with a chill running down our spines, praying that we survive the night. And, perhaps most tragically of all, "Stairway to Heaven" will now be a tool used to inspire fear, instead of a tool used by moderately talented amateur guitar players to get laid.
So thanks for nothing, Timothy John Boham. Enjoy prison, which as I understand it pretty much just pro-bono** gay escort work anyway.
**Not to be confused with pro-Bono gay escort work, which is gay escort work provided for free to the members of U2.
Tuesday, June 9, 2009
Monday, June 8, 2009
What's In a Name? Not Exploding.
"Hold on just one gosh darn minute", some of the whinier among you are probably saying. "This blog does not appear in any way to be the eagerly anticipated second part of 'You Can Read it, But You're Not Going to Like It'". That is correct. My thoughts are of a transitory and mercurial nature, and at the moment they have strayed from that topic onto other things. You probably feel cheated, but if you had read the fine print* you'd know that "To Be Continued" should not construed as a guarantee, or, quite frankly, even as an indication that there will actually be any continuance.
*Technically speaking, I haven't actually written the fine print yet, but if you travel forward a few months, it should be available for your viewing. Those of you not currently utilizing time travel should know that your inability to effectively manipulate the space-time continuum is a personal problem, and thus is not my responsibility at all.
Moving on, what I'd like to discuss today is the fact that on the way home from work last night I was held up in traffic for a good while because a Volkswagen Beetle had apparently burst into flames. Now, there are many possible explanations for this occurrence. Perhaps there was a massive engine malfunction, or maybe the driver was smoking a cigarette while simultaneously filling vials with volatile chemicals. But I suspect neither of these is accurate. Occam's Razor, in addition to handily disposing of unwanted stubble, tells us that the simplest explanation is usually the correct one. Which is why I'm convinced that the Beetle caught fire because a giant nine year old space creature lit it up with some sort of sophisticated space magnifying glass. Why? Because that is what young boys do to beetles.
And who is at fault? Volkswagen, of course. One cannot blame the alien. Boys will be boys, after all, even if they are green, tentacled space boys the size of France. But why in the world would the people at VW name their car after bug? How did they not anticipate these horrifying consequences? And why are we purchasing such absurdly named products? One might as well drive around in a Chevy Bulls-Eye, or a Toyota Unescorted Group of Isreali Diplomats Wandering Through The Gaza Strip. Honestly, the Beetle? They were asking for it. And frankly, the Beatles, despite their truly exceptional musical abilities, put themselves in pretty much the same boat. I have long believed that Mark David Chapman was not, in fact, an assassin, but an overzealous exterminator with poor eyesight.
The point is that we should all write angry letters to Volkswagen demanding that they create a vehicle called the VW Move Along, Nothing To See Here. It's the only way to guarantee the safety of ourselves and our children.
*Technically speaking, I haven't actually written the fine print yet, but if you travel forward a few months, it should be available for your viewing. Those of you not currently utilizing time travel should know that your inability to effectively manipulate the space-time continuum is a personal problem, and thus is not my responsibility at all.
Moving on, what I'd like to discuss today is the fact that on the way home from work last night I was held up in traffic for a good while because a Volkswagen Beetle had apparently burst into flames. Now, there are many possible explanations for this occurrence. Perhaps there was a massive engine malfunction, or maybe the driver was smoking a cigarette while simultaneously filling vials with volatile chemicals. But I suspect neither of these is accurate. Occam's Razor, in addition to handily disposing of unwanted stubble, tells us that the simplest explanation is usually the correct one. Which is why I'm convinced that the Beetle caught fire because a giant nine year old space creature lit it up with some sort of sophisticated space magnifying glass. Why? Because that is what young boys do to beetles.
And who is at fault? Volkswagen, of course. One cannot blame the alien. Boys will be boys, after all, even if they are green, tentacled space boys the size of France. But why in the world would the people at VW name their car after bug? How did they not anticipate these horrifying consequences? And why are we purchasing such absurdly named products? One might as well drive around in a Chevy Bulls-Eye, or a Toyota Unescorted Group of Isreali Diplomats Wandering Through The Gaza Strip. Honestly, the Beetle? They were asking for it. And frankly, the Beatles, despite their truly exceptional musical abilities, put themselves in pretty much the same boat. I have long believed that Mark David Chapman was not, in fact, an assassin, but an overzealous exterminator with poor eyesight.
The point is that we should all write angry letters to Volkswagen demanding that they create a vehicle called the VW Move Along, Nothing To See Here. It's the only way to guarantee the safety of ourselves and our children.
Sunday, June 7, 2009
You Can Read It, But You're Not Going To Like It (Part 1)
It has often been said that what is right is not always popular, and what is popular is not always right. I have consistently been neither popular nor right for the better part of twenty-seven years now, which is a fact that I am enormously proud of. So be prepared to call me a jackass as I'm getting ready to go off on Hate Crime laws, which tend to be pretty well-received among your standard non-bigoted individuals, a category in which I include myself. On the plus side, the racists and homophobes are going to think I'm brilliant, so I can count on many an invitation to parties populated with nothing but straight white people, which considerably increases my chances of not being the worst dancer in the room.
First off, let me stock up brownie points that I'm likely to need later by saying that I unequivocally support gay marriage. Why? Because I believe in equal rights. This is not to say that I believe in equality, because I don't. I believe it is the responsibility of our government to make sure that we all have the same rights under the law, but I also think we have to be careful not to push the politically correct bullshit too far. For example, a blind man should be guaranteed the right to get married, to collect unemployment, to have full access to all public facilities, to receive help from the police or fire department in an emergency, etc. If, however, I'm organizing a softball team, I shouldn't have to worry about a discrimination suit if I fail to invite the blind guy to join the team. Cause here's the thing: People who can't see make really shitty softball players. I wish it wasn't the case, but it is. Honest to God, you'd probably be more successful if you just put a bucket out in right field because at least a bucket won't end up facing the wrong direction. And I don't want to hear any of that bullshit about how the loss of one sense heightens the others because it doesn't heighten them enough to play softball. Period. Never in the history of mankind has a blind man stood at home plate and thought:
"That ball sounds like it's a 65 mile an hour change up heading for the lower inside corner. Jackpot! Here comes a round-tripper, baby!"
No. Does not happen. Most likely he'd be thinking:
"Hmm. I sure hope a small spherical object that may or may not be headed in this direction doesn't collide with my head in an incredibly forceful manner. How the fuck did I let these politically correct jerk-offs talk me into playing softball?"
TO BE CONTINUED...
First off, let me stock up brownie points that I'm likely to need later by saying that I unequivocally support gay marriage. Why? Because I believe in equal rights. This is not to say that I believe in equality, because I don't. I believe it is the responsibility of our government to make sure that we all have the same rights under the law, but I also think we have to be careful not to push the politically correct bullshit too far. For example, a blind man should be guaranteed the right to get married, to collect unemployment, to have full access to all public facilities, to receive help from the police or fire department in an emergency, etc. If, however, I'm organizing a softball team, I shouldn't have to worry about a discrimination suit if I fail to invite the blind guy to join the team. Cause here's the thing: People who can't see make really shitty softball players. I wish it wasn't the case, but it is. Honest to God, you'd probably be more successful if you just put a bucket out in right field because at least a bucket won't end up facing the wrong direction. And I don't want to hear any of that bullshit about how the loss of one sense heightens the others because it doesn't heighten them enough to play softball. Period. Never in the history of mankind has a blind man stood at home plate and thought:
"That ball sounds like it's a 65 mile an hour change up heading for the lower inside corner. Jackpot! Here comes a round-tripper, baby!"
No. Does not happen. Most likely he'd be thinking:
"Hmm. I sure hope a small spherical object that may or may not be headed in this direction doesn't collide with my head in an incredibly forceful manner. How the fuck did I let these politically correct jerk-offs talk me into playing softball?"
TO BE CONTINUED...
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