I’m angry today. I need some power yoga and a steak and an orgasm. Would it be too much to attempt all three at once? Probably. That would require considerable logistics, or at the very least a dude with a clean kitchen floor. Fuck it. I’ll take ‘em as they come.
Somewhere on Hollywood Boulevard at this very moment there is a segment producer for E! Entertainment Television who I’d like to buy a drink.
Just look at this shot. It’s a tiny little work of art.
I guarantee that the only creative decision this particular producer got to make all week was which direction to point the camera, and what did he choose? A massive chain link fence separating the hypnotized, unwashed masses.
It could have been just another filler segment featuring tuxedos and fake smiles, but no. Suddenly, it’s a smirking political statement. Those two douche canoes weren’t just yammering about Gerard Butler coming out of rehab. They were posing in a visual metaphor for America’s invisible caste system.
Yes, it’s deliberate, and that subversive motherfucker got away with it because no one in the broadcast truck either noticed or cared.
Where did the anonymous masses aim all their misdirected rage before the internet had a comments section? Honestly, where did all that negative energy go before we installed a digital lint trap in the zeitgeist? Was it released into our daily lives through a billion other angry and ignorant gestures?
I want to believe that the sum total of physical and emotional trauma out there in the world has somehow been softened by the fact that people get to convert all that poison into harmless threads of online afterthought.
Not by much, maybe just a notch or two.
Still, that counts for something.
No one was offended.
No one gives a shit.
There are assholes out there whose job it is to get professionally offended, and all they managed to do was phone in another poorly written press release.
Come on, even they’re not really offended. You can tell they don’t believe their own bullshit anymore. They just have to justify their ridiculous existence.
Not one person of any age, of any gender, or of any culture out of the hundred million who watched the Super Bowl is owed an apology for this fraction of a broadcast second.
Ugh. Even ranting about the irony and hypocrisy of this kind of nonsense is tiresome and irrelevant.
There is an ancient custom amongst Zen monks and haiku poets to compose a jisei or “death poem” when nearing the very end of their lives.
I feel like Anna Nicole Smith may have been more of a Zen poet than any of us ever gave her credit for.
The Susan G. Komen Foundation recently withdrew their charitable support for Planned Parenthood. It’s a transparently political move that is both deplorable and not the least bit surprising.
Come on, folks. Have we already forgotten Buckets for the Cure? Seriously, those helmet haired humanitarians in charge of the Komen Foundation lost all their credibility the second they decided to raise breast cancer awareness with pink buckets of KFC chicken.
Of course, some good is coming out of their right-wing, anti-choice, red-state wrong-headedness, because almost half a million dollars has been donated directly to Planned Parenthood in the past twenty-four hours alone.
If you can, please donate.