Quentin R. Bufogle's Blog, page 10
October 9, 2012
MR. PRESIDENT, UNLEASH YOUR INNER SMOKIN' JOE
Abraham Zapruder, if you're up there listening, I feel you. I now understand the shock and disbelief of witnessing an event so horrifying, so unthinkable, it alters the very DNA. After watching the first Obama-Romney debate, I have only one question: Mr. President, what the fuck were you thinking??? You sat there on the bench, bad as you wanna be, nodding your head while a guy named Willard (in gym shorts a size too small) owned the court. When he railed about the immorality of running up the debt,what did you do? Did you question the morality of a man who reverse-engineered his tax return so as not to be caught in a lie? A man who spent the summer on a beach in France, writing love letters in the sand, while others died in a war he supported? . . .
Read the complete article:
http://lasvegascitylife.com/blog/town...
Read the complete article:
http://lasvegascitylife.com/blog/town...
September 5, 2012
DININ' WITH MYSELF
"Would you like to sit at the bar -- or would you prefer a booth?"
"A booth." I tell the hostess, "Don't want any strange women hitting on me."
I'm here at Applebee's for a quick bite -- and to jot some notes on the novel that's been haunting me.
"Your server will be with you in a moment." The hostess says, slipping me a menu boldly emblazoned with the words, "WELCOME BACK."
"How'd you know?"
"Know what?" The hostess asks, puzzled.
"That I've been here before. Am I under surveillance?"
It's a minute or two before my server arrives. He introduces himself. Pleasant chap -- though he looks like the bass player in a white supremacist hate-rock band. I look around the near-vacant dining room; four other servers -- all attractive young women -- and I'm stuck with Vin Diesel. Retribution for my earlier wisecrack. I have the server start me with a coffee while I peruse the menu.
"This item here," I say, when he brings the java, "The 'Bourbon Black & Bleu Burger' . . ."
"Oh yeah -- big seller."
"No . . . The word 'blue.' You spelled it B-L-E-U -- French."
"That's correct."
"Why?"
"I believe the cheese is French."
"I don't care. This is America . . ."
I have a new server. A tall, 'suicide blonde' with a Russian accent (let's call her 'Nastassja').
"So, have you decided?" Nastassja asks.
"I'll have the 'Black & Bleu Burger' -- medium; side of fries -- and I'd like that with AMERICAN cheese."
Nastassja freshens my coffee and places the order. While I'm scribbling in my pocket notepad, my burger arrives. I take a bite. There's a problem.
"Excuse me, Miss; I ordered a medium burger, this is well-done -- and I asked for American cheese, not blue."
Nastassja apologizes and has the kitchen fire another burger. I sip coffee and continue scribbling in my notepad. The replacement burger arrives. Once again, I catch a whiff of blue cheese: the pungent aroma of mold spores reminiscent of foul death. Rather than lose my cool, I go to my "Happy Place." I'm on a Blue Lagoon-like island with Nastassja -- who lies naked in the coils of a giant python. The anger management classes are really paying off.
"Blue cheese again." I smile, "Keep this up and you're gonna lose your Michelin star."
"I'm so sorry." Nastassja says, with a stricken look, "The cook is having a bad day."
"Is he French?"
"He's from Nicaragua."
"Then he has no ax to grind. Let's try this again . . ."
Third time proves to be a charm. Good ol' American cheese. Tho the the burger is again overcooked, I say nothing to Nastassja (whose fragile emotional state I'm beginning to fear for).
"Everything good?" She asks, as I'm finishing up.
Mouth full, I nod.
"Care for some desert?"
"Just the check, thanks."
Nastassja rings me up; leaves me with the check.
"Excuse me, Miss!" I say, as she starts away, "There's a problem with the check . . ." She looks devastated, "You forgot to draw a little 'smiley face' on it."
Nastassja obliges: drawing a little smiley face on my receipt -- then gives me a look and smile that's sure to linger; even longer than the aftertaste of the over-seasoned Cajun fries.
"A booth." I tell the hostess, "Don't want any strange women hitting on me."
I'm here at Applebee's for a quick bite -- and to jot some notes on the novel that's been haunting me.
"Your server will be with you in a moment." The hostess says, slipping me a menu boldly emblazoned with the words, "WELCOME BACK."
"How'd you know?"
"Know what?" The hostess asks, puzzled.
"That I've been here before. Am I under surveillance?"
It's a minute or two before my server arrives. He introduces himself. Pleasant chap -- though he looks like the bass player in a white supremacist hate-rock band. I look around the near-vacant dining room; four other servers -- all attractive young women -- and I'm stuck with Vin Diesel. Retribution for my earlier wisecrack. I have the server start me with a coffee while I peruse the menu.
"This item here," I say, when he brings the java, "The 'Bourbon Black & Bleu Burger' . . ."
"Oh yeah -- big seller."
"No . . . The word 'blue.' You spelled it B-L-E-U -- French."
"That's correct."
"Why?"
"I believe the cheese is French."
"I don't care. This is America . . ."
I have a new server. A tall, 'suicide blonde' with a Russian accent (let's call her 'Nastassja').
"So, have you decided?" Nastassja asks.
"I'll have the 'Black & Bleu Burger' -- medium; side of fries -- and I'd like that with AMERICAN cheese."
Nastassja freshens my coffee and places the order. While I'm scribbling in my pocket notepad, my burger arrives. I take a bite. There's a problem.
"Excuse me, Miss; I ordered a medium burger, this is well-done -- and I asked for American cheese, not blue."
Nastassja apologizes and has the kitchen fire another burger. I sip coffee and continue scribbling in my notepad. The replacement burger arrives. Once again, I catch a whiff of blue cheese: the pungent aroma of mold spores reminiscent of foul death. Rather than lose my cool, I go to my "Happy Place." I'm on a Blue Lagoon-like island with Nastassja -- who lies naked in the coils of a giant python. The anger management classes are really paying off.
"Blue cheese again." I smile, "Keep this up and you're gonna lose your Michelin star."
"I'm so sorry." Nastassja says, with a stricken look, "The cook is having a bad day."
"Is he French?"
"He's from Nicaragua."
"Then he has no ax to grind. Let's try this again . . ."
Third time proves to be a charm. Good ol' American cheese. Tho the the burger is again overcooked, I say nothing to Nastassja (whose fragile emotional state I'm beginning to fear for).
"Everything good?" She asks, as I'm finishing up.
Mouth full, I nod.
"Care for some desert?"
"Just the check, thanks."
Nastassja rings me up; leaves me with the check.
"Excuse me, Miss!" I say, as she starts away, "There's a problem with the check . . ." She looks devastated, "You forgot to draw a little 'smiley face' on it."
Nastassja obliges: drawing a little smiley face on my receipt -- then gives me a look and smile that's sure to linger; even longer than the aftertaste of the over-seasoned Cajun fries.
August 23, 2012
BEING IN VITRO MEANS NEVER HAVING TO SAY YOU'RE SORRY
Congressman Todd Akin launches his official apology tour. Today he apologized to the fetus of a rape victim -- then later took a pap smear to lunch. "I misspoke." Said the Congressman, "All forms of rape are bad; even the consensual kind -- and of course a woman can be impregnated by a rapist . . . if they really care for each other . . . am I being quoted? . . ."
August 7, 2012
WHAT GUNS? HOW 'BOUT "DILDO CONTROL?"
FACT: It's illegal to own more than five (5) dildos in the state of Texas. FACT: Last year there were zero (0) dildo-related homicides in the state of Texas. The following may be extrapolated from this: 1) Texans fear dildos more than guns. 2) If you're planning a stick-up in Texas -- use a dildo . . .
POLICE: "911, what is your emergency?"
CALLER: "Yeah, I'm down at the shoppin' mall, an' there's a feller runnin' wild with a dildo . . ."
POLICE: "I'm sorry sir, did you say a man's brandishing a dildo?"
CALLER: "Oh, it's a dildo awright -- it's a bigun' . . ."
POLICE: "Sir, I need you to remain calm . . . can you describe this dildo for me?"
CALLER: "Oh, it's about 18 inches in length, swarthy in color, an' got a big ol' crank on it."
POLICE: "Can you describe what's happening now?"
CALLER: "There appears ta be a patron who was carryin' a concealed dildo, an' he an' the perpetrator are engaged in swordplay . . ."
POLICE: "Sir, you need to take cover. Help is on the way."
CALLER: "Yeah, I got the Missus with me -- I'm usin' her as a human shield."
POLICE: "God be with you . . ."
POLICE: "911, what is your emergency?"
CALLER: "Yeah, I'm down at the shoppin' mall, an' there's a feller runnin' wild with a dildo . . ."
POLICE: "I'm sorry sir, did you say a man's brandishing a dildo?"
CALLER: "Oh, it's a dildo awright -- it's a bigun' . . ."
POLICE: "Sir, I need you to remain calm . . . can you describe this dildo for me?"
CALLER: "Oh, it's about 18 inches in length, swarthy in color, an' got a big ol' crank on it."
POLICE: "Can you describe what's happening now?"
CALLER: "There appears ta be a patron who was carryin' a concealed dildo, an' he an' the perpetrator are engaged in swordplay . . ."
POLICE: "Sir, you need to take cover. Help is on the way."
CALLER: "Yeah, I got the Missus with me -- I'm usin' her as a human shield."
POLICE: "God be with you . . ."
July 28, 2012
ATHEIST IN A FOXHOLE
My "ATHEIST-IN-THE-WHITE HOUSE" quote (posted here on Goodreads) has created a minor shit-storm on Reddit.com. In less than 48 hrs, the quote has received 7,953 "UP" votes, vs. 6,194 "DOWN" votes, as well as sparking a spirited (pardon the pun) debate on atheism vs. religion. After reading my quote, one person wanted to, "Punch a Republican." There's even speculation about my NAME! "Sounds like something Michael Jackson would name his dog." Comments one. An anagram for "Funner Globe Quit" claims another. "Can't find him on Wikipedia -- it's a pen name!" (Ever think of trying Facebook???) Here's a link for the ensuing (at times heated) discussion. Be sure to cast your vote today! . . .
http://redd.it/x70mb
http://redd.it/x70mb
July 14, 2012
ROMNEY THE HUN
THE STOCK IS TANKING and there's bedlam on the trading floor. "Bulls and bears get rich -- hogs get slaughtered!" Today the trading floor runs red with the blood of slaughtered hogs.
The airline stock's been in play for the past week. Word on the street has it an unknown corporate raider has been gobbling up shares; amassing a position sufficient to seize control of the company. The corporate raider is no Wall Street Robin Hood who swoops in to provide desperately needed capital for ailing companies -- but a predator: a wing-tip, Paisley tie, pinstripe suit-clad Attila the Hun who exploits weakness in an otherwise sound company's stock; one whose shares are trading below "book value" (the value of a company's liquidated assets).
The formula's simple: Buy up all the stock of a company whose market value is presently less than its break-up value; pink slip all the employees, then take a hacksaw to its hard assets. Sell it off in bits and pieces -- in much the same fashion a chop shop dismantles and sells off parts of a stolen car. And the profit? Millions? Tens of millions? Who knows? Enough to satiate your appetite if you literally ate hundred dollar bills and shat promissory notes.
But a monkey wrench has been thrown into the plan. Labor has banded together in an attempt to fend off the hostile takeover. Finding himself in a bidding war; the prospect of easy pickin's quickly evaporating, the vulture will seek easier prey. The raider is now dumping the stock. Without enough buyers to absorb the position, the shares are plummeting. Like an elevator car with its cables cut, the stock is in free fall. A throng of floor brokers surround the post where shares of the airline trade. The men are shouting; waving handwritten sell orders in the air. Though physical contact is forbidden on the trading floor, panic has set in. The more agressive of the lot elbow their way to the front of the crowd, where a hulking, silver haired, granite-faced gentleman struggles to keep a lid on the pressure cooker.
Gene Dumaresque, the "Silver Fox," is the "specialist" for the airline. He holds the "book" -- the franchise for trading the company's stock.
"5,000 at three-quarters; 10,000 trade at a half . . . another 10,000 at a half . . ."
Gene's clerk rips out all the pages of the binder he uses to log buy and sell orders for the stock. The specialist has burned through the entire "away market" and is now buying shares with his company's own capital -- attempting to catch a falling knife -- as required by NYSE regulations. I lock eyes with Gene. There's a look there I've never observed before. He scribbles something on his pad; tears out the page; waves it in the air . . .
"SQUAD!"
He's calling for me -- his runner. I can't get to him. The crowd's like a chain link fence.
"SQUAD!" He bellows. What the hell could he have written? My guess is a suicide note . . .
"Excuse me sir . . . can I help you with something?"
He doesn't wear the badge of an NYSE floor trader -- but a Walmart name tag.
" . . . Are you interested in a flat screen?"
I feel as if I've just been sucked through a wormhole in the spacetime continuum. No longer back on that paper-strewn trading floor, but here, at Walmart. The gentleman I've been watching on the screen of the 60" plasma is indeed Gene Dumaresque, the "Silver Fox." A specialist broker on the floor of The New York Stock Exchange some thirty years ago -- when I began my career on Wall Street as his runner. A real in-the-flesh specialist, playing the role of a fictional one in Oliver Stone's "Wall Street." Remember? Gordon Gekko? Greed is good!
The man who preached "greed is good," is now here in the flesh -- and he wants to be your president. What's the difference between Gordon Gekko and Mitt Romney? (Not a joke folks. Like to know if you think there's a difference?)
Don't listen to the blowhards at Fox News who'd have you believe Mitt Romney's Wall Street's answer to Florence Nightingale -- rather than a wolf in Brooks Brother's clothing. When they tell you multi-millionaires like Mitt must be rewarded with a tax rate below that of someone operating a squee gee (and thusly rewarded because they're "investing in America"), politely holler, "BLOW IT OUT YOUR LOOPHOLE!" The only thing Willard Romney invests in is Willard Romney (just ask his bankers in the Cayman Islands).
Here's a bit of trivia: back in '86, I was working as a Wall Street stockbroker while Oliver Stone was shooting his flick. Right-wing messiah Ronald Reagan had raised the capital gains rate to 28%, and money was flooding into the market faster than I could write buy tickets. Hear that? With the capital gains tax nearly DOUBLE its current rate under President Obama, business was booming!
Investors flock to the stock market because of the potential for huge profits -- they don't require the added incentive of a virtually non-existent capital gains tax. Oh, and one more thing: Greed is NOT good!
The airline stock's been in play for the past week. Word on the street has it an unknown corporate raider has been gobbling up shares; amassing a position sufficient to seize control of the company. The corporate raider is no Wall Street Robin Hood who swoops in to provide desperately needed capital for ailing companies -- but a predator: a wing-tip, Paisley tie, pinstripe suit-clad Attila the Hun who exploits weakness in an otherwise sound company's stock; one whose shares are trading below "book value" (the value of a company's liquidated assets).
The formula's simple: Buy up all the stock of a company whose market value is presently less than its break-up value; pink slip all the employees, then take a hacksaw to its hard assets. Sell it off in bits and pieces -- in much the same fashion a chop shop dismantles and sells off parts of a stolen car. And the profit? Millions? Tens of millions? Who knows? Enough to satiate your appetite if you literally ate hundred dollar bills and shat promissory notes.
But a monkey wrench has been thrown into the plan. Labor has banded together in an attempt to fend off the hostile takeover. Finding himself in a bidding war; the prospect of easy pickin's quickly evaporating, the vulture will seek easier prey. The raider is now dumping the stock. Without enough buyers to absorb the position, the shares are plummeting. Like an elevator car with its cables cut, the stock is in free fall. A throng of floor brokers surround the post where shares of the airline trade. The men are shouting; waving handwritten sell orders in the air. Though physical contact is forbidden on the trading floor, panic has set in. The more agressive of the lot elbow their way to the front of the crowd, where a hulking, silver haired, granite-faced gentleman struggles to keep a lid on the pressure cooker.
Gene Dumaresque, the "Silver Fox," is the "specialist" for the airline. He holds the "book" -- the franchise for trading the company's stock.
"5,000 at three-quarters; 10,000 trade at a half . . . another 10,000 at a half . . ."
Gene's clerk rips out all the pages of the binder he uses to log buy and sell orders for the stock. The specialist has burned through the entire "away market" and is now buying shares with his company's own capital -- attempting to catch a falling knife -- as required by NYSE regulations. I lock eyes with Gene. There's a look there I've never observed before. He scribbles something on his pad; tears out the page; waves it in the air . . .
"SQUAD!"
He's calling for me -- his runner. I can't get to him. The crowd's like a chain link fence.
"SQUAD!" He bellows. What the hell could he have written? My guess is a suicide note . . .
"Excuse me sir . . . can I help you with something?"
He doesn't wear the badge of an NYSE floor trader -- but a Walmart name tag.
" . . . Are you interested in a flat screen?"
I feel as if I've just been sucked through a wormhole in the spacetime continuum. No longer back on that paper-strewn trading floor, but here, at Walmart. The gentleman I've been watching on the screen of the 60" plasma is indeed Gene Dumaresque, the "Silver Fox." A specialist broker on the floor of The New York Stock Exchange some thirty years ago -- when I began my career on Wall Street as his runner. A real in-the-flesh specialist, playing the role of a fictional one in Oliver Stone's "Wall Street." Remember? Gordon Gekko? Greed is good!
The man who preached "greed is good," is now here in the flesh -- and he wants to be your president. What's the difference between Gordon Gekko and Mitt Romney? (Not a joke folks. Like to know if you think there's a difference?)
Don't listen to the blowhards at Fox News who'd have you believe Mitt Romney's Wall Street's answer to Florence Nightingale -- rather than a wolf in Brooks Brother's clothing. When they tell you multi-millionaires like Mitt must be rewarded with a tax rate below that of someone operating a squee gee (and thusly rewarded because they're "investing in America"), politely holler, "BLOW IT OUT YOUR LOOPHOLE!" The only thing Willard Romney invests in is Willard Romney (just ask his bankers in the Cayman Islands).
Here's a bit of trivia: back in '86, I was working as a Wall Street stockbroker while Oliver Stone was shooting his flick. Right-wing messiah Ronald Reagan had raised the capital gains rate to 28%, and money was flooding into the market faster than I could write buy tickets. Hear that? With the capital gains tax nearly DOUBLE its current rate under President Obama, business was booming!
Investors flock to the stock market because of the potential for huge profits -- they don't require the added incentive of a virtually non-existent capital gains tax. Oh, and one more thing: Greed is NOT good!
July 3, 2012
GIMME THEM OLD-TIME MONSTERS
THERE WAS NOTHING FUN about Rubie's Fun House; a novelty store run by a dour old gentleman named Rubie, who made his living selling plastic dog crap, Whoopee Cushions and shitty, rubber fright masks whose glued-on cotton hair fell off the minute you got 'em home.
No. There was nothing "fun" about poor ol' Rubie -- a man who believed his fortune lie in peddling inflatable, rubber fart-simulators to the kids in my Queens, NY neighborhood. I tell you this not to dishonor the man or his "Fun House" -- but rather because they play an integral role in my story.
Each year on my birthday, my mother would force my sister to accompany me to Rubie's where I'd purchase a brand-new Creature from the Black Lagoon Mani-Yak. "Mani-Yaks" were iron-on T-shirt transfers sold during the '60s featuring images of the old Universal monsters: Frankenstein, Dracula, Mummy . . . Each kid in my old 88th Street crew proudly sported their very own adopted, iron-on monster -- one that somehow spoke to them. Donald Isaksen was "The Mummy." Frankie Cesare "Dracula." Freddy Klatz "Frankenstein." Little Pat Mugnano "The Wolfman." (We once sent him crying home to his mom, after suggesting his Mani-Yak more closely resembled Bob Weir.) And I . . . I was "The Creature from the Black Lagoon."
Though I couldn't swim and refused to eat fish, there was something about the "Gillman" that resonated with me. Perhaps it was because he was the last of his kind. A freak. An anomaly. Or maybe it was because he abducted screaming, bikini-clad vixens -- terrorizing them in his secret lagoon-lair. (Indeed . . . we were both hopeless romantics.)
I have a confession to make. For all my youthful adoration of Monsterdom's legendary Man-Fish, I never actually saw any of the three Creature flicks. When I was 8-years-old, after months of scouring the TV Guide movie listings, I spotted a Saturday, 2:30 am showing of "The Creature Walks Among Us" on the Late, Late Show. Though I'd never been up past midnight, I was determined to see my scaly idol in his 3rd and final feature. Camping out on the living room sofa, I dozed off midway through Johnny Carson -- opening my eyes just in time to see a bullet-riddled Gillman stumble off toward the ocean to die (as the closing credits rolled). I'd slept through the entire movie!
Wasn't until many years later, with the advent of the VCR, that I was finally able to view the Gillman in all his glory. That's why I'm tickled-to-death Las Vegas has recently added three new TV channels: "Me (Memorable Entertainment) TV," "This" and "Antenna TV" -- almost exclusively offering old sci-fi and monster flicks, along with classic TV dramas and sitcoms -- vintage manna for my overly-nostalgic, Baby Boomer soul. I was beside myself to find an 11 am showing of "The Creature from the Black Lagoon" just the other day (I was so excited, I slept 'til 2 pm).
No. There was nothing "fun" about poor ol' Rubie -- a man who believed his fortune lie in peddling inflatable, rubber fart-simulators to the kids in my Queens, NY neighborhood. I tell you this not to dishonor the man or his "Fun House" -- but rather because they play an integral role in my story.
Each year on my birthday, my mother would force my sister to accompany me to Rubie's where I'd purchase a brand-new Creature from the Black Lagoon Mani-Yak. "Mani-Yaks" were iron-on T-shirt transfers sold during the '60s featuring images of the old Universal monsters: Frankenstein, Dracula, Mummy . . . Each kid in my old 88th Street crew proudly sported their very own adopted, iron-on monster -- one that somehow spoke to them. Donald Isaksen was "The Mummy." Frankie Cesare "Dracula." Freddy Klatz "Frankenstein." Little Pat Mugnano "The Wolfman." (We once sent him crying home to his mom, after suggesting his Mani-Yak more closely resembled Bob Weir.) And I . . . I was "The Creature from the Black Lagoon."
Though I couldn't swim and refused to eat fish, there was something about the "Gillman" that resonated with me. Perhaps it was because he was the last of his kind. A freak. An anomaly. Or maybe it was because he abducted screaming, bikini-clad vixens -- terrorizing them in his secret lagoon-lair. (Indeed . . . we were both hopeless romantics.)
I have a confession to make. For all my youthful adoration of Monsterdom's legendary Man-Fish, I never actually saw any of the three Creature flicks. When I was 8-years-old, after months of scouring the TV Guide movie listings, I spotted a Saturday, 2:30 am showing of "The Creature Walks Among Us" on the Late, Late Show. Though I'd never been up past midnight, I was determined to see my scaly idol in his 3rd and final feature. Camping out on the living room sofa, I dozed off midway through Johnny Carson -- opening my eyes just in time to see a bullet-riddled Gillman stumble off toward the ocean to die (as the closing credits rolled). I'd slept through the entire movie!
Wasn't until many years later, with the advent of the VCR, that I was finally able to view the Gillman in all his glory. That's why I'm tickled-to-death Las Vegas has recently added three new TV channels: "Me (Memorable Entertainment) TV," "This" and "Antenna TV" -- almost exclusively offering old sci-fi and monster flicks, along with classic TV dramas and sitcoms -- vintage manna for my overly-nostalgic, Baby Boomer soul. I was beside myself to find an 11 am showing of "The Creature from the Black Lagoon" just the other day (I was so excited, I slept 'til 2 pm).
May 30, 2012
BILL O'REILLY: TIME TO COME OUT OF THE CLOSET!
"GLEE" IS TURNING OUR CHILDREN GAY! Well . . . bi-curious anyway. At least according to Bill O'Reilly and one of those made-to-order, ultra-conservative, peroxide blonde Laura Ingraham clones he refers to as "Culture Warriors." Yep. The gay and cross-gender teens on the popular TV show are tryin' to put one past our Christian youth, and Uncle O'Reilly and his Culture Warriors are guarding the net.
As Bill astutely pointed out on an installment of the "Factor," homosexuality -- much like cigarette smoking -- is learned behaviour. Monkey see, monkey do. (I'm serious -- O'Reilly actually argued that smoking and one's sexual orientation are in some way analogous.)
"Mr. O" knows from whence he speaks. As he tells it, while still an impressionable youth, O'Reilly was seduced into sneaking a smoke after watching James Dean burn one on-screen. Oh Bill! . . . We can only be grateful you weren't watching Ned Beatty in "Deliverance." Planet Fox would be a MUCH different place -- something between "Queer Eye for the Straight Guy," and happy hour at a Bay Area drag club . . . C'MON, WHO ARE WE KIDDING??? The jig is up Bill! Anyone who believes kids can be recruited for the pink team by watching a TV show is merely projecting their own sexual insecurity. Isn't it obvious man? It's time you came out of the closet -- joined hands with Sean Hannity and opened an antique shop on Fire Island . . .
Sound ridiculous? Of course. As ridiculous as suggesting homosexuality is nothing more than a bad habit one acquires by watching lesbian cheerleaders on TV, or listening to show tunes. Consider this: perhaps rather than "glamorizing" an alternative life-style, shows like "Glee" might actually promote empathy and understanding. Underscore the fact that gay and cross-gender teens are people too; not freaks deserving of our ridicule and contempt. How I wish "Queer Eye" were still on the air. If anyone desperately needs a makeover, it's you Mr. O'Reilly.
As Bill astutely pointed out on an installment of the "Factor," homosexuality -- much like cigarette smoking -- is learned behaviour. Monkey see, monkey do. (I'm serious -- O'Reilly actually argued that smoking and one's sexual orientation are in some way analogous.)
"Mr. O" knows from whence he speaks. As he tells it, while still an impressionable youth, O'Reilly was seduced into sneaking a smoke after watching James Dean burn one on-screen. Oh Bill! . . . We can only be grateful you weren't watching Ned Beatty in "Deliverance." Planet Fox would be a MUCH different place -- something between "Queer Eye for the Straight Guy," and happy hour at a Bay Area drag club . . . C'MON, WHO ARE WE KIDDING??? The jig is up Bill! Anyone who believes kids can be recruited for the pink team by watching a TV show is merely projecting their own sexual insecurity. Isn't it obvious man? It's time you came out of the closet -- joined hands with Sean Hannity and opened an antique shop on Fire Island . . .
Sound ridiculous? Of course. As ridiculous as suggesting homosexuality is nothing more than a bad habit one acquires by watching lesbian cheerleaders on TV, or listening to show tunes. Consider this: perhaps rather than "glamorizing" an alternative life-style, shows like "Glee" might actually promote empathy and understanding. Underscore the fact that gay and cross-gender teens are people too; not freaks deserving of our ridicule and contempt. How I wish "Queer Eye" were still on the air. If anyone desperately needs a makeover, it's you Mr. O'Reilly.
May 16, 2012
BOOK RELEASE & SIGNING
Pleased to announce I've been chosen as one of 8 writers to be published in the upcoming Vegas anthology "WISH YOU WERE HERE."
Book drops Oct. 25th with a special panel discussion and signing here in Vegas. Honored to be among the chosen few. My thanks to editor Scott Dickensheets and Stephens Press President Carolyn Hayes Uber for including me in the lineup. (Stay tuned for further details.)
Book drops Oct. 25th with a special panel discussion and signing here in Vegas. Honored to be among the chosen few. My thanks to editor Scott Dickensheets and Stephens Press President Carolyn Hayes Uber for including me in the lineup. (Stay tuned for further details.)
April 20, 2012
ANN COULTER NEEDS TO GET LAID
Beginning to think there's something to the Seinfeld theory that certain women are afflicted with a peculiar paralysis of the brain when abstaining from sex. Remember the episode where Elaine Benes is suddenly transformed into a drooling idiot because she ain't gettin' her freak on? Judging from the sudden nosedive her I.Q.'s taken, seems poor Ann Coulter is suffering from a seriously protracted case of coitus interruptus. Why else would she tell Bill O'Reilly the Trayvon Martin tragedy could've been avoided if MORE people had access to guns -- and urged "blacks" in particular to arm themselves immediately (sooner, if possible)?
That's right. Ann thinks if we all went strapped like the Clantons & the Earps, the world would be a much safer place -- certainly there'd be fewer gun-realted deaths. Forget the fact that we live in a country where more people own more guns than anywhere else on the planet, and the number of gun-related homicides continue to escalate year after year; or that the U.S. gun homicide rate is 20 times higher than that of 22 of our western neighbors combined. Ann's right. Much like the Obama stimulus, it's not a matter of too much, but too little. We simply haven't thrown enough guns at the problem! Ever notice how cooperative and polite people are when they're staring down the barrel of a shotgun? Let's face it. Guns bring out the best in people. (Isn't that right Mr. Zimmerman?)
That's right. Ann thinks if we all went strapped like the Clantons & the Earps, the world would be a much safer place -- certainly there'd be fewer gun-realted deaths. Forget the fact that we live in a country where more people own more guns than anywhere else on the planet, and the number of gun-related homicides continue to escalate year after year; or that the U.S. gun homicide rate is 20 times higher than that of 22 of our western neighbors combined. Ann's right. Much like the Obama stimulus, it's not a matter of too much, but too little. We simply haven't thrown enough guns at the problem! Ever notice how cooperative and polite people are when they're staring down the barrel of a shotgun? Let's face it. Guns bring out the best in people. (Isn't that right Mr. Zimmerman?)
