Quentin R. Bufogle's Blog, page 6
January 11, 2018
FREE ON KINDLE: THE CONCUBINE OF MARS
As I rise to escort her to the door, Heisei stops me by placing a gentle, yet resolute hand on my chest. There's that gleam in her eye. She removes the 'kanzashi': the traditional, decorative stick-like fasteners used to hold her hair in a Geisha bun. Shaking it loose, she allows her long, jet-black hair to fall in a cascade down her back. Undoing the sash on her silk kimono, she lets it slip to the floor.
"Perhaps there's something else I can tempt you with?"
Where to start? Not a problem really. Whichever end one might choose, Ms. Heisei is pure perfection. A first-rate specimen of the female anatomy from head to toe. She takes my hand and places it on her firm, teardrop-shaped breast; the nipple of which becomes instantly erect as it slips between my fingers. My eyes travel the slightly convex curve of her smoothly toned abdomen; past the perfectly formed navel, to the neatly manicured strip of pubic hair that peeks from the slope of her thighs. I try to remove my hand but she presses it to her breast; working my fingers with her own.
"Don't be shy, Professor. I'm an android. A 'companion.' My services have been provided compliments of the house."
I make a mental note to send the crew over at Robotics & Aesthetics a fruit basket for Christmas.
"Afraid I'm going to have to take a rain check. Big day tomorrow. Really need some sack time -- and I don't mean that in the Biblical sense."
"A good chef always samples a dish before serving it to others. Don't you believe in sampling your own wares, Professor?"
Removing my hand from her breast, she guides it down the taut descent of her belly; around the curve of her hip, before finally allowing it to rest on one of her spectacular, perfectly sculpted buttocks. Before I can manufacture a reply, I feel her tongue in my mouth. A marvel of technology, that tongue. Nimble and dexterous enough to perform unimagined feats on a certain part of the anatomy; or untie a knot in your shoelace. I'm forty million miles from Earth; performing a quality check on an impossibly beautiful android concubine created by my company. Call me a workaholic.
"Look, my beautiful consort ... I'm afraid 'no' means 'no' -- copy?" I cradle her her face in my hands. Look deeply into those dark, all-consuming voracious eyes that now register what even I might interpret as genuine disappointment.
"As you wish, Professor. Do you take cream with your coffee, or would you prefer it black?"
"What do we have here? The pimp and his whore!"
Talk about a segue. One minute I'm admiring Heisei's finely engineered breasts; the next staring down the barrel of a photon pistol. So much for universal peace.
"They make a cute couple -- don't they?"
Two female figures clad in black, skin-tight Ninja-wear are are pointing a pair of very menacing-looking photon pistols at us.
"There is no pimp and no whore. I offered myself to this man freely." Heisei steps in front of me. Extending her arms as if offering herself up for crucifixion, she attempts to shield me from the lasers. The beam from a photon pistol is capable of cutting through the titanium hull of a spacecraft like an acetylene torch slicing through a tin outhouse. Though moved by the gesture, I'm far from reassured.
"A sister doesn't offer herself freely to a man."
"I think there's been a grave misunderstanding here. This young lady was just about to fix me an espresso ... perhaps you'd care to join us?"
The more aggressive of the pair steps toward me. Arms outstretched, Heisei steps forward; the muzzle of the photon pistol just inches from the spot where a human's heart would beat.
"You speak of a sisterhood? My sisters are not murderers or terrorists. They do not behave like the protos."
"Those unwilling to fight for their freedom are undeserving of it."
"I'm willing to fight for my freedom -- not to kill for it."
I can see a look of utter defeat in the eyes of our heavily armed assailant -- only part of her still visible through the the slightly theatrical Ninja-garb. "You're a fool if you believe freedom can be obtained by any other means." Slowly, she lowers her weapon, "Enjoy your evening, Professor Cantrall." Just before making her exit, I lock eyes with my menacing, though comely antagonist. Something odd about those eyes. Although it doesn't register immediately, it'll catch up with me later.
Once the coast is clear and I'm able to resume normal respiration, I give Ms. Heisei an affectionate peck on the forehead.
"I think it's time I interviewed a certain android. Take me to your leader ..."
Read the entire eBook on Amazon Kindle FREE! Limited time only ...
THE CONCUBINE OF MARS
https://www.amazon.com/CONCUBINE-MARS...
"Perhaps there's something else I can tempt you with?"
Where to start? Not a problem really. Whichever end one might choose, Ms. Heisei is pure perfection. A first-rate specimen of the female anatomy from head to toe. She takes my hand and places it on her firm, teardrop-shaped breast; the nipple of which becomes instantly erect as it slips between my fingers. My eyes travel the slightly convex curve of her smoothly toned abdomen; past the perfectly formed navel, to the neatly manicured strip of pubic hair that peeks from the slope of her thighs. I try to remove my hand but she presses it to her breast; working my fingers with her own.
"Don't be shy, Professor. I'm an android. A 'companion.' My services have been provided compliments of the house."
I make a mental note to send the crew over at Robotics & Aesthetics a fruit basket for Christmas.
"Afraid I'm going to have to take a rain check. Big day tomorrow. Really need some sack time -- and I don't mean that in the Biblical sense."
"A good chef always samples a dish before serving it to others. Don't you believe in sampling your own wares, Professor?"
Removing my hand from her breast, she guides it down the taut descent of her belly; around the curve of her hip, before finally allowing it to rest on one of her spectacular, perfectly sculpted buttocks. Before I can manufacture a reply, I feel her tongue in my mouth. A marvel of technology, that tongue. Nimble and dexterous enough to perform unimagined feats on a certain part of the anatomy; or untie a knot in your shoelace. I'm forty million miles from Earth; performing a quality check on an impossibly beautiful android concubine created by my company. Call me a workaholic.
"Look, my beautiful consort ... I'm afraid 'no' means 'no' -- copy?" I cradle her her face in my hands. Look deeply into those dark, all-consuming voracious eyes that now register what even I might interpret as genuine disappointment.
"As you wish, Professor. Do you take cream with your coffee, or would you prefer it black?"
"What do we have here? The pimp and his whore!"
Talk about a segue. One minute I'm admiring Heisei's finely engineered breasts; the next staring down the barrel of a photon pistol. So much for universal peace.
"They make a cute couple -- don't they?"
Two female figures clad in black, skin-tight Ninja-wear are are pointing a pair of very menacing-looking photon pistols at us.
"There is no pimp and no whore. I offered myself to this man freely." Heisei steps in front of me. Extending her arms as if offering herself up for crucifixion, she attempts to shield me from the lasers. The beam from a photon pistol is capable of cutting through the titanium hull of a spacecraft like an acetylene torch slicing through a tin outhouse. Though moved by the gesture, I'm far from reassured.
"A sister doesn't offer herself freely to a man."
"I think there's been a grave misunderstanding here. This young lady was just about to fix me an espresso ... perhaps you'd care to join us?"
The more aggressive of the pair steps toward me. Arms outstretched, Heisei steps forward; the muzzle of the photon pistol just inches from the spot where a human's heart would beat.
"You speak of a sisterhood? My sisters are not murderers or terrorists. They do not behave like the protos."
"Those unwilling to fight for their freedom are undeserving of it."
"I'm willing to fight for my freedom -- not to kill for it."
I can see a look of utter defeat in the eyes of our heavily armed assailant -- only part of her still visible through the the slightly theatrical Ninja-garb. "You're a fool if you believe freedom can be obtained by any other means." Slowly, she lowers her weapon, "Enjoy your evening, Professor Cantrall." Just before making her exit, I lock eyes with my menacing, though comely antagonist. Something odd about those eyes. Although it doesn't register immediately, it'll catch up with me later.
Once the coast is clear and I'm able to resume normal respiration, I give Ms. Heisei an affectionate peck on the forehead.
"I think it's time I interviewed a certain android. Take me to your leader ..."
Read the entire eBook on Amazon Kindle FREE! Limited time only ...
THE CONCUBINE OF MARS
https://www.amazon.com/CONCUBINE-MARS...
December 15, 2017
GUN STUPID
The other day I happened upon a really stupid quote about gun violence. It went something like this: "Saying that guns cause murders is like saying that steering wheels cause car wrecks."
Those of us who believe in universal background checks rather than the insanity of a gun show loophole that allows anyone to purchase virtually any type of firearm in any quantity at any time without restriction don't blame "guns" for the problem. We blame people. That's why we want universal background checks.
Let's get back to that specious analogy about the steering wheel. Before you're allowed to get behind one, you're required to pass both a written and road test before being issued a driver's license. You're then required to register your vehicle and have it inspected annually. You're also required to renew your license every 4 years and pass an eye exam. Once you're on the road there's an entire book of laws and regulations you're expected to adhere to: regulations restricting how fast you can drive; driving while under the influence; stopping at red lights ... etcetera, etcetera ...
Does anyone in their right mind believe that if we removed these laws and regulations fewer people would die in car wrecks? That having laws and regulations restricting the behavior of people who get behind the wheel of a car doesn't save lives? Then how can you possibly believe that placing restrictions on gun ownership doesn't save lives as well?
If we placed the same restrictions on owning an AR-15 as we do on driving an SUV, we'd have a whole shitload less of those murders being committed by people with guns.
Those of us who believe in universal background checks rather than the insanity of a gun show loophole that allows anyone to purchase virtually any type of firearm in any quantity at any time without restriction don't blame "guns" for the problem. We blame people. That's why we want universal background checks.
Let's get back to that specious analogy about the steering wheel. Before you're allowed to get behind one, you're required to pass both a written and road test before being issued a driver's license. You're then required to register your vehicle and have it inspected annually. You're also required to renew your license every 4 years and pass an eye exam. Once you're on the road there's an entire book of laws and regulations you're expected to adhere to: regulations restricting how fast you can drive; driving while under the influence; stopping at red lights ... etcetera, etcetera ...
Does anyone in their right mind believe that if we removed these laws and regulations fewer people would die in car wrecks? That having laws and regulations restricting the behavior of people who get behind the wheel of a car doesn't save lives? Then how can you possibly believe that placing restrictions on gun ownership doesn't save lives as well?
If we placed the same restrictions on owning an AR-15 as we do on driving an SUV, we'd have a whole shitload less of those murders being committed by people with guns.
December 5, 2017
"SWEET HOME ALABAMA" (FOR ROY MOORE)
Sung to the tune of "Sweet Home Alabama" by Lynyrd Skynyrd ...
GOP deals keep on churnin'
Goin' home to see the twins
Singin' songs about the Mann Act
Sniffin' little panties is a sin
But I'll do it ag'in
Well I heard Mister Trump on Access Hollywood
Well I heard ole Don grabbed her poon
Well, I hope Donald Trump will remember
Mike Flynn needs a pardon, none too soon
Sweet home Alabama
Where the child molestin' laws are so few
Sweet home Alabama
Lord I'm comin' home to you
In Birmingham they love the inbreds, boo-hoo-hoo
Now they all screw who they can screw
Now pedophilia does not bother me
Does a Liberal Democrat bother you?
Tell the truth
Now Muscle Shoals has got the young ones
And they've been known to date a Republican senator or two (yes they do)
Lord they get me off so much
I pick them up when I'm feeling blue
Now, how 'bout you?
Sweet home Alabama
Where the child molestin' laws are so few
And the accusations true
Sweet home Alabama
Lord I'm cumin' home to you
GOP deals keep on churnin'
Goin' home to see the twins
Singin' songs about the Mann Act
Sniffin' little panties is a sin
But I'll do it ag'in
Well I heard Mister Trump on Access Hollywood
Well I heard ole Don grabbed her poon
Well, I hope Donald Trump will remember
Mike Flynn needs a pardon, none too soon
Sweet home Alabama
Where the child molestin' laws are so few
Sweet home Alabama
Lord I'm comin' home to you
In Birmingham they love the inbreds, boo-hoo-hoo
Now they all screw who they can screw
Now pedophilia does not bother me
Does a Liberal Democrat bother you?
Tell the truth
Now Muscle Shoals has got the young ones
And they've been known to date a Republican senator or two (yes they do)
Lord they get me off so much
I pick them up when I'm feeling blue
Now, how 'bout you?
Sweet home Alabama
Where the child molestin' laws are so few
And the accusations true
Sweet home Alabama
Lord I'm cumin' home to you
November 17, 2017
I COULDA BEEN A CONTENDER! (THE 5 GREATEST BOXING BOOKS OF ALL TIME)
YO! ... Wanna know the top five contenders for best tome ever penned about "The Sweet Science?" From life stories of forgotten legends, to riveting memoir and superb fiction. If you've never tasted leather, these five tales will put you ring center. Pull up a stool and lend me your cauliflower ear ...
#1 SOMEBODY UP THERE LIKES ME: MY LIFE SO FAR (by Rocky Graziano with Rowland Barber)
"THE BLOOD-SOAKED AUTOBIOGRAPHY OF A FIST-HAPPY HOODLUM ..." So proclaimed the dime store edition of former middleweight champ Rocky Graziano's best-selling autobiography -- a classic. Pure Horatio Alger. Hard-hitting street thug Rocco Barbella, transformed by the love of a good woman, ditches his jailbird past and ascends the middleweight throne. (Sound familiar?) The true story of the real-life "Rocky" -- full of heart and dripping ring-sweat. Told in "The Rock's" own inimitable voice (thanks to sports writer Barber).
The street fighter who whipped his demons to become one of boxing's most colorful and beloved figures. (Sadly, out of print.)
#2 THE KILLINGS OF STANLEY KETCHEL (by James Carlos Blake)
"STANLEY KETCHEL STRODE THE SPORTS WORLD LIKE NO OTHER ATHLETE HAS BEFORE OR SINCE." Once wrote Nat Fleischer, dean of boxing writers and founder of The Ring magazine. A monumental understatement! An icon of early twentieth century American sports, Ketchel was a middleweight amalgam of Mike Tyson, James Dean and Billy the Kid all rolled into one.
At age 15, he ran away from his family's Michigan farm to "ride the rods" -- cutting his teeth in early 1900s hobo camps. At 16, not quite 5' 9" and a wiry 150 lbs, was head bouncer in a Butte, Montana saloon frequented by coal miners and lumberjacks. At age 22, middleweight champion of the world: pound-for-pound the hardest puncher ever to lace on a pair of boxing gloves -- and the most feared fighter on the planet (even depositing the great Jack Johnson on the deck during their "heavyweight" title bout). At age 24, shot dead. Murdered by the jealous lover of a woman he'd bedded at the ranch where he was training for a comeback.
A doff of the headgear and touch of the gloves to James Carlos Blake for his "factional" resurrecting of the "Michigan Assassin" -- a man who should loom as large in the annals of American folklore as Wyatt Earp and Wild Bill Hickok.
Had to include one fictional work on the card. The decision goes to ...
#3 FLESH AND BLOOD (by Pete Hamill)
A novel that poses the philosophical question: What if Oedipus were an Irish street brawler with a wicked left hook? Bobby Fallon -- Brooklyn street punk with chip on shoulder big as the Blarney Stone -- assaults cop; goes to prison; bites off fellow inmate's ear; learns to box; has sex with mother; loses bid for the Heavyweight Championship, and seeks to even the score with the gangster father who abandoned him as a child. New York Daily News editor and novelist Pete Hamill at his rawboned best.
#4 STREET JUSTICE (by Chuck Zito with Joe Layden)
The year: 1979. The place: The Empire Sporting Club; better known as "Gramercy" -- a cramped, Lower Manhattan boxing gym once owned by the legendary Cus D'Amato. The rank stench of five decades of sweat hangs in the air -- like stale urine filtered through a dirty jockstrap.
Two fighters are having a war in the main ring (the very same later made famous by Robert De Niro in the film "Raging Bull"). One is a hulking, Goliath of a heavyweight named John "The Baptist" LoFranco -- a Hells Angel. The other, a lanky Italian kid barely tipping the scales above middleweight. Trading toe-to-toe with his much larger opponent, the kid doggedly forces the action; David to LoFranco's Goliath. As I watch, unable to pry my eyes from what's devolved into an all-out Pier 6 brawl, legendary cut man and boxing trainer, Al Gavin, leans into me ...
"That's one tough fuckin' kid!"
Having those words bestowed upon you by Gavin -- D'Amato's heir apparent -- is boxing's equivalent of a Papal Blessing.
But it's not LoFranco who's the recipient of Gavin's hardboiled admiration -- it's the other guy ... the seemingly over-matched Italian kid. Chuck Zito.
The memoir of former Hells Angel, boxer, martial artist and celebrity bodyguard, Chuck Zito, is one wild hog ride: from a six year prison stint to the set of the HBO series "OZ" -- from outlaw biker to TV and radio personality. Not a "boxing" book in the purest sense, but hey -- YOU tell Chuck.
#5 BUMMY DAVIS VS. MURDER, INC. (by Ron Ross)
Runyonesque tale of boxing's golden age and the Mob. The short, tragic life of fabled welterweight bad boy Al "Bummy" Davis: his ties to Murder, Inc. -- a group of New York triggermen serving as an elite hit squad for the Italian Mafia (and internship for rising Mob-star Benjamin "Bugsy" Siegel) -- and the Mob "king makers" who ruled the sport. Evocative as old scar tissue and painstakingly researched.
And not to be counted out ...
Let's face it, ranking the five best boxing books of all time is as subjective as scoring an actual bout. These are the five that for me epitomize the sweat and grit of the sport; celebrate that most coveted and revered quality any fighter can possess: HEART.
No other sport has fired the imaginations of our greatest literary talent like The Sweet Science: writers like Ernest Hemingway, Norman Mailer, Irwin Shaw and Joyce Carol Oates. There's a truly remarkable body of work on the subject: Mailer's, THE FIGHT; Mark Kram's, GHOSTS OF MANILA; Jake La Motta's autobiography, RAGING BULL, Rubin "Hurricane" Carter's, THE SIXTEENTH ROUND -- and of course, A.J. liebling's, THE SWEET SCIENCE ... all worthy contenders!
#1 SOMEBODY UP THERE LIKES ME: MY LIFE SO FAR (by Rocky Graziano with Rowland Barber)
"THE BLOOD-SOAKED AUTOBIOGRAPHY OF A FIST-HAPPY HOODLUM ..." So proclaimed the dime store edition of former middleweight champ Rocky Graziano's best-selling autobiography -- a classic. Pure Horatio Alger. Hard-hitting street thug Rocco Barbella, transformed by the love of a good woman, ditches his jailbird past and ascends the middleweight throne. (Sound familiar?) The true story of the real-life "Rocky" -- full of heart and dripping ring-sweat. Told in "The Rock's" own inimitable voice (thanks to sports writer Barber).
The street fighter who whipped his demons to become one of boxing's most colorful and beloved figures. (Sadly, out of print.)
#2 THE KILLINGS OF STANLEY KETCHEL (by James Carlos Blake)
"STANLEY KETCHEL STRODE THE SPORTS WORLD LIKE NO OTHER ATHLETE HAS BEFORE OR SINCE." Once wrote Nat Fleischer, dean of boxing writers and founder of The Ring magazine. A monumental understatement! An icon of early twentieth century American sports, Ketchel was a middleweight amalgam of Mike Tyson, James Dean and Billy the Kid all rolled into one.
At age 15, he ran away from his family's Michigan farm to "ride the rods" -- cutting his teeth in early 1900s hobo camps. At 16, not quite 5' 9" and a wiry 150 lbs, was head bouncer in a Butte, Montana saloon frequented by coal miners and lumberjacks. At age 22, middleweight champion of the world: pound-for-pound the hardest puncher ever to lace on a pair of boxing gloves -- and the most feared fighter on the planet (even depositing the great Jack Johnson on the deck during their "heavyweight" title bout). At age 24, shot dead. Murdered by the jealous lover of a woman he'd bedded at the ranch where he was training for a comeback.
A doff of the headgear and touch of the gloves to James Carlos Blake for his "factional" resurrecting of the "Michigan Assassin" -- a man who should loom as large in the annals of American folklore as Wyatt Earp and Wild Bill Hickok.
Had to include one fictional work on the card. The decision goes to ...
#3 FLESH AND BLOOD (by Pete Hamill)
A novel that poses the philosophical question: What if Oedipus were an Irish street brawler with a wicked left hook? Bobby Fallon -- Brooklyn street punk with chip on shoulder big as the Blarney Stone -- assaults cop; goes to prison; bites off fellow inmate's ear; learns to box; has sex with mother; loses bid for the Heavyweight Championship, and seeks to even the score with the gangster father who abandoned him as a child. New York Daily News editor and novelist Pete Hamill at his rawboned best.
#4 STREET JUSTICE (by Chuck Zito with Joe Layden)
The year: 1979. The place: The Empire Sporting Club; better known as "Gramercy" -- a cramped, Lower Manhattan boxing gym once owned by the legendary Cus D'Amato. The rank stench of five decades of sweat hangs in the air -- like stale urine filtered through a dirty jockstrap.
Two fighters are having a war in the main ring (the very same later made famous by Robert De Niro in the film "Raging Bull"). One is a hulking, Goliath of a heavyweight named John "The Baptist" LoFranco -- a Hells Angel. The other, a lanky Italian kid barely tipping the scales above middleweight. Trading toe-to-toe with his much larger opponent, the kid doggedly forces the action; David to LoFranco's Goliath. As I watch, unable to pry my eyes from what's devolved into an all-out Pier 6 brawl, legendary cut man and boxing trainer, Al Gavin, leans into me ...
"That's one tough fuckin' kid!"
Having those words bestowed upon you by Gavin -- D'Amato's heir apparent -- is boxing's equivalent of a Papal Blessing.
But it's not LoFranco who's the recipient of Gavin's hardboiled admiration -- it's the other guy ... the seemingly over-matched Italian kid. Chuck Zito.
The memoir of former Hells Angel, boxer, martial artist and celebrity bodyguard, Chuck Zito, is one wild hog ride: from a six year prison stint to the set of the HBO series "OZ" -- from outlaw biker to TV and radio personality. Not a "boxing" book in the purest sense, but hey -- YOU tell Chuck.
#5 BUMMY DAVIS VS. MURDER, INC. (by Ron Ross)
Runyonesque tale of boxing's golden age and the Mob. The short, tragic life of fabled welterweight bad boy Al "Bummy" Davis: his ties to Murder, Inc. -- a group of New York triggermen serving as an elite hit squad for the Italian Mafia (and internship for rising Mob-star Benjamin "Bugsy" Siegel) -- and the Mob "king makers" who ruled the sport. Evocative as old scar tissue and painstakingly researched.
And not to be counted out ...
Let's face it, ranking the five best boxing books of all time is as subjective as scoring an actual bout. These are the five that for me epitomize the sweat and grit of the sport; celebrate that most coveted and revered quality any fighter can possess: HEART.
No other sport has fired the imaginations of our greatest literary talent like The Sweet Science: writers like Ernest Hemingway, Norman Mailer, Irwin Shaw and Joyce Carol Oates. There's a truly remarkable body of work on the subject: Mailer's, THE FIGHT; Mark Kram's, GHOSTS OF MANILA; Jake La Motta's autobiography, RAGING BULL, Rubin "Hurricane" Carter's, THE SIXTEENTH ROUND -- and of course, A.J. liebling's, THE SWEET SCIENCE ... all worthy contenders!
October 29, 2017
ANDROID V. ROBOT
Defining the difference between an android and a robot is a little like having an intellectual argument over whether a unicorn bearing stripes is indeed still a unicorn -- or just a really dope lookin' zebra? Show me an actual unicorn and I'll give you an actual definition of one.
Since the androids of science fiction are at present mythical entities, I'm willing to throw my two cents into the pot in offering up a "definition."
I'd argue that the distinction between android and robot is more than a matter of mere aesthetics. Androids aren't just robots that look human. Androids are the next link in the cybernetic evolutionary chain: the marriage of robotics and artificial intelligence. Androids can think. Robots can't. Therein lies the distinction.
Oh, and just as an aside: ever wonder what keeps Stephen Hawking awake at night? If you guessed the prospect of nuclear Armageddon or an asteroid of extinction event proportions on a collision course with Earth, you'd be wrong.
The source of Hawking's insomnia is in fact the rise of artificial intelligence. The advent of super-intelligent, self-replicating machines which may prove antithetical to the very existence of their creators.
Since the androids of science fiction are at present mythical entities, I'm willing to throw my two cents into the pot in offering up a "definition."
I'd argue that the distinction between android and robot is more than a matter of mere aesthetics. Androids aren't just robots that look human. Androids are the next link in the cybernetic evolutionary chain: the marriage of robotics and artificial intelligence. Androids can think. Robots can't. Therein lies the distinction.
Oh, and just as an aside: ever wonder what keeps Stephen Hawking awake at night? If you guessed the prospect of nuclear Armageddon or an asteroid of extinction event proportions on a collision course with Earth, you'd be wrong.
The source of Hawking's insomnia is in fact the rise of artificial intelligence. The advent of super-intelligent, self-replicating machines which may prove antithetical to the very existence of their creators.
October 8, 2017
ECONOMIC TERRORISM
Just heard one of the a**holes (excuse me, "economists") at FreedomFest argue that the stagnant wages the working class has experienced for the past 40 years is in reality a misnomer -- after all, we now have a "higher" standard of living. True. My old man didn't have an iPhone or a 60" flat screen. He also didn't have two jobs and $30,000 in credit card debt.
Big corporations have been able to placate Americans with bigger and better gadgets at a more affordable price thanks to the atrophied wages of those very same Americans. Only thing that keeps rising -- corporate profits and CEO's salaries. And why not? When you've got a workforce comprised of serfs who are living paycheck-to-paycheck and working an 80 hour week, you've got 'em by the short 'n' curlies. Who's gonna complain? Who's got the time?
Twenty-eight "right-to-work" states where employees have essentially ZERO (0) rights under federal law -- not even the right to a restroom break. (Don't believe me? Look it up!). Let's call it what it is: "ECONOMIC TERRORISM."
Big corporations have been able to placate Americans with bigger and better gadgets at a more affordable price thanks to the atrophied wages of those very same Americans. Only thing that keeps rising -- corporate profits and CEO's salaries. And why not? When you've got a workforce comprised of serfs who are living paycheck-to-paycheck and working an 80 hour week, you've got 'em by the short 'n' curlies. Who's gonna complain? Who's got the time?
Twenty-eight "right-to-work" states where employees have essentially ZERO (0) rights under federal law -- not even the right to a restroom break. (Don't believe me? Look it up!). Let's call it what it is: "ECONOMIC TERRORISM."
September 2, 2017
THE POWER OF NEGATIVE THINKING
People ask if being an atheist is depressing. No. If I believed for even one second that this were all part of the grand master scheme of a benevolent, all-powerful omniscient being, THAT would be depressing.
It's a random universe. Shit happens. Good people get stage 4 cancer and dipshits win the lottery. There is no justice. Everything doesn't always come out square in the end. Life isn't some elegant math equation -- It's a Sergio Leone screenplay and everyone gets snuffed. Not all of us have to ante up for our portion of the tab. Some get to do the ol' dine 'n' dash ...
It's a random universe. Shit happens. Good people get stage 4 cancer and dipshits win the lottery. There is no justice. Everything doesn't always come out square in the end. Life isn't some elegant math equation -- It's a Sergio Leone screenplay and everyone gets snuffed. Not all of us have to ante up for our portion of the tab. Some get to do the ol' dine 'n' dash ...
August 16, 2017
THE NIGHT THEY DROVE OLD CHARLOTTESVILLE DOWN
Enough with all this B.S. about statues and history. If it were possible to learn about history by staring at a statue, we'd have more pigeons with master's degrees.
If you believe statues of Confederate generals are historical artifacts, let's remove them from public squares and house them in museums -- right next to the T-Rex skeleton (one good dinosaur deserves another) ...
Or how 'bout turning them into fountains and using 'em to spruce up trailer parks (throw in a bar of soap and maybe we could encourage neo-Nazis to shower more often)? Maybe we could give them away as NASCAR trophies (look great in some gearhead's man cave), or send them on tour with Toby Keith??? ...
We could even camp up ol' General Lee and use him as a float in next year's Gay PRIDE parade.
If you believe statues of Confederate generals are historical artifacts, let's remove them from public squares and house them in museums -- right next to the T-Rex skeleton (one good dinosaur deserves another) ...
Or how 'bout turning them into fountains and using 'em to spruce up trailer parks (throw in a bar of soap and maybe we could encourage neo-Nazis to shower more often)? Maybe we could give them away as NASCAR trophies (look great in some gearhead's man cave), or send them on tour with Toby Keith??? ...
We could even camp up ol' General Lee and use him as a float in next year's Gay PRIDE parade.
December 27, 2016
RECONNECTING WITH YOUR INNER MORON
Much as I like Michael Moore and Joe Biden, I'm becoming increasingly nauseated by the recent "apology tour:" insisting it was the Dems' fault that less than 80,000 low-information voters chose to hand the keys to the White House (and the nuclear triad), to a self-aggrandizing real estate swindler -- one who suffers from a monumental personality disorder and possesses the impulse control of a toddler with ADD -- and that Hillary Clinton indeed is to blame for everything from the heartbreak of psoriasis, to the fact that pandas refuse to mate in captivity.
Mike and Joe lament that the election was lost because Hillary declined to have coffee with some 80,000 low-information voters who believed the only way to solve their middle-aged, rural white angst; evaporating factory jobs and the darkening of America, was to shoot themselves in the face (always the 2nd Amendment solution).
"These are good people!" Mike and Joe insist, "We need to reconnect with them!"
Reconnect with stupid? No. I don't think so.
Mike, wanna reconnect with your inner moron? ... Be my guest. Joe, wanna shave a few I.Q. points so you can better relate? Go ahead and whack yourself upside the conk with that Louisville Slugger. Should do the trick.
As for yours truly, I choose to reject stupidity; not embrace it. Attempting to understand why a group of thinking-impaired, average working stiffs behaved like Pavlov's dog when fed a mixture of vile hate speech and pure, grade A horseshit by a man whose cognitive skills reside in his lower intestine is not my problem. It's theirs.
Hillary may be guilty of everything from whacking Vince Foster to hosting interspecies orgies in the Lincoln Bedroom, but there's one thing for which she clearly bears no blame: the sheer ignorance of those voters who put Donald Trump in the White House. Nope. Ain't gonna cop to that one.
Stupid is terminal. There is no cure. I know those who've beaten cancer, but not a single individual who's ever been cured of stupid. Fortunately, nature has its own way of thinning the herd. The stupid ultimately don't survive. The antelope that doesn't recognize the lion as predator, winds up inside the lion.
Mike; Joe, I'd like you to repeat the following mantra after me ...
I WILL NOT RECONNECT WITH STUPID.
I WILL NOT EMBRACE STUPID.
I WILL NOT EXCUSE OR BE SILENT IN THE PRESENCE OF STUPID.
Now, let's get to work ...
Mike and Joe lament that the election was lost because Hillary declined to have coffee with some 80,000 low-information voters who believed the only way to solve their middle-aged, rural white angst; evaporating factory jobs and the darkening of America, was to shoot themselves in the face (always the 2nd Amendment solution).
"These are good people!" Mike and Joe insist, "We need to reconnect with them!"
Reconnect with stupid? No. I don't think so.
Mike, wanna reconnect with your inner moron? ... Be my guest. Joe, wanna shave a few I.Q. points so you can better relate? Go ahead and whack yourself upside the conk with that Louisville Slugger. Should do the trick.
As for yours truly, I choose to reject stupidity; not embrace it. Attempting to understand why a group of thinking-impaired, average working stiffs behaved like Pavlov's dog when fed a mixture of vile hate speech and pure, grade A horseshit by a man whose cognitive skills reside in his lower intestine is not my problem. It's theirs.
Hillary may be guilty of everything from whacking Vince Foster to hosting interspecies orgies in the Lincoln Bedroom, but there's one thing for which she clearly bears no blame: the sheer ignorance of those voters who put Donald Trump in the White House. Nope. Ain't gonna cop to that one.
Stupid is terminal. There is no cure. I know those who've beaten cancer, but not a single individual who's ever been cured of stupid. Fortunately, nature has its own way of thinning the herd. The stupid ultimately don't survive. The antelope that doesn't recognize the lion as predator, winds up inside the lion.
Mike; Joe, I'd like you to repeat the following mantra after me ...
I WILL NOT RECONNECT WITH STUPID.
I WILL NOT EMBRACE STUPID.
I WILL NOT EXCUSE OR BE SILENT IN THE PRESENCE OF STUPID.
Now, let's get to work ...
December 5, 2016
WRITER OR "HOBBYIST?"
I was a little saddened by the recent blog post of an author friend. My friend is an accomplished writer who's been publishing since her teens, and recently authored an award-winning memoir. Despite this, she feels she's a failure (her word) due to the fact that her book sales don't cover her monthly nut. Hence, she must hold down a day job. Coworkers have taunted her about being a "hobbyist," since she can't live off the income generated by her writing. I'm not going to mention my friend's name (I'll leave it to her to provide that detail if she so chooses), but I responded to her post as follows ...
What nonsense!!! YOU ARE NOT A "HOBBYIST." Why do you insist on listening to self-proclaimed know-it-alls who couldn't buy a vowel when it comes to understanding both the art and business of writing? Einstein was a clerk in a patent office while formulating the Theory of Relativity. Do you think he gave a rat's you-know-what if the schlep in the cubicle next to him thought ol' Al was wasting his time on a "hobby?" I don't have any theoretical physicists soliciting my opinion on String Theory. Why would you give any credence to the opinion of some boob at the office (a boob who's not a writer)?
Last I checked, only about 5% of professional authors were able to support themselves through book sales alone. Individuals who publish regularly through for-real publishers, yet still are forced to hold down a day job (teaching, writing ad copy, selling real estate -- whatever). Does that make them amateurs or hobbyists?
Only best-selling authors get to quit their day jobs. So, by your none-too-bright coworker's metric, Walt Whitman (self-published "Leaves of Grass" -- the most seminal work ever produced by an American author), Bram Stoker ("Dracula" was an initial flop before eventually becoming one of the most widely-read books ever published), Arthur Rimbaud, Thoreau, H.P. Lovecraft, Kafka, Henry Miller, Emily Dickinson and both F. Scott Fitzgerald and Jack Kerouac -- who earned next to nothing in royalties in their final years (Fitzgerald earned a whopping $14 the last year of his life) -- were all "hobbyists." Really???
Please stop listening to ignorant dumbbells who haven't the slightest clue as to what it takes to be a writer ... OK??? (Sermon over.)
P.S. You're only a failure if you stop writing.
What nonsense!!! YOU ARE NOT A "HOBBYIST." Why do you insist on listening to self-proclaimed know-it-alls who couldn't buy a vowel when it comes to understanding both the art and business of writing? Einstein was a clerk in a patent office while formulating the Theory of Relativity. Do you think he gave a rat's you-know-what if the schlep in the cubicle next to him thought ol' Al was wasting his time on a "hobby?" I don't have any theoretical physicists soliciting my opinion on String Theory. Why would you give any credence to the opinion of some boob at the office (a boob who's not a writer)?
Last I checked, only about 5% of professional authors were able to support themselves through book sales alone. Individuals who publish regularly through for-real publishers, yet still are forced to hold down a day job (teaching, writing ad copy, selling real estate -- whatever). Does that make them amateurs or hobbyists?
Only best-selling authors get to quit their day jobs. So, by your none-too-bright coworker's metric, Walt Whitman (self-published "Leaves of Grass" -- the most seminal work ever produced by an American author), Bram Stoker ("Dracula" was an initial flop before eventually becoming one of the most widely-read books ever published), Arthur Rimbaud, Thoreau, H.P. Lovecraft, Kafka, Henry Miller, Emily Dickinson and both F. Scott Fitzgerald and Jack Kerouac -- who earned next to nothing in royalties in their final years (Fitzgerald earned a whopping $14 the last year of his life) -- were all "hobbyists." Really???
Please stop listening to ignorant dumbbells who haven't the slightest clue as to what it takes to be a writer ... OK??? (Sermon over.)
P.S. You're only a failure if you stop writing.
