“Klotz” As In “Blood”

ATLANTA — In a unanimous opinion, a three-judge panel for the 11th U.S. Circuit Court of Appeals upheld an Alabama statute banning the commercial distribution of sex toys, saying that there is no fundamental right to privacy raised by the plaintiff’s case against the law.

According to the statute, it is “unlawful for any person to knowingly distribute any obscene material or any device designed or marketed as useful primarily for the stimulation of human genital organs.” — xbiz.com

Note the word “primarily.” Your local Publix will not be required to remove cucumbers, bananas, fresh fish, liver, or whipped cream from the shelves. As for tongue…….

This country absolutely refuses to grow up. What on earth is the rationale behind banning the sale of sex toys? Are our leaders worried that we’ll spend Sunday morning in bed fondling rather than worshiping, our cries of “Oh god!” unheard by the choir? Is there a health issue, perhaps? Multiple orgasms cause cancer in rats or something? What interest does the State have in this matter, what role to play?

But fear not, this is America. You can still buy a gun, a lottery ticket, and a lap dance, not to mention a judge.

New Mexico hopes to keep drunks off the road by lecturing them at the last place they usually stop before getting behind the wheel: the urinal. The state paid $21 each for about 500 talking urinal-deodorizer cakes and has put them in men’s rooms in bars and restaurants across the state.

When a man steps up, the motion-sensitive plastic device says, in a woman’s voice that is flirty, then stern: “Hey, big guy. Having a few drinks? Think you had one too many? Then it’s time to call a cab or call a sober friend for a ride home.”

The recorded message ends: “Remember, your future is in your hand.” — Associated Press

Oh, so that’s what’s in my hand.

This is a bad idea. I can see tipsy men spraying the walls, the floors, and each other to get the hell out of there when that toilet starts talking. Running like hell, not pausing to stuff their still-dripping equipment back inside.

And I bet some really crocked sports would look around, ready to offer the mysterious flirt a drink. And getting REALLY pissed off when he figures out who’s doing the talking.

Most men prefer to conduct their business quietly. You arrive at a certain age, at a certain time of night, you need to concentrate. You don’t want to splash the boots, soak a pant leg, or spray-paint the poor bastard standing next to you. There’s gonna be some shattered porcelain in the pissoirs of New Mexico.

The job of changing the batteries of these insidious devices has “illegal immigrant” written all over it. Nevertheless, some establishments have reported them stolen.

“I’m mystified why someone would stick their hand into one of our urinals,” one owner commented. “But I’m sure we’ll see them on eBay!”

Make that Pee Bay. And make them pistachio.

Once upon a time — that’s how I begin most of my funding proposals — when a kid turned 18 he got a note from the Draft Board that began “Greetings.” And off he went to become a Government Issue (GI) in the military service of his country….

…..Unless, of course, he was a pervert, criminal, imbecile, sociopath, cripple, or politically connected. There were other extenuating circumstances as well, but by and large, the armed forces never wanted for servicemen. In fact, they rejected 7 of 10 who appeared before them.

Then the nation did away with the draft and managed with the professional, all-volunteer army. Get a career. Learn a skill. Go to exotic places, meet new people, and kill them. (That was a popular billboard at the time.)

As you might imagine, in times like these, recruitment is slightly more difficult. But military leaders have a plan:

The Army and Marine Corps are letting in more recruits with criminal records, including some with felony convictions, reflecting the increased pressure of five years of war and its mounting casualties……

The military routinely grants waivers to admit recruits who have criminal records, medical problems or low aptitude scores that would otherwise disqualify them from service. Overall the majority are moral waivers, which include some felonies, misdemeanors, and traffic and drug offenses.

‘’The data is crystal clear. Our armed forces are under incredible strain and the only way that they can fill their recruiting quotas is by lowering their standards,'’ said Rep. Marty Meehan, D-Mass., who has been working to get additional data from the Pentagon. ‘’By lowering standards, we are endangering the rest of our armed forces and sending the wrong message to potential recruits across the country.'’ — NY Times

When I call for more information, I get Sgt. Duane Doberman, a recruiter.

“Well,” he says, “To quote former Defense Secretary Ronald Dumsfeld, we go to war with the army we have, not the one we want.”

I understand, Sgt., but the prospect of learning disabled psychopaths with weapons unnerves me a bit.

“Hell, why? We call that “officer material.”

What does this policy say to kids who sign up with an eye toward their future, to pick up a skill and gain an advantage they couldn’t get in civilian life?

“It says that their chances of advancing through the ranks just improved ’cause the competition got watered down. It also tells ‘em to watch their ass during training. Ha ha!”

Yeah, ha. So the military accepts a drooling felon with an attitude problem, but discharges skilled medical personnel, linguist/translators, and computer experts if they’re gay, right?

“Damn betcha we do. Here’s the directive: ‘Felons are fine, perverts okay. We’ll take what we get if they just ain’t gay‘.”

This is the best and the finest the country has to offer? This is to whom we entrust our freedom and security?

“Look, hippie, it ain’t an ideal world. We run this up the flagpole and see if anything sticks. You got a better way, call your congressman.” He hangs up.

Actually, I have a better idea about how to recruit and deploy, but my congressman doesn’t figure into it until the next election.

Thanks to the irrepressible Manola for alerting me to this one:

Sheboygan, WI Sheboygan police arrested a woman after she allegedly left her two children in a freezing car for 20 minutes while she went tanning.The children were dressed warmly, but they had “goose bumps” from the cold, the release said. They did not require medical attention. The temperature at the time was 12 degrees, with a wind chill index of about minus 2 degrees.”She said she was going on vacation and felt that the tanning was a priority,” Lt. Jeff Johnston said. — Townhall.com

I call Tanya Hyde, from the Haulover Beach chapter of Tanorexics Anonymous, and tell her the story.

“So, what’s the problem?” she asks. “She needed her tan. Clearly this is a young mother whose priorities are in order, and judgment intact.”

Tanya! It was 12 degrees! The kids could have frozen stiff!

“In 20 minutes? Wrapped up in a closed auto? They got a little chilly, which I have to think is part of life in a Wisconsin winter.”

A tan’s not more important than her kids’ safety, is it?

“Ooooh, tough call. But in this case, the answer is obvious. And of course, I see her point. In the middle of February, she most likely hadn’t seen the sun in months. Imagine an alcoholic going without a drink that long!”

I see. Mission of mercy. A reward for valor.

“Naturally. And a safe gamble, turns out. We got people in our chapter have tossed out marriages, jobs, families, their health, sacrificed their whole lives, everything they have for a tan. You’re one of us. You oughta understand.”

Um, Tanya, I like the sun and all, but…..

“But nothing. You’re not even kidding yourself. You’re not tan enough right now, are you? You never are, right? You wouldn’t go out right now if it weren’t dark and raining? What’re you doing tomorrow morning? You know where to find us…..”

When I catch myself actually walking toward the bathroom to check on my Coppertone Dry Oil (SPF 2), I gently hang up the phone. Tanya’s as good a salesman as she is a bad influence.

Hope the young lady in Sheboygan has a nice vacation.

There’s a fine bicker-fest going on at Critical Miami over trans-fats. Seems Miami has under consideration a bill similar to New York City’s that would ban the substance from restaurant food. This is insanity, of course — infuriating nanny government at its most invasive and patronizing — but it’s amusing to see the twisted logic and strained comparisons to other banned substances and activities in commentators’ defense of it.

Let’s see if we can put it into perspective:

KATMANDU, Nepal, Feb. 10 (Reuters) — Conservationists in Nepal have opened a special “restaurant” to offer safe food to vultures, whose existence is being threatened because they feed on carcasses of cattle treated with drugs.

Scientists say South Asia’s vultures are on the brink of extinction largely because farmers treat their cattle with diclofenac, a drug that relieves fever and lameness, poisoning the scavenging vultures one step up the food chain.

Studies have shown that the drug caused acute kidney failure in vultures after they ate the carcasses of animals that had recently been treated with it. – NY Times

Contemplate eating something so vile and toxic it kills vultures. Yum! Now picture flocks of vultures dying of kidney failure. Talk about your olfactory treats and tourist attractions.

If you want to ban something worthwhile and remove it from the food chain, maybe starting with diclofenac is a good idea. Whereas it’s a simple matter to avoid McDonalds and other purveyors of ghastly foodstuffs on which no sane person should dine too regularly, the real problem is the crap that grows the meat to begin with, not the shit it’s cooked in. But either way, it’s your choice, not your county commissioner’s.

[A] feeding center established by Bird Conservation Nepal…about 60 miles southwest of the capital, Katmandu, is trying to ensure that vultures get a chance to eat chemical-free cattle carcasses. “Our effort is to let at least some vultures eat safe food,” the group’s chief, Hem Sagar Baral, said Saturday.At the center, which Mr. Baral describes as a “restaurant,” sick and dying cows that have never been treated with diclofenac are brought in, and when they die they are left for the vultures.

I see a chain of fast food establishments in nanny-minded metropolitan centers following the lead here. Treat the kids with a happy meal at McVulture’s, where sick and dying horses never treated with testosterone or formaldehyde are ground into burgers, cooked in week-old cooking oil (enhanced with refined sugar for taste, texture, and color), and served with sides of healthy St Augustine grass.

What’s good for all of us is good for each one of us, right?

Spent some time in airports this weekend, where it becomes painfully obvious that human beings entertain a much inflated opinion of our actual development.

The overall majority of airport occupants are overweight, some to the point of deformity.  Watching people plod through terminals, some breathing heavily from exertion, others barely capable of placing one hoof before the other, not only is it perplexing that they allow this to happen to themselves, but that they seem to have adjusted.  They line up, eyes glazed, for overpriced non-food items that they mechanically convey through their open pie holes into the recesses of their cavernous digestive tracks: neither hunger satiated nor pleasure attained is evident in their expression.  This is not rational behavior.

And we are ugly.  At best we look odd, at worst like carricatures.  Every now and then the perfect combination of natural beauty, plastic surgery, and skilled cosmetics comes along to produce a Scarlett Johannsen or Brad Pitt, but by and large, the human species is a natural disaster.  In the cattle sties known as airport gates one sees in the cruel fluorscent glare each outsized pore, neck waddle, rheumy eye, and bad bad bad hair (wanted and unwanted).  The sad attempt at make-up, hair color, comb-over, and piercing-gone-wrong is exposed in technicolor, nowhere to hide, no place to run.  Every attempt to mitigate the catastrophe of our appearance through style or affect is beaten down laughingly by the overwhelming ease with which nature operates against us.

Perhaps that’s why we stop trying.  It’s a losing battle and a suckers’ game.  Why play?

Then there’s the clothing.  Who comes up with this stuff and why do we wear it?  Back in the early part of the 19th century, if I appeared in public with my shirt-tail out there were any number of authorities to order me to tuck it in, starting with my father, my teachers, and any adult on the block.  Today in the airport I wear an oversized shirt hanging out of my jeans, perfectly in keeping with the drooling masses in whose midst I stand, some of whom pay $100 for new jeans that look like those I trashed when not half as torn and holey.  And what’s that plastic stuff we wrap around our torsos where cotton and wool once ruled?  Sweetheart, what did you do to your toes to get them into those pointy shoes?  OMG — Is that a tattoo on your butt crack or were you in a hurry when you wiped? 

Tee shirt: “Evolution.  It’s Not For Everyone.” 

Remember the uproar over the Danish cartoonists who dared to publish depictions of Muhammad, an act considered heresy by many Muslims? Set off a storm — some nations boycotted Danish products, and 50 people were killed around the world — while teh internets hummed like a beehive before simmering down (somewhat).

PARIS, Feb. 7 — Hearings began Wednesday in a suit brought by two influential French Muslim organizations against a satirical weekly newspaper for printing cartoons depicting the Prophet Muhammad that had touched off international rioting.

The Paris Mosque and the Union of Islamic Organizations of France contend that the newspaper, Charlie Hebdo, and its director, Philippe Val, are guilty of slander……Two of the drawings are cited in the suit: one depicting the prophet greeting suicide bombers in heaven with the caption, “Stop, stop, we have run out of virgins,” and another depicting Muhammad wearing a turban containing a bomb. A third image included in the suit was an original drawing by the French cartoonist Cabu, depicting a crying Muhammad with his head in his hands, saying, “It’s hard to be loved by idiots.”

The case is causing debate in a country where separation of church and state is considered a fundamental tenet of the national identity. — NY Times

The issue is working its way into the French presidential campaign. The leading conservative candidate, Nicolas Sarkozy, is the first to weigh in, sending a letter in support of the newspaper declaring “he “preferred an excess of caricature to a lack of caricature.”

It’s fascinating that in matters of free expression — and understand, that’s what this is, not a question of religious freedom — it’s very often conservatives who stand tallest. Yet in this country, the most prominent advocate of free expression is the ACLU, roundly derided by American conservatives as a “liberal organization.”

In Miami, it was very conservative group, rallying at the Bay of Pigs Memorial in support of Luís Posada Carriles, who (allegedly) attacked a counter-protesting group consisting of members of the Bolivarian Youth, Green party, and Socialist Workers — 3 left-leaning organizations — setting off a local debate. Conservatives want to take books out of the library, ban tee shirts and flags, and otherwise stifle free expression of individuals and groups they find politically obnoxious. Meanwhile, politically correct liberals are reluctant to offend anyone (making them offensive to everybody, of course).

“If we can no longer laugh at the terrorists, what weapon is left for the citizen?” Mr. Val said at the hearing, according to The Associated Press.

Mon Dieu, I hate it when the French drop their Camembert long enough to say something sensible! Bring it on.

Forced by a gay sex scandal to resign as president of the National Association of Evangelicals, the Rev. Ted Haggard now feels that after three weeks of intensive counseling, he is “completely heterosexual,” says an overseer of the megachurch Mr. Haggard once led.
…
His three weeks of counseling, in Phoenix, felt like “three years’ worth of analysis and treatment,” but now “Jesus is starting to put me back together,” Mr. Haggard wrote in the e-mail message, which was published in The Colorado Springs Gazette on Monday.
…
“He is completely heterosexual,” [Church official Rev. Tim] Ralph told The Post, adding that Mr. Haggard’s homosexual activity had not been “a constant thing.” — NY Times

Well praise the Lard.

That would be “completely heterosexual” as in “a little bit pregnant,” or “not entirely true.” Reminds me of Boris, the Russian soccer star. Known all around the world as the fastest runner, greatest scorer, the best soccer player ever to walk the planet. Then it comes out that while growing up he’d had a homosexual encounter, and overnight he’s a shunned heel. “All my life I am Boris, the Greatest Soccer Player in the World,” he complains, “but suck just one dick…….”

Rev Ted had been secretly fucking a gay prostitute when the prostitute, outraged by Rev Ted’s outspoken condemnation of a gay marriage amendment, outed him. “I felt a moral obligation to speak out,” the high-priced gay hooker specializing in teabagging and anal intercourse told reporters, “and the hypocrisy of that dirty lowlife sleazebag just nauseated me.”

Make that, “Praise the Load.” Wad up, Ted?

Rev Ted told members of New Life that he and his wife were taking online courses to get master’s degrees in psychology. Mr. Ralph revealed that the oversight board had suggested Rev Ted “take up secular work.”

Considering Rev Ted’s fondness for associating with prostitutes, not to mention his delusionary notion that he’s “100% heterosexual,” a career in psychology is perfect. There’s not a whole lot of difference between a bible thumper and Freud fondler: by and large, both believe in fairy tales, neither trusts learning or science, and most haven’t got an ironclad clue about what it is that makes a human being human.

I agree with the oversight board. Get these creatures out of the church, they’re corrupting the legitimate, hard-working demons.

Had to drop off a half dozen proposals at the foundation office, on the 22nd floor of a building in downtown Ft. Lauderdale. The deadline is noon. I arrive at 9:30. It’s unusual for me to beat a deadline by such a wide margin, but I’d worked a good part of the night.

Security, in the form of a tall narrow fellow bearing an eerie resemblance to a sandy-haired John Cleese (from his Basil Fawlty days), asks me pointedly where I’m going. (Not everybody gets asked, but my scruffy looks and generally sour demeanor inspire suspicion.) I tell him, he asks me to sign in, then directs me to Elevator A for the 22nd floor.

I wait for the A train. When it arrives, I’m followed in by a rather frowsy middle-aged woman to whom I nod amicably. I go to press the #22 button……but there is no #22 button. In fact, as the doors shut and the elevator ascends, I notice there are no buttons at all.

My complexion must have turned pure perplexion because the young lady asks me, “Eighteen?” What, I’m getting carded for riding an elevator? “Eighteenth floor?” she clarifies.

No, I tell her. 22. Where are the buttons?

“You push them before you get in, down at the lobby,” she says.

What? Well, how do I get to 22?

“I don’t know,” she laughs. “You better get off with me!”

When I do, feeling almost as stupid as I look, she walks me over to a contraption set in the wall and presses 22. After a moment, a large red B lights up. “There,” she says. “Take B to 22.” Smiles, and I thank her.

How the velvet elvis was I supposed to know this? What kind of elevator doesn’t have numbers in it? And why the fuck didn’t Basil Fawlty down there bother to tell me — obviously I’d never been here before.

I drop off my proposals, press 1 on the magic box (Elevator C this time) and descend. I sign out, waiting for that stick insect Fawlty look-alike to wander back to his post, and when he does, I pour out my complaint.

“What, it didn’t take you to 22?” he asks. “I pressed it for you right here,” and gestures toward some hidden control box below eye level behind his desk.

I tell him I haven’t the faintest fucking idea where the elevator finally fucking stopped because I fucking hopped off at 18, not fucking willing to stand like a stuffed idiot in an enclosed uncontrollable box 250 fucking feet above ground level fucking waiting for something unknown to fucking happen next.

“Oh, I’m sorry, sir,” he says. “Yes, a lot of people don’t seem to like this system, have trouble with it at first heh heh.”

I just fucking look at him. “A lot of people have trouble with it,” so his obliging M.O. is do and say….nothing. On behalf of management and the plain people of the United States, fuck you very much, Mr. Fawlty.

Later that day I come across this:

A man has been arrested in Croatia after he expressed his drunken anger with a cash machine through the medium of urine.

51-year-old Vladimir Mesic was taken into custody this weekend after climbing on to a litter bin so he could urinate on a cashpoint machine that had swallowed his bank card in the city of Split.

He then dropped his trousers and tried to leave a deposit of his own on the machine. It was during this attempt that Mesic was arrested.

Daily newspaper Jutarnji List said he told police: “I was really annoyed - I couldn’t buy any more beer and decided to express my dissatisfaction.” — Metro.co.uk

I haven’t returned to Fawlty Towers yet, but at least now I have a plan of action.

With Broward County leading the way — now there’s a sentence you don’t often see — the state of Flori-duh gets closer and closer to establishing real live genuine grown-up gambling like in half the other states, raking in mounds of moolah to pay for incidentals like education, health care, better roads, etc. Not that we need any of that crap here.

With the arrival of Class 3 gambling, as it’s known, you may anticipate glitzy gambling halls; fancy hotels with exploding lights, garish appointments, busty babes handing out free drinks, the whole enchilada. And with that comes a whole new set of problems, like this one at Resorts International in Atlantic City:

Eight-months pregnant Nyree Thompson, 32, went into labor on the casino floor about 9:30 a.m.

Thompson told The [Atlantic City] Press that she mistook labor pains for gas at first, but after going to the restroom told a security guard that she might be giving birth. Thompson said the guard thought she was joking. Then her water broke.

“A guard came over and said, ‘Don’t push,’ ” Thompson said. “I said, ‘Forget you, this baby is coming right now.’ ” Minutes later, a boy weighing less than 5 pounds was born. Thompson named him Qualeem. — Courier-Post

I know just what you’re thinking. That’s EXACTLY what you would have named him, too.

“Chips” Green, a casino floor manager, said it was an amazing phenomenon to watch. “She’s on the floor and a crowd starts taking bets — money flying all over. They’re betting boy or girl. How many pushes before she pops. The over/under on the baby’s weight settles on 6 .1 pounds, I think. One sicko wants somebody to bet the child would be stillborn, for chrissake.

“At least nobody bets black or red. Not that I heard, anyway.”

Jackpot! Great action. How’s the baby doing? How’s mom?

“Aaaah, they’re just fine. We get ‘em outta there, away from the mutants on the floor. And I make sure she gets a chit for a complimentary dinner for two at the steak house.”

Now, that’s class. Born on the floor by the penny slots, and a free steak dinner. Florida: take lessons!