Sunday, May 25, 2014

Ugly News Anchors, Only!

Remember how men didn't always have to have good teeth?  It's a fact that doesn't charge right up at you, like a banana spider, but physical beauty has become requisite to appear on television, especially on news programs, since news isn't all that interesting by itself.  Back when I was knee high to a grasshopper, they still had fat ugly men reporting news on television.   Short, squat bald men with nose hair in garlands in front of sagging, sweating snarling upper lips.  This was when a man's paunch was on his lap, in front of him, far in advance of his slack chin, where mass belongs.  Good posture and a trim physique is Satan's cedar closet.

As in mainstream television media.   It's pretty boy and party girl news anchors, every pert, trending, morally  amoebic  one them, that are the cause of all the mass homicides, like the most recent, this time a love sick pretty boy who didn't get kissed,  and did perform a massacre, with full metal jacket selfie to his own head area, like to prove he doesn't play favorites in his critique of human kind.  His manifesto was over a hundred twenty pages.  Such a waste.   He could have  been doing skits for Law and Order.  Bet he would have been willing to work for below union scale.

 But the handsome news people on the tube aired people in purple passion, speaking out, yelling, crying, begging, beseeching and pontificating in between shots of the killer and his victims, with gossip  column candy  news about the perp's private life.    The prick gets to be famous and important, even if everyone is mad at him and at the NRA, Ted Nugent, Charlton Heston and Randolf  Scott, who of all people, should be forgiven because he was a closeted gay who probably hated violence.

There would be less of the type of homicide if the news stopped putting it's thousand pretty faces on the matter.   Hideous  reporters only.   Hunchbacks, maximum height under five foot one, no firm chiselled  jaws, abs, buttocks and for fuck sake, no good hair.   Greasy come-overs only, men.  It's your homely job to stop the insanity!  Peace and public safety is just an ugly duckling away.

Saturday, May 3, 2014

Divertimento from dreary saga: Why I like Ailene Wuornos

Someone kvetched about one of my blog posts, and it had to do with a comment about the nature of sick criminal violence.    All I said was that it takes more skill to perform an atrocity with a knife than it does with a gun, and since the piece was about a man who rushed in and shot up a psyche hospital that afternoon, during which time  I was home playing solitaire, the late, notorious  Richard Speck was a perfect object lesson in clinical deviance. If it was my job to hire a mechanic at a gas station, I'd hire Richard before I'd hire the Western Psyche shooter, because Richard is the more dexterous of the two.  But someone had to  attach a moral judgement to social science, and I feel cheap.  Critics.  They're always people with a bachelor's degree, and they think their shit doesn't stink.

Well, for anyone who can see  under the green tarp from Home Depot, there's a florid herb garden in the shade.   My readings and viewings are not limited to wholesome family mental hygiene.  And it's not all chilly clinical observations, with greasy notes on yellow legal pads, nervous diagrams stored under an army cot in a grudging comrade's basement, old coils of wire strewn about.  I have been studying the human condition, on the Internet.

Praises to other dot coms that have media about women like Ailene Wuornos.  Ailene died a complete person for having pathological convictions, thus she was  better than a spineless person who doesn't know what he or she wants, even if it's someone nice, because people like that bore me.  I used to drink in dive bars, had occaisson to get smashed with people not completely unlike Ailene, though these were usually men, with long hair like hers, long arms, a long history of abuse and violence and alcoholism and razor-wire frailties, and dare I postulate that  an abused antisocial has commonalities.   They form relationships with other losers and marginalized deviants.  Well I have feelings towards the Family Of Man.

Ailene was a victim of abuse and neglect.    Unlike most women, her response to it was more typical of men then women, if you look past the prostitution, which is a tactical disadvantage for she-killers.  Sick-ass homicidal  men get better paying day jobs, in construction, can afford a pick up truck, and can pay hookers, like Ailene Wuornos, so I have to give her bonus points for adaptation.  She was the Helena Rubenstein of random homicide.

 She resorted to violence with more conviction than a mere cat-fighting drunk biker chick.  She did the things men do when they are like her.  I must report an impressionistic observation I had after watching Nick Btoomfieild's humanizing, wonderful documentary about Ailene.  She reminds me of Ted Nugent.  Had she been graced, as a child, with  proper love, care, and a blue Fender Mustang with practice amp, she would have become a rock star and not a serial killer.  She would have had a normal career in a bar band, doing covers of Wang Dang What A Sweet Poontang.

In the 1980s the God of Literary Humanism, Raymond Carver, got famous for his book What People Talk About When They Talk About Love.  Being, sadly, 2014, far and wrongfully  advanced from past hope, people talk about love among the atrocities.  The love of Ailene's life ratted her out, soon as cops showed up, and the hard drinking woman of Ailene's dreams also got a cut off the proceeds from books and flicks about Ailene.  Boo, hiss.  Still, that the killer loved and pursued personal ambitions should be affirmed by secular humanists everywhere.   Believers should like that she found religion right before her execution.  And, to this amateur gynecologist/head shrinker, the woman was a unique and accomplished American.  She went out with optimism.  I've known a lot of de-socialized, kooky spent cartridges, and few were as dangerously interesting as she.

Friday, May 2, 2014

stan and donnie: she's having their baby

That last song Juan sang must have done it, because at least one, and as many as all of the Von Findrich sisters appeared to be knocked up.  Or they were just puking flavored vodka, mornings, because they can sure put it away.  Wonder of wonders, it was only Stan and Donnie who achieved penetration that glorious night of saturnalia  on a filthy beach under an anus of round, crenelated red sunset.  Buttwhack Morgan gave up on his erectile tissues ages ago, and committed to whooping fanny.  None of the slaves got in the Von Findrichs.  They mostly either frigged themselves, or each other, but mostly they mooned about how they wish they could still shoot up in the vans that they wound up living in, after their lives and assets went away.  Fucking addicts.  Donnie and Stan still had their home on wheels, living on Nutty Bars, happy.

Speaking of wonders, the Adam Levine guitar is still in tune.  Maria beat the rabid crab to death with it, and was back to singing soon as the thing gave up the ghost.  

Crabby Vindication: Stan and Donny see it happen

"Ouch, ouch, ouch," screamed Empress Cornhola.  The deranged horse shoe crab went right for her, it's glaucous, gangling peepers shooting gamma rays of Sicillian-like reciprocal malice.  They only get like that when you do them wrong, and it's always wrong to piss them off.  Not sure which ethnicity the crab was kin to, but it charged up the greasy sand in high-steps, jagged maw working like a guillotined risible yet traitorous jester, it's non-weight-bearing limbs, with their small, medium and large claws flexing, through the slaves and beach combers right to the Empress.  Looked painful.  She was screaming something awful.  Must be some wild shit dumped into the Pacific Ocean, because the crab was cursing in the King's English, and, to boot, the asshole was even making some sense.

"You fucking bitch," the crab began, as it doled pain to the Empress.  "You and your asshole slaves dumped skag on my family's pier retreat.  We have kids under your shit eating outboard slave yachts.  Now they're all dead."

The blame game won't bring that horse shoe crab's kid's back from junkie hell.   That brick of smack was a drop in the bucket compared to all the rest of the shit, not to mention love letters straight from Chernobyl and the Fukashima reactor.  Empress Cornhola was providing valuable service while taking her journeys, to which she is fully entitled, by providing therapeutic supervised work therapy for recovering dope fiends.  They get methadone, and are required to row the barge.  When they quit being assholes, they get a certificate, and then the Empress gets her next few hundred drug addled rowers.  A social service agency refers more dope fiends to the Empress, and life goes on.    They want egg in their beer, they go to hell.