Do some things just make you scratch your head and say, “Huh?” or “What were they thinking?” and “Who let these morons on the planet?”
Maybe it’s merely a masturbatory moment for the amusement of others, but too often the frivolous fun leads to pain and suffering that spreads to innocent bystanders who must now foot the bill. Fun is not free. Someone always pays.
For instance:
If the people Googling Britney Spears’ latest gossip would read the list of atrocities committed in Darfur, instead, maybe an extra light bulb or two would go off over a few empty heads; green flourescent bulbs, mind you, to save energy. Until we clean up Darfur, Iraq and a hundred other hell-holes, all insipid gossip should be stricken from the internet.
Why do fame junkies get bent out of shape when their fans and stalkers respond to the publicity chum tossed into the soulless media like bloody meat off the Great Barrier Reef? Can you say feeding frenzy? Ooh, pretty piranha, can I pet it? Sure, but let’s just puncture that ego a bit and let a little juice dribble out, first. Poking the lion to get it to smile for the camera can get your head bitten off. If publicists lost more heads, we could eliminate this problem.
Why does Dick Cheney’s pacemaker keep on ticking, but I can’t get the VCR clock to stop blinking? He’s the damn Energizer Bunny of Evil.
Does Kiss-Ass McCain think that just because he was a POW in a contrived war for the military-industrial complex – serving beside countless others who should have questioned its veracity and objected vehemently – he deserves our respect and votes while he’s trying to prolong another military debacle? Bullshit. He’s a lame politician riding the laurels of waning war hero status. If a truck driver for Haliburton gets abducted and beheaded, do you think I’m going to lose any sleep?
If it’s proven that cigarette smoking kills, then why do you tolerate it? You would object if someone on the street corner held a loaded gun to your head and pulled the trigger. Why, because it’s more immediate. Smoking is a vile, loathsome and foul habit that harms others, not just the idiot addicts. The businesses who profit from this madness should be permanently closed, instead of being allowed to market their noxious wares to Third-World countries.
If you need nicotine, then wear a patch or pop a pill. Be a responsible addict, you selfish, rude dumb-fuck. Smoking anywhere but the hermetically-sealed confines of your own coffin should be considered pre-meditated murder. The gun is loaded – scientists have told you – but you’re still packing and loose on the streets. That automobiles and industry also belch disgusting shit into the air I breathe is not justification for your public stupidity. They, too, should be severely punished. I would treat public smokers like gang members brandishing an AK-47 at Toys-R-Us. I’d S.W.A.T. their sorry ass, permanently.
Abortion is between a woman and her god, if she has one, though the father should have the next vote. I don’t approve of meddling in the intimate bodily functions of others. However, when the government takes my tax dollars to pay for some women’s libidinous inability to keep their knees together, which results in an unsustainable eight mouths to feed in a welfare sow’s lifestyle of ignorant rutting, then I strongly protest and withhold my support.
It’s a tiny planet with finite water and food. Wake the fuck up. If you’re Catholic, you should wear a fucking condom. Better yet, pull one down over the Pope’s head till he smells reality. If you’re too poor to purchase cable and can only afford to fuck, guess what – you can’t afford to fuck. Stop fucking around. Earth can no longer afford you fuckers. Yes, I have children and grandchildren. I told them to keep their knees together. They, too, didn’t listen.
Our court system is corrupt and in collusion with the media. I don’t give a shit about watching the tireless ramblings of the latest “I, too, fucked Anna Nicole Smith” whoremonger. Larry King is a sorry excuse for a journalist. He’s a P.T. Barnum purveyor of trash sensationalism. It shouldn’t take more than 24 hours to stick needles in Howard K. Stern’s and Larry Birkhead’s asses or swab out their pieholes, then rush the slimey samples to a lab. Get the damn DNA and shut the hell up. Who cares. Apparently, millions. Idiots.
If the Chinese people are so rude and impolite, according to recent news articles lambasting the residents of Beijing in particular, then please explain to me the size of their population. Apparently, they’re not that rude or always impolite, at least to each other, perhaps. But, if every time someone jumped line in the city the offended citizen behind yelled, “Fuck you!” and the rude queue-vaulter complied – literally – it would explain the numbers.
And finally . . .
In a group of experiments, Dr. Lucy Brown, a professor in the department of neurology and neuroscience at the Albert Einstein College of Medicine in New York, and her colleagues did MRI brain scans on college students who were in the throes of new love.
While being scanned, the students looked at a photo of their beloved. The scientists found that the caudate area of the brain — which is involved in cravings — became very active. Another area that lit up: the ventral tegmental, which produces dopamine, a powerful neurotransmitter that affects pleasure and motivation.
Dr. Brown said scientists believe that when you fall in love, the ventral tegmental floods the caudate with dopamine. The caudate then sends signals for more dopamine.
“The more dopamine you get, the more of a high you feel,” Dr. Brown says.
Or as her colleague, Dr. Helen Fisher put it: When you fall in love, “exactly the same system becomes active as when you take cocaine. You can feel intense elation when you’re in love. You can feel intense elation when you’re high on cocaine.”
Or chocolate. Now, I don’t know much about dopamine, but I have been a dope in love. So, I say avoid the alimony and the lines off Paris’ thigh and buy a Zagnut, instead. The odds of you paying child support after a couple Kit-Kat bars is negligible, plus they’re easier to score than a kilo of coke.
These are just a few talking points in my campaign to become Czar. I’m not officially running . . . unless I’ve seriously pissed someone off and need to make for the border. At least you know where you stand with me. I don’t mince words and I won’t blow sunshine up your skirt just to get your vote.
Now, about this illegal immigration . . .
The Kat
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