Thursday, April 30, 2015

Minute Rant: Ted Cruz and the Hymens

Senator Ted Cruz, a Republican of course, because they like sticking their noses into a woman’s privates,  and the leader of the Senate Subcommittee on Science, once insinuated that women can’t be trusted to stay faithful to men, and so he wondered about giving them a hymen that grows back.

The New York Times is telling stories of Cruz’ days on his college debate team and, in one failed attempt at humor, because he must have been joking, he said if women’s hymens  could grow back, men could keep better track of who they were sleeping with:

“Mr. Cruz’s own attempts at humor sometimes missed the mark. In one debate, he proposed a method to detect infidelity, in which God should “give women a hymen that grows back every time she has intercourse with a different guy, because that will be a ‘visible sign’ of the breach of trust.”

Sure, maybe it was a joke, an attempt at debate humor, or maybe it was Little Ted Cruz’s first foray into Republican politics and the idea that men should control women and their reproductive organs and their sexuality.

I mean, he made no mention of how a woman could keep track of whether or not her man has been faithful.

Ted Cruz … for President?

Vacation Repost Roulette: Carlos, Carts, and CostCo

originally posted Monday, May 03, 2010
Carlos and I recently joined CostCo. We had been members of Sam's Club, but they're rude and stupid and like to use the word "because" when you ask about store policy. So we said FU to Sam's Club and went to CostCo. We thought we'd become bulk shoppers and save some money and be organized.

I know. Makes me laugh, too.

But, to push us in that direction, we bought a vacuum packing system so that we can buy meat and fish in bulk at CostCo and put it in a baggie, suck the air out of the bag and then pressurize it so that a piece of salmon can last for 3 years in the freezer....because I'm thinking of grilling salmon in June 2013 and I like to be prepared.

So, yesterday we made the trek from Smallville to North Carolina — yes, the closest CostCo is in North Carolina — an d the big city of Charlotte. It's a nice drive through small towns and farms, so it's a pleasant trip.

When we got to the CostCo, it was packed with the after-church crowd. Woman in their Sunday dresses and men in their uncomfortable ties, and children. As far as the eye could see; all I could think was Would any of those rug rats last three years in a vacuum-packed freezer bag?

Just a thought.

I grab a cart and we start looking. Ooh, printer/scanner/copier/fax! Ah, small freezer! Oooooh, exercise machines! Seriously, I laugh, thinking of people who might come in for twenty frozen pizzas and a flatscreen TV because you can do it there. Oh, and get a 15 gallon tub of mayo, too.

But, Carlos and I are on a mission. We're having Carlos' First Annual Cinco de Never party this weekend. Last year, he made mention of having a Cinco de Mayo party to some friends, but then May came and, yes, no party. So, it became Cinco de Never. But this year, we're doing it, on Ocho de Mayo, or next Saturday. A full on Mexican feast for thirty. Oy! So, we've been buying tamale flour and tequila, avocado and tequila, corn and tequila, triple sec and tequila.

You get the idea.

And that’s brought us to CostCo yesterday for the last bits and pieces that we needed.

I'm pushing the cart with Carlos and he's wandering away like a toddler on too much sugar, so I give him the task of cart management. This is fine, because at first he's right with me, but then I find myself talking to no one, or worse, a complete stranger, and I can't find Carlos. See, at CostCo, on every corner of every aisle, they have people offering samples of everything from tuna to cheese, to sauces and chicken tenders, and Carlos.Stops.At.Every.One.

I backtrack and find him stuffing his face full of tuna on crackers. I have that face and he comes along. I tell him, Stay with me, I'm out here by myself talking to freaks about how and where to store a kettle drum of canola oil.

Carlos is back on cart duty, and we're walking and talking. But then, I see a cart swerving down the aisle ahead of me, some overgrown child riding it like a toy, his feet on the bottom rail, pushing the cart like a madman. I just know he's gonna run down an old lady with carrying a fifty-pack of toilet paper, and I turn to Carlos to say, Look at that idiot.

Carlos is that idiot.

I'm thinking of getting one of those kid leashes for the next trip to CostCo.

Wednesday, April 29, 2015

Look! Up in the sky! It's a plane ...

Rick Perry got that "gotcha" question — you know the one, ‘Would you go to a gay wedding?’ — by conservative radio host Hugh Hewitt and here's how he responded:

"Yeah, well, I probably would [attend a same-sex wedding]. But I think the real issue here, you know, is that's the 'gotcha' question that the Left tries to get out there...We need to be standing up and saying, hey, listen that's an interesting question, here's my answer but get this thing back to talking about how do we get Americans back working again ... It’s the economy, and it’s national defense. And if you’re not really not talking about those two on a regular basis and coming up with solutions on how to get this country back working, how to get this debt under control, and how to put America back into a position of being respected by our allies and being an influence in the world, then you’re spending some time that frankly doesn’t need to be spent on some issues that are secondary or tertiary to the future of this country.”

I agree that there are far more important topics than ‘Would you go to a same-sex wedding,’ though I do love to see the Republicans squirm their way into an answer.

But then I thought, maybe Miss Ricky is just waiting for Mr. Right to ask him to a same-sex wedding and then he’d be delighted to attend … as the bride.

Vacation Repost Roulette: To Believe Or Not To Believe

originally posted April 2009
So, now that I've apparently broached the subject of religion I thought, Well, why not continue?

Yesterday, as I said, was beautiful in Smallville. Blue skies and a slight breeze, and since it had been raining for a week or more, on and off and on, we opted to stay home and work in the yard. I continue the never-ending leaf removal in the front yard while Carlos mowed the back. We plan to transplant some azaleas because they are in an area that doesn't get much shade and therefore they don't bloom as voraciously as other azaleas; we're also going to transplant so shrubs along the front walk to out near the street, so we have our Spring and Summer workload mapped out.

After a day of raking and bagging and mowing and clipping, Carlos said he needed to pick something up at Lowe's; then, and I knew it would happen, it always does, he asked when Lowe's opens. See, here in Smallville, and in most of South Carolina, businesses do not open on Sunday until 1:30 PM--after church because God doesn't sell lawn clippers till after he's spoken. The WalMart, on the other hand, is open 24/7 and you can shop to your heart's content, as long as you only buy food and medicine before 1:30.

It's the law. And it infuriates Carlos.

So he went on a tear about how much he hates Smallville, and how he wants to get out of here. He has these rants every few months or so, usually when he's waiting for Lowe's to open at 1:30 on a Sunday. He rants about "these people and their religion."

And we're off!

This may come as no surprise to any of you who've stopped by before, but I am one of the least religious people I know. I don't go to church, and for me, the Bible is a good book.....not The Good Book...but a good book....a good history book. Now, I do, however, believe in something greater than myself, but he or she or it isn't found in a bible or in any church on any day of the week. It's around you; it's in the air and the trees and the earth. But I don't begrudge people their religious beliefs as long as they reciprocate in kind. Don't preach to me, or look at me like a heathen because I don't go to church on Sunday. If there is a God, I'd like to think that he or she or it, was just happy to see me clean up my yard yesterday. If there isn't a God, i got a clean yard outta the deal.

Carlos, on the other hand, cannot find a way to turn the other cheek. He doesn't like people to talk about their religion and doesn't like the idea that they seem to work God into every conversation about anything. He thinks preachers are charlatans and fakirs and users and ne'er-do'wells....thiefs....molesters.....everything bad.

I say they're human, like all of us.

He thinks that people here who choose to follow any religious path do so because they might not have a high degree of education. I remind him of all sorts of people that we consider intelligent, are religious-minded folk.

He says that "these people" have not experienced the world, but only their narrow spot of ground called Smallville, or Greenville, or Aiken, or Anywhere USA. But, again, I say to him, look at all the extremely religious people who live in New York and LA....Miami....who following the teachings of their Bible. They are subjected everyday to all sorts of thought and ideas and yet they choose to follow the path of the church, a church, any church.

So we continue our, ahem, discussion, outside, on the deck, noshing on grilled chicken and potato salad and sippin' on some wine--and just a reminder, nowhere in Smallville County, or many other counties in South Carolina, can you buy alcohol on Sunday--and Carlos ranted ad nauseum about "these people."

I reminded him that he is just as ferocious in his view, as I believe Karl Marx said, that religion is the opiate of the masses, as these religious folk are in their belief that religion is the be-all and end-all to life.

I reminded him that it doesn't make a difference what others think; he'll never know if they're right until he dies and gets to heaven and God says, Oh, it's you Carlos...the non-believer. And "these people" will never know until they die and, well, don't get to heaven, or anywhere for that matter, except maybe a plot of earth or a silver urn on a fireplace mantel somewhere.

We went round and round, debating...arguing...laughing....almost shouting and happened. It began to rain. As I scooped up the plates and wine glasses; the salad and the candles, I looked at Carlos and said:

You pissed off God. Now he's spitting' at you.

Tuesday, April 28, 2015

Minute Rant: Enough With The Threats

Concord Community Schools Superintendent Wayne Stubbs has fired Jessica Dooley as a coach and teacher after she suggested on Facebook that she should burn down Memories Pizza in Walkerton over the owners’ support for a new Religious Freedom Restoration Act.

Let me make this queer: we don't need to be burnin' things down because someone said somethin' nasty about us, or won't bake us a pizza pie.

We just need to let them, and the world, and all of our allies, gay and straight, know that what you don't do, never do, tell others not to do, is order a pizza from Memories Pizza in Walkerton, Indiana.

Hit 'em in the wallet, and stop the violence.

Vacation Repost Roulette: I Should Be Laughing: Harry and The Cafeteria

Originally posted Saturday, March 10, 2012

So … I’ve written a book, as yet unpublished, but here’s a taste …
Chewing on his lip while he read, Harry was amazed. He had never read anything like the Anne Rice novel, and he could not put it down.

‘The old man begged to be told what we were saying. He called out, 'Son, son,’ and Lestat danced like a maddened Rumpelstiltskin about to put his foot through the floor. I went to the lace curtains.’

Whenever he read, which was most of the time, for books were a sort of refuge, Harry became lost in his novels, far away from everyone and everything. Whether in his room with the door locked, or at the dinner table eating in silence while Mother sipped this or that and Jimmy fiddled with his baseball cards, whether walking up Hesser to school or on the long walk home through Renny’s Forever Fields, Harry read, preoccupied.

As usual, his thumbnail was in his mouth as Harry hunched over the cafeteria table, the book,Interview With The Vampire, splayed out across his knees, his neck stretched beyond belief as he read, unaware. His mouth formed the words silently…

‘I could see and hear the slaves surrounding the house of Pointe du Lac, forms woven in the shadows, drawing near…’

…and he was oblivious to the growing swarm around him, whispering and plotting.

Suddenly, a burst of white light unfurled before his eyes. Lightening that instantly became a hand, clipping the edge of his book and sending it sailing down the linoleum floor. Lurching into a trashcan, it stopped beneath a wadded up burrito wrapper and a cardboard cup of cold fries, sliding into a mound of almost, but not quite, dried catsup.

“That what faggots do at lunch, Seaton? Read?”

Harry stared up into the faces that imprisoned him, most of them laughing, all of them smiling. Kyle Greggs stood behind him; his hand had sent the book away. Kyle had always been the one; the one who shoved Harry in the hallways, knocking his head into lockers, muttering ‘queer’ under his breath if Harry spoke in class, an exceedingly rare occurrence since Harry didn’t want to hear that word every time he answered a question.

Kyle was always the one. Throwing balls at Harry on the playing field--basketballs, baseballs, footballs, soccer balls. He coined the nickname ‘Harry The Fairy’ the day Harry tried, and failed, to climb the rope in gym class. Yet another time he tried to fit in, to go unnoticed, and failed. Kyle was always the one, but he wasn’t the only one. Dan Mahoney, Russ Lindale, Dave King helped Kyle; their girlfriends, too, had tortured Harry at one time or another. It was a lifetime of punishment when you considered they attended the same schools for ten years. Everyone did his or her fair share of pushing Harry, physically and emotionally. A kick in the hallway was as good as a snide word in math class; as good as a look or a pointed finger in the cafeteria.


Fighting back the tears Harry walked home down the long hill toward town. He wasn’t crying, or trying not to cry, because of the scene in the lunchroom; it was because people he had known his whole life, who once were friends, had done that to him. They had robbed him of his book when all he wanted, all he ever wanted, was to be alone.

While they kicked his book around the cold filthy cafeteria floor like a hockey puck, Harry made a fool of himself trying to get it back. Dropping to his knees, he tried to grab it as it sailed by; running insanely across the room, he screamed at them, “Stop it!” But they didn’t stop; instead they began to mimic him, lisping, “Thtop it!” The more he chased, the more they laughed, but he wouldn’t give up. That book was his, the one thing he cared for, and he would not let them destroy it.

Kyle, Dan, Russ and Linda, Connie, even some of the teachers, laughed as Harry began to cry. His face turned all shades of red and his eyes went wild with tears, but still they snickered and pointed. Then, just before they tired of the game, before lunch was over and it was back to class, Dan Mahoney slipped, on a French fry or something, and Harry was able to scrape the book off the floor. He grabbed it and began to run.

It would be okay now, he told himself, flying toward the exit, but everyone was still laughing. Then the name-calling started. Harry The Fairy. Fag. Queer. Harry looked at them through eyes so filled with tears that he could only see distorted shapes of plaid shirts and cheerleader outfits. He ran for the door, slipping on the linoleum, wiping his eyes on his sleeves, clutching the book. Out of control, sprinting like mad, he saw the other boy, at a table near the exit, bundled up in a soiled brown corduroy coat. He was the only one in the room who wasn’t laughing at Harry, who wasn’t calling him names.

Sean Cooper ate lunch by himself, too.

Monday, April 27, 2015

Minute Rant: Bobby Jindal

Louisiana Governor, and Republican Asshat, Bobby Jindal wants y’all to know that he will never accept same-sex marriage, and he will never stop fighting to make discrimination against LGBT Americans perfectly legal and acceptable:

As the fight for religious liberty moves to Louisiana, I have a clear message for any corporation that contemplates bullying our state: Save your breath. In 2010, Louisiana adopted a Religious Freedom Restoration Act, which prohibits government from unduly burdening a person’s exercise of religion. However, given the changing positions of politicians, judges and the public in favor of same-sex marriage, along with the potential for discrimination against Christian individuals and businesses that comes with these shifts, I plan in this legislative session to fight for passage of the Marriage and Conscience Act.

I hold the view that has been the consensus in our country for over two centuries: that marriage is between one man and one woman. Polls indicate that the American consensus is changing — but like many other believers, I will not change my faith-driven view on this matter, even if it becomes a minority opinion. A pluralistic and diverse society like ours can exist only if we all tolerate people who disagree with us. That’s why religious freedom laws matter — and why it is critical for conservatives and business leaders to unite in this debate.”

Let me make this queer: go ahead Bobby, keep up the hate, because while you may never accept same-sex marriage, and while you may never stop fighting to legally hate The Gays, understand that you will also never be anything more than you are right now: a loser.

Vacation Repost Roulette: Thoughts on Life and Death and Dying

originally posted Monday, October 06, 2014
I don't think this is as maudlin as the title suggests, but give it a read and you be the judge ....

We have had three deaths in our little circle of friends this past month, and, as happens, it’s gotten me thinking — not always a good thing, sometimes, as I tend to think too much — about death, and dying. And when you toss into the mix the fact that my mother’s birthday was September 27 and that always makes me ‘what if’ and ‘I wonder,’ and that my sister’s birthday, the first since she passed, was October 1, well, it’s been death-a-palooza up in here for me.

One of my very best, very best, friends in the world, Laura, lost her husband a few weeks back. Bob had been diagnosed with Non Hodgkin’s Lymphoma in 2009 and struggled and fought so valiantly; he got better, he was better, and then came a setback and he was back in the hospital where he passed away, with Laura at his side, last month.

I cannot imagine how it feels to lose the love of your life; I’ve lost friends and relatives, parents, a sister, but this has got to be the hardest of all. It sinks me to places I don’t want to go to, making me think about what would happen if I lost Carlos; how would I survive; would I survive. But then, scarier for me, is what might happen to Carlos if I died; I so don’t want him to be alone.

But then I realized you have to take what life gives you and move on as best you can, one foot in front of the other, and hope that, while it won’t get easier, it will get better. You have to wake up; you have to get out of bed; you have to continue on because that’s what Bob would want for Laura; that’s what those who’ve gone on would want for us, those left behind.

We had cocktails with Bob and Laura last August when we were in California visiting my sister, who had her own battle with cancer. And the one thing that struck me about Bob was this: he’d always been friendly to Carlos and me; nice, and friendly, and just a lovely, lovely man. But this time, as we were saying out goodbyes, he grabbed each one of us and hugged us Goodbye.

It was a few weeks later we learned that he was sick again, and I thought about that hug. At first I thought maybe Bob knew that he was getting sick again, and maybe this was his own personal Goodbye to us; but then I thought that maybe, because of all he’d gone through for over the years — tests and treatments and procedures and hospitalizations — that he knew you had to cherish each and every moment because you don’t know if you’ll ever get that moment again.

So he hugged you to let you know how he felt about you in case he never got the chance again.

A few days after Bob passed, our friend Cody had suffered a massive heart attack in his sleep. His partner Bruce woke up and tried to revive him, but Cody died in the ambulance on the way to the hospital. They had been together 42 years; Forty.Two.Years.

And again I wondered, how do you survive after losing your love; what do you do to carry on. How do you wake up in an empty bed for the first time in four decades?

You just do, I learned. We attended a memorial service for Cody, and spoke with Bruce, who, as most people who lose a loved one do, seemed more intent on easing our grief, our sense of sorrow, than allowing us to help him.

And so I realized  that you go on because, yes, you had your partner, spouse, husband, wife, for years and years, but you also have your family — your biological family, and the family you’ve made for yourself out of friends. You carry on because you have those other people in your life that can light the way when you feel as though you’re slipping into the darkness.

Then Carlos learned that one of his former co-workers was in the hospital. His name was Carlos, too, Carlos S. He and my Carlos worked as a team for a local healthcare company a few years ago. That Carlos was a black man, and since he and his teammate shared the same first name, people at the office took to calling them Salt-and-Pepper, or Black Cloud and White Smoke.

My Carlos visited that other Carlos, who was unconscious in the hospital, and he chatted with him for a while; said his piece, so to speak; and then left. Carlos S. passed away that same afternoon, alone. He seemed to have no one; no one to claim the body; no family that Carlos could find. I was thinking about what that might be like, to die alone, no family, a handful of friends, or even less, who didn’t know that you’d gotten sick.

But my Carlos wasn’t having that; he called people; he checked in with people; he did some research. He found the estranged son of Carlos S., who wanted nothing to do with his father, even after death; but then he found more friends, neighbors, former co-workers; he found that Carlos S. had been in the military and because of that he could be buried with a military funeral at Fort Jackson herein Columbia.

Carlos, my Carlos, and a couple of others, made some arrangements with Fort Jackson; my Carlos wrote a beautiful eulogy for his friend that he posted to Facebook, and friends of Carlos S. found it and responded to it.

This tiny group, tied together because they knew this man who died alone, attended the service even if no one else could, or would. But then people did; other co-workers, friends, and even his estranged son paid their respects; the flag that draped the coffin was folded into that ceremonial triangle and given to his survivors. Carlos S. may have died alone, with scarcely anyone knowing anything about him, but he was buried in honor, with friends, and even family, at his side.

And so I realized that, while it may seem that sometimes we die alone, we don’t. There are those who remember, those who visit as you lay dying, and those who pay their final respects.

And even when you think that, after death, people are forgotten, they aren’t; you remember the soup your mother made on cold winter days and you smile; you remember the trouble you got into with your sister, and you smile. You remember that last hug from a friend; that last joke; that last time you saw them, and you smile.

And you go on ….

Sunday, April 26, 2015

Look What Happens When You Slap Some Paint On It ....

Since we're out of town for a bit, I thought I'd share some more 'house' with you. See, sometimes the biggest changes are made with a can of paint and an idea …

That’s what Casa Bob y Carlos looked like the day we moved it. I loved all the trees, though I’ve come to hate all the leaves, but I wasn’t keen on the color; a little too battleship blue-gray for me. So, we switched it up, and went showy, with a nice greenish-yellow for the body of the house and a splash of red on the inside of the front porch, and on the outside of the sunroom out back.

We used to tell people we lived in the blue house, now we just say ‘Look for the red porch.’

Take a small tour, after the jump …

Saturday, April 25, 2015

It's Snarkurday!

Y’all remember The Sony Hack? The crime that unleashed The Interview on us all? Well, a lot of the story was about the emails between then-Sony-head-and-now-fired Amy Pascal and producer Scott Rudin and their Mean Girl attacks on Angelina Jolie. Well, Wikipedia has posted some of the emails and La Jolie comes off as smart and professional and kind, while Rudin and Pascal come across as bitches who hate.

Any time Jolie emails one or both of them about a proposed Cleopatra film, Pascal and Rudin snipe about her, as when Rudin writes:
“I’m not remotely interested in presiding over a $180m ego bath … the last thing anybody needs is to make a giant bomb with her that any fool could see coming… I have no need to keep her happy. There is NO relationship with any movie star — ANY one — that requires our willingness to prostrate ourselves this way in the face of childish, irresponsible, willful and un-partnerly behavior.”
When Pascal forwards her email bitchfest with Rudin to Sony Entertainment CEO Michael Lynton, Lynton writes: “You guys are nuts to put this in an email.” 

Sound advice; not taken.

Oh, and the best is when Scott Rudin asked La Jolie if she was interested in starring as Ma Ingalls … seriously … in his film adaptation of Little House on the Prairie alongside … wait for it … Tom Cruise as Pa Ingalls. Seriously? Tom Cruise as Pa Ingalls? Everyone knows he's Half-Pint!

Still, Angelina liked the script, but said no to him because:
“I love Little House but don’t think I am the best person to do it. You have a very special project and a brilliant script and I am beyond grateful you would give me a chance to consider it.” 
This was at the same time Rudin was screeching about Angelina being a “spoiled brat.”

Meanwhile, Jolie just goes along with her life; oh, and her job — unlike Pascal — and her dignity — unlike Scott Rudin.

I’ve always loved how Madonna gets on her high horse when people disrespect her, um, “art,” and yet she has no problem being disrespectful herself. I mean, remember the time she attended a screening of Twelve Years A Slave and texted throughout the film? And when someone in the audience told her to put it away that time, she yelled, “It’s for business … ENSLAVER!” Well, she’s done it again, this time at a Broadway show and this time she was called out by the star of the show.

Madonna went to see Lin-Manuel Miranda in the Broadway musical Hamilton. Miranda wrote, directed and stars in the life story — told through hip-hop — of Alexander Hamilton and he is now Broadway’s newest darling.

So, Madge was sitting in the audience, being Madge, and ALLEGEDLY texted all the way through Act 2 and Miranda was not having it and he Tweeted:
“Tonight was the first time I asked stage management NOT to allow a celebrity — who was texting all through Act 2 — backstage #noselfieforyou.
The Tweet was later deleted, but a source in the audience — perhaps it was Lohan looking for another theater gig … as an usher — says Madonna was texting throughout the night:
“It was definitely her. She was texting, I believe, although at one point she also pulled out a Blackberry. She was also 20 minutes late and caused quite a stir getting to her seat.”
Eventually Madge put down her phone after someone in the audience — and it might have been Patti LuPone who hates phones in theaters — hissed, “Shut it off!”

Still, Madge may have had good reason; perhaps her new boyfriend was getting out of middle school and needed a ride back to the manse?

HBO’s Going Clear documentary — which I have on the DVR, but still haven’t seen — brought plenty of damaging information about Scientology to the public. A small part of the film discussed the incredibly close friendship between Tom Cruise and CoS leader David Miscavige; Cruise is considered by many to be #2 in command of the ALLEGED church, though it’s clear he would never officially take over the helm because he’s also their biggest financial supporter.

See, for the past several years, Scientology has experienced money troubles — despite its tax-free status — and while they still have $1.5 billion in assets, most of that is in real estate and overhead, and those kinds of “liquid” assets are a problem because, thanks to the internet and the documentary and all that bad press from people who’ve escaped the “church,” people are no longer signing up for their nonsense.

Enter Cruise, chief CoS moneymaker. CoS desperately needs Mission: Impossible 5 to be a success because Tom’s backend deals ... tee hee, backend deals ... with studios are sweet and his money is about all they have coming in. I mean, that’s what a private 
investigator ALLEGEDLY  working for Miscavige told Wisconsin police when they brought him in for questioning in July 2013.

“Where do you think the funding comes from?” an investigator asked private investigator Daniel Powell in audio recordings.

“Probably Tom Cruise,” Powell says, to audible laughter. “I’m being serious, that’s probably where it comes from. [He] funds the church with anything they need. So he’s pretty much funding all of this. We make jokes all the time — when Tom Cruise’s last movie came out — it was a terrible movie, we were going around telling everybody how awesome the movie was. Go see the movie so Tom Cruise can get paid and we can get paid.”

I know it sounds crazy, but it also sounds true. I mean, no wonder he divorces his wives before the ten year end of pre-nup clause comes into effect. And he’s selling off real estate like there’s no tomorrow: his Hollywood Hills home can be yours for $13 million, while his Telluride manse is on the market for $59 million.

He needs the cash. Xenu spaceships don’t come cheap. ALLEGEDLY.

I love this one …

Tom Hardy is in a new film called Child 44 which, for some reason, is expected to bomb, so he’s not doing a lot of press for it. But when he does press, and when he’s asked about the Russian accent he use in the film, well, he says this:
“I watched Sesame Street. The Count speaks just like it.” 
Loving it!

Remember last week when Gwyneth Paltrow wrote in her GOOP-letter that she would be taking part in the Food Stamp Challenge? And remember how she posted the $29 worth of food items she bought to feast on for the entire week? And then remember how she went to lunch at a trendy, expensive, Brentwood restaurant, basically giving the challenge a big F-U?

Well, she wants you to know more …
“Last week, chef (and great man) Mario Batali challenged me to raise awareness and money for the NYC Food Bank by trying to live on $29 dollars for the week (what low income families on SNAP are trying to survive on). Dubious that I could complete the week, I donated to the Food Bank at the outset, and all of us at the goop office began the challenge.
As I suspected, we only made it through about four days, when I personally broke and had some chicken and fresh vegetables (and in full transparency, half a bag of black licorice). My perspective has been forever altered by how difficult it was to eat wholesome, nutritious food on that budget, even for just a few days—a challenge that 47 million Americans face every day, week, and year. A few takeaways from the week were that vegetarian staples liked dried beans and rice go a long way—and we were able to come up with a few recipes on a super tight budget.
After trying to complete this challenge I would give myself a C- …”
And she goes on to talk about how hard people have it, unless you’re GOOP, but seriously? A C-?

Gwyneth, honey? You delusional f**kwad? You.Failed. While many in this country eat for far less than $29 a week, you couldn’t handle four days without breaking, so stop trying to act like you understand.

You deserve an F, as in Shut.The.F.Up.

While on the red carpet for the Time 100 gala and concert, the highlarious — no, she’s seriously funny — Amy Schumer pretended to fall down right in front of Kim and Kanye Kardastrophe.

And what did Kimye do?

He didn’t budge, didn’t crack a smile, didn’t even acknowledge Schumer. Kash Kow appeared to smile, though with as much Botox as she has in her face it’s hard to tell, but … she and Kanye then moved further down the carpet for more photos while Amy picked herself up off the ground.

Man, do those two take themselves so seriously.

Remember when Sherri Shepherd married Lamar Sally and told the world about their spectacular Christian love? And remember when Sherri and Lamar used a surrogate to have the baby that would be a symbol of their spectacular Christian love? And then remember when they separated and Sherri said the baby wasn’t hears? Her story was that the child – only made so that Lamar The Gold-digger could get his hands on Sherri’s money … except she really has none because she was fired from The View before this whole mess started and girl ain’t got no real job — wasn’t hers because it was Lamar’s junk and a surrogate’s egg.

Anyway … now a Pennsylvania judge has ruled that Sherri is legally the mother of their surrogate baby, Lamar Sally Jr., and Lamar Sr. wants Sherri to go on TV and apologize to him.

Might have been a good idea, if they’d done the reveal of Sherri’s maternity on Maury. Lamar could have danced across the stage singing, ‘You’re the mother! You’re the mother!”

Christians. They’re funny.

Friday, April 24, 2015

Jacob and Anthony Are Going To The Dance

I remember being the closeted gay kid in high school, and just hating when dances came around because everyone always asked if you were taking anyone and the only person I wanted to take was Ian, the foreign exchange student from Australia, but that just would not happen. So, I didn’t go to proms and homecomings and such, though it might have been different had I had a friend like Jacob Lescenski.

Jacob is straight — that’s okay, he was born that way — and his best friend, Anthony Martinez, is gay; also okay, because he was born that way. Anthony is also a member of the student council and plans a lot of the school dances, but never gets asked to attend … until now.

One day, after posting to Twitter that he didn’t have a date for the dance, Anthony walked down a hall at school and saw this:
"You’re hella gay, I’m hella str8, but you’re like my brother so be my d8!"
His best friend had decided that he’d like to take Anthony to prom:
“I decided on going to prom alone because my original date idea didn’t work out so well. Then one night I saw Anthony, who is my best friend, Tweeting about wanting a date. I then thought about how amazing of a guy he is and that he deserved a date. So, I came up with the poster idea, asked my friend Mia to make it and asked him that next day. No one knew about it except for me, my friend Jamie, and Mia. Therefore it was a giant surprise to everyone, especially Anthony!” — Jacob Lescenski
Times do change; people do change.

Some people are gay; get over it … and dance.
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