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I was really pretty shocked to have read that Henry Louis Gates Jr., professor extraordinaire of long standing at the venerable institution Hahr-Vahrd, was arrested two days ago.
But I wasn’t shocked to have read the context and circumstances of his arrest. Sure, there’s the easy explanation of racism in America (you really will never convince me a white professor would have been treated the same way), but then there’s the even easier explanation that no one seems to be talking about and it is this: the arresting “officer” in the affair is yet another example of a douchebag cop with a Napoleon Complex.
Sure, I have no doubt the cop behaved in a racist manner, but that is an action coupled with a personality trait and that trait being that the he is yet another douchebag cop with a Napoleon Complex.
A professor here at school is a retired cop and relayed to me the different types of people who become police officers:
1. The Fitness Nut: the guy or gal who somehow relives their high school athletic glory days by being a cop. They are all about how they look in the uniform. Being a good or bad cop is strictly a matter of happenstance.
2. The Gun Nut: I think this speaks for itself. The Gun Nut, who is almost always male, is also closely related to the Penis Insecurity Nut.
3. The Righteous Nut: this person has an overwhelming sense of self-importance and truly thinks that the worse they behave towards the general public, the better cop they are.
4. The Drunk Cop: who is actually a pretty okay person who took the job as a way of redemption but at the same time, does not know how to handle the stress better.
Now according to Professor Cop, a police officer can actually be a combination of these varying traits but one is always more dominant than the other. Like the thing about Elvis and the Beatles: you can like both, but you always like one more than the other.
With regards to incident involving Professor Gates, my money is on Cop #3. Then again, I’m not at all familiar with the inner workings of cop-hood and the public perception I have garnered of them over the years is really just boils down to the simplicity of the douchebag cop with the Napoleon Complex scenario.
If you haven’t heard, a Philadelphia man was shot in a movie theater on Christmas Day for refusing to keep quiet during the film.
While I don’t approve of the violence, I certainly understand the impulse that drove the shooter to his actions. Seriously, I get this. Total no brainer. People, in general, have become such complete barbarians in public, I’m more surprised that incidents like these doesn’t happen everyday.
For instance, I can not remember the last the time I saw a movie that wasn’t interupted with cell phones, people talking, or people getting up out of their seats every few minutes.
Libraries apparently have become the place to hang out with your teenage pals have a raucous good time.
Grocery shopping with your four sullen teenagers who skulk about, hogging lanes, not watching where they’re going, and have zero sense of their spatial relations, or, shopping with your screaming child in an SUV-styled grocery cart that crash into eneryone’s shins, apparently is now the accepted norm.
Noisy, crying, ill-behaved children in nice restaurants alongside the people who have no voice control or no sense of discretion sitting at the next table? Go ahead, complain, I dare you. Be forewarned that you will be viewed as the problem in that scenario,
Having to listen to other people’s loud and inconsequential phone conversations every damn place you go is now required.
Society’s utter lack of shame, or the absence of the implementation of shame as a social control, has removed any refuge from such boorish behavior. There is is simply no one place a person can go anymore and expect that rules of common courtesy be adhered to and I can easily see how the noise and constant harangue of these intrusions can cause someone to snap as it did in that movie theater.
How do you enforce the concept of common courtesy or appropriate behavioral norms? I can just see the ridiculous backlash heading this way in the form of movie theaters installing security to protect against violence as opposed to simply asking rude customers to shut the hell up. However, maybe starting with a few armed guards in movie theaters to ensure the domestic peace and quiet might not be such a bad idea.
I don’t claim to understand my brothers, but being that we share a great deal of genetic material, I at least expect to find some shred of commonality in thought.
That expectation was blown to hell, yet again, when we were discussing the situation of Caleb Campbell, West Point graduate, and recent 7th round draft pick of the Detroit Lions who has been called to active duty.
In a nutshell: Campbell graduated West Point and, he claims, was promised by the Army that if he was picked up, he could play and serve his time as a recruiter. Now, the Army has apparently changed their minds on this deal and Campbell has to serve two years before he’ll be allowed to try for the NFL again.
My brothers, and apparently over 60% of people in a FOX Sports poll, think the Army is being “unfair”.
Excuse me? Unfair? Campbell has received an very expensive education (it is valued to be in the realm of $500,000) on behalf of the tax payers of this country and he signed a contract stating that in return for this education, he would serve 5 years in the Army. The US Military Academies are a priceless education for more reasons than just monetary. For there to be even a hint of Campbell whining or shirking his duty is pretty freakin’ reprehensible particularly since many of his West Point brethren can expect to be heading to either Afghanistan or Iraq in the near future.
And even if the Army changed their mind, so what? It’s their prerogative to do so. I don’t seem to recall Roger-effen-Staubach complaining about honoring his commitment to his country after attending the Naval Academy. He did his time (in Vietnam, I might add) and then went on to one of the most successful NFL careers in history. So pardon me if I feel ZERO sympathy for Campbell getting a half-million dollar education and now bitching about not getting a million dollar football career.
…And with my brothers and all those other persons who thinks the Army is being “unfair” AND supports this business in Iraq, seriously people, WTF?
Oh, and by the way, Campbell apparently isn’t even going overseas. He staying right here in the US where he will be serving his time as a football coach at either West Point or its prep school. Considering he could be on his way to some pretty nasty war zones, he should be counting his blessings.
Geek that I am, I love physics. I particularly like quantum theory when it bleeds over into other worlds we might not associate it with. I was listening to NPR about the current situation in Burma, still horrendous, and how while the Military powers-that-be there are more than willing to accept our aid, they still will not accept expert help in disaster relief distribution. Maybe they saw the coverage of Hurricane Katrina, I don’t know, but that would more explain their exclusion of the US, but the fact is, they won’t let anyone in and supplies are being horded.
So this got me to thinking about Schrodinger’s Cat, a theory in quantum mechanics. In short, there’s a cat in a box with a vial of poison that will be released under specific circumstances. Assuming the circumstances are met, the cat will die. However, if you do not open the box to check on the cat, then the cat remains forever in this state of duality that the cat is both dead and alive until such time the box is open.
Schrodinger’s Cat opens up an interesting dialogue on ethics for me. See, once the cat is in the proverbial box, in my mind anyway, the cat is already dead and this is Burma in a nutshell: the Junta there believes (or want to anyway) that the people to be fine and outside help is unnecessary. They play at Schrodinger’s Cat in that they keep the people in Burma in a permanent state of limbo, being both alive and dead as the theory suggests. However, there’s a fly in the ointment, we’re talking quantum mechanics here, there’s always a fly in the ointment, and in this case namely it’s the Copenhagen Interpretation.
The Copenhagen Interpretation, in its own and separate nutshell, is that nothing exists until it is measured. Quite simply, the Junta is in some serious freakin’ denial. They don’t want to know how many people have died, they don’t want the international community in their country to assess how bad things really are there. They’d rather have the cat forever be both alive and dead to suit their dictatorial purposes. The people aren’t dead, they aren’t in need, and their country is fine so long as no one outside their own perverse and diabolic circle looks at it.
It is now estimated that probably over 80,000 people have died due to this disaster and over 2 million more are at risk. This is the same country who last year during the Saffron Revolution called out for international intervention and the world answered back with a big fat deaf ear.
If ever there was a time for a little war and revolution, you’d think this would be it.
Personally, I hope the cat is alive, although I’m not betting on it.
An old friend of mine called this afternoon to thank me, tearfully, for the tool kit I gave her as a wedding present 12 years ago.
I was a little taken aback at first, because one, it took me a minute to remember I had given to her, and two, because I remember the look on her face when she unwrapped the gift and saw I had her given her a deluxe-tool box that weighed about 50 pounds and comprised of all tools made for female hands. She was confused, she was embarassed, and clearly, not happy with the gift.
Okay, back story: She was 23 years old and instead of drifting into a career upon graduation from college, she drifted in marriage. She was doing it because she couldn’t figure out anything better to do. He was doing it because she fit in nicely with this idea he had about the “right wife aiding him greatly” in his career. Yes, that is a direct quote.
As any of my friends can attest, if I think you’re making a bonehead move that will ruin your life, I am pretty keen to tell you so. This is why I have few friends. However, my friend really, really, really, wanted me to be happy for her and I wasn’t nor could I be. She had her life before her and he was a frat-boy-schmuck on an endless summer beer bong. I told her I hoped I was wrong, but I didn’t think I was.
Anyhoo-the year prior to the nuptials, I did everything possible to talk her out of marriage. And yet, that didn’t manage to get me kicked of the wedding party unfortunately, but she got me back with the really ugly bridesmaid dress.
I threw her a bridal shower for just friends where she received self-help books, airplane tickets for one, a metal file, a length of lead pipe, a collapsible escape ladder, and a Rolodex that contained no less than 50 cards for divorce attorneys (as you can see, I wasn’t the only one who thought this was a really bad idea).
Her bachelorette party (which I didn’t organize) ended up being an intervention where even her Maid of Honor was offering to drive her anywhere she wanted if she would just not go through with the wedding.
Sadly, the wedding was had and the marriage commenced. It lasted 6 years and 8 1/2 months of her second pregnancy.
So my friend called me today while she was in the middle of a hellacious project of trying to put together a playset for her sons by herself. The massive tool box is still with her, a little worse for wear, and not only did the handle break today, but it threw a wheel which rolled down the driveway and into a storm drain.
She called to tell me that that tool kit had seen her through putting together furniture in her first home after the wedding when her husband was out all night with his beer buddies, through putting together the crib for her first son when her husband was always working late, through fixing the garbage disposal when her husband was off cheating on her, and countless other projects throughout the divorce and the subsequent years as a single mother. And now that the tool box was falling apart and needed to be replaced, she was much more upset at having to replace the toolbox than she ever was over leaving her husband. As she put it, that tool kit had seen her through a bad marriage, a horrible divorce, and some lonely years of trying to raise her sons by herself.
Damn. I didn’t know what to say. I didn’t have the heart too tell her that I only gave it as a joke although I’m glad it did more for her than its intended purpose, which was to serve as a a symbol of my undying snarkiness. It certainly has done more for her over the years than I have.
Damn.
Given that dog bites are one of the top injuries children suffer, I am often amazed that parents don’t teach their kids better manners when interacting with domestic pets.
Case in point: three evil cretins who reside in my neighborhood seem to think it’s amusing to run up behind me while walking the dog, shout something out thus scaring my dog, and run away while she goes nuclear-ape-shit into attack mode. This used to happen every once in a while, but it has happened twice in the last week.
Oh, yeah, it’s funny, but I’ll bet they think it’s absolutely hilarious the day I let go of her leash and let my fully grown mastiff go medieval on their asses. But, of course, that will make me the bad dog owner.
That’s right, I put my pet through countless hours of behavioral training, make sure she’s up on her shots, have her licensed through the proper authorities, keep her on a leash when out in public, and clean up after her business, but those mental defects can torment my dog to the point where she reacts as she rightly well should and she’s a bad dog and I’m the bad dog owner.
So today, walking Puppy Dog, I see the three little jackasses out of the corner of my eye. I keep notice as they stalk us through the neighborhood. They disappear behind some houses and appear to have gone. Just as I turn down the next street, we are ambushed with a kamikaze attack of yelling but their escape isn’t quite so easy. The rain and the mud has slowed them down just long enough for me to throw a fully-loaded bag of gooey dog-doo right upside the slowest little bastard’s head.
SCORE!!!
Okay, fine, I’m a bad dog owner and juvenile to boot. But at least I had a second bag with which to clean up with.
I’m giving serious thoughts to getting a Taser.
As I am sure many a blogger has asked him or herself: What is the proper etiquette when dealing with stalkers?
I’m noticing a myriad of potential ethical issues that might arise when planning a good defense against a whack-job-nut-bag-full-of-bonkers. Some examples:
1. Is it right and proper to to publish the identity of a STALKER in your blog when they refer to themselves as “Anon” or “Anonymous” yet have their full name in their email address? How about when they use their own likeness as an Avatar?
2. If that STALKER has a particular bent, say they are overtly religious, is it right to retaliate by submitting their email address to as many atheist or pro-choice organizations as you can find?
3. If your STALKER is just a big ball of crazy, is it inappropriate to submit their information to mental health organizations that may help them “deal” with their issues?
4. How horrible would it be, really, to pay the teenage neighbor kid (who is quite the hacker) to create an evil-evil worm to email to your STALKER?
…or should you take the high ground and just invite your STALKER into a chat room where you can sit down virtually over a cup of Second Life coffee where they can discuss their “secret pain” ?
Of course, I’m joking…I know it’s best to just ignore and not engage your STALKER. I know that it is just better to block your STALKER from your blog and to not email them directly because you really don’t know what you’re dealing with…
But seriously, where’s the fun in that?
Haiku on Your Imminent Demise
Oh, fat troglodyte
Take care. If you fall downstairs
I will laugh. A lot
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Haiku on the Noisy Gag-Toy We Hid in Your Cubicle
Some worship silence
I worship annoyance and
Smile as you go mad
It was packed at the gym tonight. Guys taking up every available piece of of equipment and yucking it up with their friends instead of getting down to business and giving other people a turn. You know, like any other day at the Y.
So I’m waiting for this guy to finish at the bench press, which apparently bothered him because it meant he couldn’t take 20 damn minutes in betweens sets, so he starts speaking very pointedly to his friend about how “girls ought to have their own weight room” with “pink dumbbells and Pilates mats” so the “men could lift in peace”.
Which of course was loud enough for not only me to hear but everyone around us.
So I held my tongue and stared him down until such time that he was finished and he asks me sarcastically “I suppose you need me to un-rack all this weight for you too?”
“Not at all”, I replied and slapped another 10 pounds on top of what he had lifted, which is waaaaaay more than I normally bench, but I’d be damned if I would be spoken to in that manner (especially by a schmuck like him) without redress.
And luckily, I was pissed off enough to do a really good set.
Only now, I can’t lift my arms above my head and it took me 15 minutes to put on a sweater.
But it was worth it, to wipe the smug look off that jackass’s face, because he was just out-benched by a GIRL.
And even though I am in some wicked-bad pain, tomorrow, I’m going to pop some ibuprofen, suck it up, go to the gym, find that guy and whatever he’s lifting, I’m going to lift more.
Because he’s a jackass.
And I clearly have passive aggressive issues.
Let me tell ya, It ain’t easy being red, particularly given my make and model. In case you don’t know, redheads come in two varieties: don’t eff with me jackass Power Reds and Hi, I’m a doormat can I get you some coffee? Shy and Retiring Auburns. don’t eff with me jackass Power Reds like myself are full-on, stereotypical reds, capable of supplying the energy needs of the nation for a full 24 hours if only science could figure out a way to harness our power are a force to behold. Doormats and Tea Retiring Auburns however, possess the same and equal power by the very nature of their redness, however they possess an aberrant gene that makes them weak and undeserving of their redness have never quite wrapped their brain around it and hence do their best to blend into the wallpaper.
As a Power Red, I admit I take full advantage of the innate fear people possess of my very real supposed temper, but it just isn’t as much fun as it used to be is disheartening to watch people cringe when they’ve realized they have fucked up royally in my presence have upset me, and they wait to see whether or not I will flay the skin from their body in the most painful way imaginable get angry at them. And while back in the day, I made it a raison detre to prove that blonds most certainly do not have more fun Reds are not to be forgotten in the Blond/Brunette power struggle, now that I’ve been off the market for many moons married, yummy-flirty puppy boys gentlemen who assume they can immediately talk dirty to me chat me up, have become more of a bore and chore tiresome like cleaning up after the dog in the backyard. Been there, done that. Nothing original to see here people, move along.
The thing that really pisses me off upsets me ever so slightly about becoming an Elder Red is that my hissy-fits, temper tantrums, and rants occasional outbursts at fucking morons perceived injustices are viewed as less cute as I grow into a haggard old crone age. For example, this weekend I was in Dante’s seventh circle of Hell the airport and some redneck bozo who thought he was flirting with me but in actuality was annoying the crap out of me and he somehow got the brilliant idea to insult me instead well-meaning but clumsy fellow started flirting with me. When I didn’t fall for his line of shit because damn, he smelled bad and was totally in my personal space failed to take notice of his attention, he thought he’d be an Einstein and provoke me into putting a pencil through his eye it would be amusing to tease me about my hair color.
Now I’ve heard all the jokes and am rarely fairly good natured about these insulting pricks harmless ribbings. Like when this insipid idiot complete stranger insists on pissing me off asking me whether or not my hair color is “real” as in does my collar match my cuffs?, I know I should rip his head off and spit down his neck politely answer the question, however, I’m freakin red-head you dingbat! Of-effen-course I’m going to counter with the question of whether or not that offensive smelling, mangy rug on your bean that you obviously purchased on QVC is your “real hair”!
Would you expect any less? Jeeesh…
