I first read about this story in Wonkette. Apparently a State Rep. from South Carolina (Boiling Springs, no less) proposed a bill that would make the sale of sex toys illegal. Really. Honestly. The full AP story is here.
Most of the good jokes have been taken already by Wonkette commentors and others, such as colinsmith who asks, "Does this apply to produce?" It really does cast the legality of the Farmer's Market in a whole new light (if the bill passes). Will it require that someone sign a release assuring the salesperson that the cucumber or squash the customer bought will not be stuck in any other hole besides the mouth? And even in that case, not in a seductive manner? Also: chains, whips, feather boas...I mean technically isn't lingerie just a form of a sex toy? The language in the bill says that anything "designed or marketed as useful primarily for the stimulation of human genital organs" is a no-no to sell. That's a pretty vague and possibly all-inclusive definition. But I'm glad my non-human genitals are still OK. Maybe now they need to just have each toy marked "For Dogs Only" to get around this dumb law. I'd love to see the court transcripts if this law gets passed and challenged. Unfortunately, it doesn't seem likely to pass any time soon.
What really amazes me is how a state that is already backwards could possibly see this as a useful way to occupy time. Are there legions of teenagers who are using sex toys to the overall detriment of society? I mean, this is a state that rates near dead last in both education and STD rates. How can this guy possibly think he is serving South Carolinians by proposing this law? Hey buddy, fix the damn schools first then we can worry about your wives not being able to buy a pocket rocket.
Here is the bio of Representative G. Ralph Davenport, Jr., who proposed the bill, if you happen to be interested.
Monday, April 24, 2006
Wednesday, April 19, 2006
Greta Van Susteren = "Capote"!?!?
For anyone who missed the extremely anti-gay Pastor Fred Phelps on Scarborough Country going toe-to-toe with guest host Michael Smerconish, certainly check it out. I wish I could paste in some pictures of Smerconish's facial expressions, they are priceless. Pastor Phelps's platform is so utterly ridiculous that it becomes very funny! (Exception being when he interrupts funerals for Iraq War Veterans -- thats not funny at all and is actually disgusting).
Anyway, Phelps got his mic cut off by a clearly frustrated Smerconish, who mocked Phelps's repeated statement "fiery eyes." Some of the stuff Phelps says is so off-the-wall I think he enjoys pulling it out of his ass. I decided to check out the website that Phelps is in charge of and he released a hilarious press release (PDF) ripping Smerconish. Quoting from that release:
P.S. This guy could totally get a sitcom/reality show.
Anyway, Phelps got his mic cut off by a clearly frustrated Smerconish, who mocked Phelps's repeated statement "fiery eyes." Some of the stuff Phelps says is so off-the-wall I think he enjoys pulling it out of his ass. I decided to check out the website that Phelps is in charge of and he released a hilarious press release (PDF) ripping Smerconish. Quoting from that release:
I like how he took it upon himself to declare Mr. Scarborough's absence unoffical. Are they going to start interviewing the guy on the street corner yelling about the End Times and giving him national TV time? Is this whats next? So everyone else doesn't have to read about this Phelps character, basically he has a church made up almost entirely of similarly brainwashed family members who think that anything bad that happens to America is God's way of punishing us for condoning homosexuality. Riiiiight.Scarborough Country = "Brokeback Mountain"
...Mr. Scarborough was AWOL. Sent a bald-headed, pig-eyed troll named Michael Smerconish to referee...the troll began flailing his arms, yelling for somebody to cut off Pastor Phelps' mike. Quoth he: "I've had all I can take from the man with fire in his eyes." MSNBC-TV pulled the plug on Phelps - symbolizing how our antichrist mass media and homofascist America have pulled it - at the punch line: "Like ancient Sodom, America is doomed." It was precise. It was dramatic.
P.S. This guy could totally get a sitcom/reality show.
Tuesday, April 04, 2006
Where am I?
Columbia, South Carolina seems to be the easiest answer to my inquiring title. But that cannot be the answer, can it? No way this is normal, everyday America I am living in.
Case and point, my Tuesday afternoon visit to Hardee’s. It’s only two minutes away, there should be no obstacles between me and my 2/3 lb. Thickburger.
But right away I am forced to alter my route to avoid a long line of traffic caused by a train moving at 2 mph, blowing its horn, apparently to warn the turtles, three-toed sloths and injured Veterans with no appendages to move out of the way. The warning can’t be for any normal person, they’d have time to see the train, read a Tolstoy novel and politely move out of the way. They might even have time to engage in a conversation with the conductor of the train, the one in the “If I have to stay up ‘til 3 am driving this fucking train then you will too” t-shirt.
With my first turn diverted by train traffic, my third turn was equally altered, this time by a car accident. Car accidents in Columbia are as common as post-Sonic shits, so it was no surprise. But seeing the cones and the police cars and the fire engine that came to make sure the car didn’t blow up, I can only imagine the taxpayer cost of these accidents. Which brings me to one actual conclusion of this rant, that drivers licenses are way too easy to get.
Think about it: there is a reason not everyone plays an instrument, is a doctor or a pilot. Some people are good at some things and not so good at others. But me not being able to play the trombone and playing it anyway probably isn’t going to kill anyone directly. However, people who are terrible at driving but do it anyway will most likely kill people.
The fact is that there are far too many dumb, ditzy, arrogant, spaced-out, cell-phone-jabbing, kid-in-the-backseat-hitting, clueless morons on the road these days. Each time I drive in Columbia it’s a calculated risk I know I’m taking. I fear for my life behind the wheel, and rightly so. But a Hardee’s 2/3 lb. Thickburger is most definitely worth the risk.
I know why they let people on the road so easily, it's pure economics. People wouldn’t buy cars if they were told they sucked at driving too much to enjoy the privilege. As a further result, without their precious manslaughter-mobiles people wouldn’t be able to go to malls, movie theaters and Wal-Marts. (Unless of course the government came up with a viable public transportation system, thereby also reducing our dependence on foreign oil, but expecting any real progress from our government is asking for too much, I know).
So after successfully dodging trains, traffic, accidents and pedestrians on the two minute drive, I finally arrive at my destination, Hardee’s. My anticipation of the 2/3 lb. Thickburger is mounting. I walk in and place my order, asking for the #7 Combo, with the student discount that gets me free fries and a drink. There’s a sign right next to the cashier advertising the discount. Easy enough, right?
Wrong.
The cashier, a managerial-type, starts to lecture me on how to correctly order the student-discount combo. At first I don’t even realize he’s talking to me, I thought he was talking into the drive-thru headset he has on his head. But then I gather the conversation he’s having with himself is about my order!
“Order just the sandwich next time if you want that discount, because I already put in the combo and now I have to redo the order,” he says. “Most cashiers won’t understand, so next time just ask for the sandwich and then the discount.”
“You understand what I’m trying to say?”
I muttered a “yea” from my dry, gaping mouth. I’m paying this guy money and its my prerogative to learn the correct way to order? Is this the Soup-Nazi from Seinfeld? Are his cashiers really so dumb they can’t listen to my order and then type it in correctly?
I’m also getting nervous, because as he’s trying to teach me how to order, he keeps referring to #4. I ordered a damn #7, the 2/3 lb. Thickburger. If I get a #4 this guy is going to be washing it off his cute Hardee’s polo. Luckily when my meal comes he got it right. I still think he’s talking about how to order but I’m not even hearing him at this point. I take a little over half an hour to finish that bad-boy Thickburger, enjoying every bit as I read my Columbia City Paper.
Then I leave Hardee’s, which is always a spectacle, because it is a common hang out for some of the city’s homeless population. So I mildly brace myself to have to turn down requests for money or listen to a cracked-out guy tell me to have a nice day ten times in a row. That would have been normal. But that did not happen.
Instead, as I am unlocking my door a nicely dressed, clean cut guy, about 22 years old, walking along the sidewalk starts to talk to me. He has a backpack on, so I assume he’s a student of some sort.
“Uh excuse me,” he begins, “I really like those sandals, where’d you get those?”
What???
What the hell kind of question is that? First of all, he was not even near enough me to get a good look at my sandals. I was hurriedly getting into my car, not modeling my footwear. He was wearing rather expensive looking sunglasses, so I couldn’t tell if he glanced down towards my feet, but if he did, why? Is he scouring the sidewalks of Columbia looking for a good pair of sandals on other guys’ feet? I had jeans on and they covered nearly every visible part of my sandals. How did he know they were nice? It seemed to me like he just invented the question after he decided to talk to me. There was a pause between “Excuse me,” and the question that led me to believe he just wanted to be completely random. Ask me where the nearest Laundromat or music store is. But where I got my sandals? Come on.
I told him, stammering, that I got them at Kohl’s in Spartanburg. I fully knew this answer wouldn’t appease him, and purposely didn’t tell him the brand name. Don’t ask me weird questions and I won’t give you useless answers.
Where am I?
Have I stumbled into a different dimension? Is this a weird alternate universe? Should I really expect to be panhandled and bothered only to get asked about my partially visible sandals and be completely confused by it? This can’t be normal, everyday America. People wonder why I rarely like to leave my apartment, this is why. I get confused too easily by things that surround me. All I wanted was a Hardee’s 2/3 lb. Thickburger.
On the drive home I saw yet another accident. A T-bone that crushed the entire side of a sedan. It didn’t look pretty, call out the fire-trucks. Oh, but they are busy down the street, because the fire alarm at West Quad A-building is going off, leaving scores of students lining the street as a painfully loud alarm echoes off the building’s walls. I think I’ll order in for lunch next time.
Case and point, my Tuesday afternoon visit to Hardee’s. It’s only two minutes away, there should be no obstacles between me and my 2/3 lb. Thickburger.
But right away I am forced to alter my route to avoid a long line of traffic caused by a train moving at 2 mph, blowing its horn, apparently to warn the turtles, three-toed sloths and injured Veterans with no appendages to move out of the way. The warning can’t be for any normal person, they’d have time to see the train, read a Tolstoy novel and politely move out of the way. They might even have time to engage in a conversation with the conductor of the train, the one in the “If I have to stay up ‘til 3 am driving this fucking train then you will too” t-shirt.
With my first turn diverted by train traffic, my third turn was equally altered, this time by a car accident. Car accidents in Columbia are as common as post-Sonic shits, so it was no surprise. But seeing the cones and the police cars and the fire engine that came to make sure the car didn’t blow up, I can only imagine the taxpayer cost of these accidents. Which brings me to one actual conclusion of this rant, that drivers licenses are way too easy to get.
Think about it: there is a reason not everyone plays an instrument, is a doctor or a pilot. Some people are good at some things and not so good at others. But me not being able to play the trombone and playing it anyway probably isn’t going to kill anyone directly. However, people who are terrible at driving but do it anyway will most likely kill people.
The fact is that there are far too many dumb, ditzy, arrogant, spaced-out, cell-phone-jabbing, kid-in-the-backseat-hitting, clueless morons on the road these days. Each time I drive in Columbia it’s a calculated risk I know I’m taking. I fear for my life behind the wheel, and rightly so. But a Hardee’s 2/3 lb. Thickburger is most definitely worth the risk.
I know why they let people on the road so easily, it's pure economics. People wouldn’t buy cars if they were told they sucked at driving too much to enjoy the privilege. As a further result, without their precious manslaughter-mobiles people wouldn’t be able to go to malls, movie theaters and Wal-Marts. (Unless of course the government came up with a viable public transportation system, thereby also reducing our dependence on foreign oil, but expecting any real progress from our government is asking for too much, I know).
So after successfully dodging trains, traffic, accidents and pedestrians on the two minute drive, I finally arrive at my destination, Hardee’s. My anticipation of the 2/3 lb. Thickburger is mounting. I walk in and place my order, asking for the #7 Combo, with the student discount that gets me free fries and a drink. There’s a sign right next to the cashier advertising the discount. Easy enough, right?
Wrong.
The cashier, a managerial-type, starts to lecture me on how to correctly order the student-discount combo. At first I don’t even realize he’s talking to me, I thought he was talking into the drive-thru headset he has on his head. But then I gather the conversation he’s having with himself is about my order!
“Order just the sandwich next time if you want that discount, because I already put in the combo and now I have to redo the order,” he says. “Most cashiers won’t understand, so next time just ask for the sandwich and then the discount.”
“You understand what I’m trying to say?”
I muttered a “yea” from my dry, gaping mouth. I’m paying this guy money and its my prerogative to learn the correct way to order? Is this the Soup-Nazi from Seinfeld? Are his cashiers really so dumb they can’t listen to my order and then type it in correctly?
I’m also getting nervous, because as he’s trying to teach me how to order, he keeps referring to #4. I ordered a damn #7, the 2/3 lb. Thickburger. If I get a #4 this guy is going to be washing it off his cute Hardee’s polo. Luckily when my meal comes he got it right. I still think he’s talking about how to order but I’m not even hearing him at this point. I take a little over half an hour to finish that bad-boy Thickburger, enjoying every bit as I read my Columbia City Paper.
Then I leave Hardee’s, which is always a spectacle, because it is a common hang out for some of the city’s homeless population. So I mildly brace myself to have to turn down requests for money or listen to a cracked-out guy tell me to have a nice day ten times in a row. That would have been normal. But that did not happen.
Instead, as I am unlocking my door a nicely dressed, clean cut guy, about 22 years old, walking along the sidewalk starts to talk to me. He has a backpack on, so I assume he’s a student of some sort.
“Uh excuse me,” he begins, “I really like those sandals, where’d you get those?”
What???
What the hell kind of question is that? First of all, he was not even near enough me to get a good look at my sandals. I was hurriedly getting into my car, not modeling my footwear. He was wearing rather expensive looking sunglasses, so I couldn’t tell if he glanced down towards my feet, but if he did, why? Is he scouring the sidewalks of Columbia looking for a good pair of sandals on other guys’ feet? I had jeans on and they covered nearly every visible part of my sandals. How did he know they were nice? It seemed to me like he just invented the question after he decided to talk to me. There was a pause between “Excuse me,” and the question that led me to believe he just wanted to be completely random. Ask me where the nearest Laundromat or music store is. But where I got my sandals? Come on.
I told him, stammering, that I got them at Kohl’s in Spartanburg. I fully knew this answer wouldn’t appease him, and purposely didn’t tell him the brand name. Don’t ask me weird questions and I won’t give you useless answers.
Where am I?
Have I stumbled into a different dimension? Is this a weird alternate universe? Should I really expect to be panhandled and bothered only to get asked about my partially visible sandals and be completely confused by it? This can’t be normal, everyday America. People wonder why I rarely like to leave my apartment, this is why. I get confused too easily by things that surround me. All I wanted was a Hardee’s 2/3 lb. Thickburger.
On the drive home I saw yet another accident. A T-bone that crushed the entire side of a sedan. It didn’t look pretty, call out the fire-trucks. Oh, but they are busy down the street, because the fire alarm at West Quad A-building is going off, leaving scores of students lining the street as a painfully loud alarm echoes off the building’s walls. I think I’ll order in for lunch next time.
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