Eight Simple Rules For Mating My Mid-Twenties Plotter
Who says there’s no good news anymore? A wedding?!? For reals? Zip-a-Dee-Doo-Dah! I, for one, am ready for a healthy, deep-cleansing cry. Somebody get me a hanky.
Charles Manson, 80, and Afton Elaine Burton (using the known alias of Star), 26, are getting ready to say the big “I do.” Reportedly the State of California has issued these rambunctious youngsters a license to marry.
I was wondering about the rules in a situation like this. Here goes.
- No touching!!! Daddy horny, Michael.
- Write your own vows. I obtained an advance copy of Charlie’s. “If you look down at me you will see a fool; if you look up at me you will see a god; if you look straight at me you will see yourself.” That’s some deep fucking shit. I wasn’t able to get my grubby mitts on a copy of Star’s but I imagine it would be something along the lines of, “These shrooms are making me so high, man.”
- Sometimes a crazed look in the eye is more than enough.
- A single serving of Viagra is worth a carton of cigarettes.
- An appropriate color scheme is crucial to complement the swastika tattoo between your eyes.
- Scheduling early is crucial if one wishes to be joined together by an officially licensed Church of Satan representative.
- As a musician, Manson can also be the wedding singer performing his own original songs. No one should have to sit through that. (I offer my services performing the song, Halloween In Heaven; Christmas In Hell.)
- The couple wishes no gifts from this physical plane of existence (other than Depends) and asks that donations are made in the couple’s name to Toys For Tots.
On Saturdays this space normally features a WordPress reblog but I wasn’t able to find a post regarding a story from earlier this year that deeply affected me. I’m posting an update regarding this story instead.
Earlier this year there was a very disturbing story involving a 17-year-old youth playing in a recreational soccer league that was intended to give suburban kids a chance.
While playing the goalie position, the unnamed youth reportedly pushed a player attempting a corner kick. After justifiably drawing a yellow card the youth protested the call and shouted at the volunteer referee who had made the call.
As the yellow card was being written, the youth suckerpunched the referee, Ricardo Portillo, 46, in the side of the head. By the time police arrived Portillo was curled on the ground in a fetal position and complaining of nausea and back pain. The referee was rushed to a hospital and slipped into a coma later that evening. Within two days Portillo was dead from brain swelling and injuries resulting from the punch.
On Aug. 5, 2013, the youth plead guilty as part of deal reached with prosecutors. The deal prevented the youth from being tried as an adult, only about three months before his 18th birthday. Under the deal the youth will serve a maximum of just over three years in a juvenile prison, although a juvenile parole board could decide to release the youth earlier.
The juvenile court judge also ordered the youth to maintain a picture of the victim in his cell and write a letter to the man’s daughters every week to remind him of the pain he caused the man’s family.
Again, that’s three years in a juvenile prison for a guilty plea on a charge of “homicide by assault.” Sad.
Today I venture forth from my flat for the first time since naked pictures of me were released on the internet. And, even though he’s embarrassed, I’m bring Mr. Tallywacker with me. Jolly good and all that! Tally ho!
That is to say, wow, isn’t my tally a ho?
Being royal isn’t easy. No, not that I’m blue-blooded, but I am royal in so many ways. Royally screwed. Royally flushed. Well, you get the idea.
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There was something a skosh awkward with the print edition of the Wall Street Journal today (Friday, August 31st). And I’m speaking as a reader of news, not as a forward observer in the partisan wars.
You just know the WSJ wanted to be in on Romney’s big night. It was finally time for the big acceptance speech. No doubt the WSJ wanted it so bad they could taste it.
There was just one wee problem. The event would occur after their print deadline. I’ve seen newspapers in local markets push back deadlines for things like important sporting events in the evening and such. Editorial closes late, which pushed back pre-production, press deadlines and cascades all the way to distribution. The trucks run late. In my experience it takes an edict from the CEO to push back reliability benchmarks on home delivery. It’s a rather big deal.
Apparently the wait time was too long or WSJ doesn’t have such an option. Under the headline “Romney Vows to ‘Restore’ U.S.’ came news “coverage” (air quotes) consisting of several predictions. I guess we could call it a case of “pre-reporting” (air quotes) the news. In that vein the WSJ became the equivalent of a bulletin board system or newsletter.
I like a good joke as much as the next loser. Of course, usually I am the next loser.
I ask you to consider the image on the right. Is it funny? This picture came up in an image search for the word “humor.” That means somebody out there thinks it is funny.
Humor is a lot like beauty, I think, in that it’s in the eye of the beholder. If your mother is currently in the back of the morgue with her ice cold dead body lying rigor mortis on a slab, I’m going to go out on a limb and suggest that you might not think the sign is so funny. For the rest of us, however, the sign might be funny as fucking hell!
There’s one crucial ingredient about jokes and humor. Do you know what it is? Think hard. This isn’t a trick question.
Oh yeah. The shit has to be funny. Humor without funny isn’t humor at all. I know all about this. Not because I’m funny but because I strive for it and fail. That makes me a freakin’ expert.
But you know what’s way worse than not being funny? It’s using your non-funny as an lame excuse to attempt to get away with being an ass. Case in point: Willard “Mitt” Romney.
Why isn’t saying “It’s just a joke” a valid defense for spewing just about any old bullshit you want? I’m about to tell you why.
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In the eighties I worked at a major daily newspaper. No, I is was not as a writer thing then back ago. I worked in a different department. I did learn a thing or two about journalism, though. Spend a decade or two in an industry and you pick up a few things.
Surprisingly times were already lean for newspapers, even way back then. The population in our county was growing and our circulation numbers were up. But they were not keeping pace with the population growth. In other words, our penetration was decreasing. Our key metric was households and the percentage of households choosing to partake of our product was dropping.
It was generally surmised that this was a result of people’s lifestyles changing. The fast pace of modern life left little time for a cup of coffee and reading something in the morning before rushing out to the door to get to work. It also seemed generational. Younger folks seemed to like their news in smaller chunks from more entertaining, bite-sized chunks, like television and the expanding world of cable.
Eventually circulation numbers peaked and then started to decline. It was no longer just a penetration thing accompanied by actual growth. The bleeding had started. And this was all happening before the internet. Oops.
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