Thoughtless for the Day

Big-Assed Weekend Edition (With your host, Nathan E. Bulwar-Lytton)

Greetings, gentle readers. Mr. Anonymous is spending this weekend
celebrating his tenth wedding anniversary (Making this the first
anniversary where his wife, now 21, may drink legally.) and resting up for
his duties as moderator for next week's BIG DEBATE, so I'll be assuming
all editorial duties (which include - but are not restricted to - beating
copy-boys for forgetting to flush, and going to lunch) until Monday when I
will, once again, pick up the mantel of chief theater critic for the
Burley Protestant Observer!

Of course Monday will be the start of a very busy week for yours truly
because the theater season, here in the sleepy hamlet of Burley
Connecticut, is about to kick into full swing. Which is a nice way of
saying that Burley Elementary has recently wrapped up its production of
Ear Wax is NOT for Eating - Look at Me when I'm Talking to You! and
that means that it's time for the life-long students at Burley High
School (Soon to be renamed "John Brown High" in honor of the native
nutmegger turned mass murderer. ) to embarrass themselves and their
"close-knit" (the polite way of saying "incestuous") families for years to
come.

Ah, High School theatrics, whereby budding teenage thespians are introduced
to the smell of greasepaint and the thrill of the spotlight while we, the
audience, are introduced to the sight of adolescents who are mostly of
Scots/Irish descent portraying Puerto Ricans. That's right, the Theater
Department at Burley High, whose production of Flowers for Algernon
was shut down by the local ASPCA shortly after its star bit the head off
of the "lead mouse", have decided to tackle West Side Story

Oh, gentle readers, there was just so much bad to choose from that, at
first, I was at a loss as to where to start. Finally, I decided that
instead of focusing the sets (What that barn was doing there, painted
between those skyscrapers, is anyone's guess) or the directing (Shouts of
"Get your fat ass out on that stage now" and "you're looking at detention-
for-life, mister!" could easily be heard emanating from backstage) , let
us instead turn our attention towards the casting (for, if I don't tell
this to you, I fear that I may, someday, have to describe it to a
psychiatric professional from the cozy confines of a rubber room).

As mentioned above, the members of both the Jets (the Caucasian
gang) and the Sharks (the Puerto Rican gang) were portrayed entirely by
White students. As if this weren't bad enough, apparently a plurality of
the Jets failed to show up for the performance, resulting their being
outnumbered by the Sharks, in the opening fight scene, by nearly one dozen
to three.

The pivotal role of Maria was assigned to Wendy Kennedy whom I'd like to
think, despite obviously being at least seven months pregnant, was not
"showing" at the time her part was cast. However, since no more than a
fortnight's worth of work (if that) was scattered upon this train wreck,
I find it highly unlikely that anyone failed to notice Wendy's "condition"

The only "student of color" appearing in the production was one Tamikka
"Boom Boom" LeShaun, a seventeen-year-old, African-American, mother of
three, who (in what has to be the most inspired/drug induced act of casting
in the history of the theater) was given the role of Officer Krupke.

It was Ms. LeShaun who, quite inadvertently, became the catalyst for the
evening's most dramatic event when she stepped onto the stage and, after
four minutes of silence, uttered "Aw shit. I can't remember what I's s'pose
to say."

This sudden departure from the script and into the world of the Avant-Garde
was quickly seized upon by a member of the audience who supplied a sort of
"Greek Chorus" by shouting "Ha, ha. Tamikka done forgot her words." This
was followed by an unusual amount of high-pitched giggling.

Having successfully broken down the "Forth wall", Tamikka gave the audience
a peek though the window to her soul by informing us that "Ya'll don't know
me. Ya'll don't know my pain" and then requesting that we immediately cease
"acting like a bunch of stuck-up motherfuckers." Sadly, before Ms LeShaun
could finish her most enlightening lecture on etiquette, her maternal
grandmother, Mrs. Antoinette Jenkins (age 34) lunged across the aisle,
grabbing another patron of the arts by the throat and shouting "I'll teach
your white ass not to laugh at my grandbaby!"

At this point, a sort of general melee broke out in the theater that was
by far better than the lopsided "rumble" which had been presented earlier
on the stage. The best part of this brawl being that I was blessed with
the opportunity to place my foot squarely in the groin of the little
ruffian whom I witnessed defacing my garden wall last Tuesday.

_ . _

From our "It's wrong to gloat" department :

Many of you have written me to express your shock that charges of Sexual
Harassment have been brought against Bill O'Reilly. Many more of you have
written me to express your shock that those charges were brought by a
woman.

I need not remind you, gentle readers, that RATYHTL is highly respectable
web… thingy and we will not be publishing jokes like Who's
Looking Out For You…And Up Your Dress or The No Spunk Zone or
"And now for our 'Most Ridiculous Item of the Day' - Scheming bitches
who can't keep their fucking mouths shut!".

If you're looking for that sort of humor, look elsewhere!

Warmest regards,
Nathan




Rodney on 10.16.04 @ 02:37 AM EST [link]

Writers' Block Party

Tonight, for the first time in over a week, I found myself with some
actual time to sit down and write. No sooner had I gotten comfy in front
of the keyboard than writers' block set in.

I rarely get writers' block. My usual writing routine consists of getting
an idea, just before I drift off to sleep, jotting that idea down in the
notebook I keep beside my bed, and then writing about that idea when I
wake up. More often than not, this routine has worked for me.

On those rare occasions when I'm faced with writers' block, I usually do
one of two things. The first is to see if Michelle Malkin has written
anything stupid that I can make fun of. Today, Michelle's column was about
Democrats physically attacking Republicans. This isn't something that I'm
really in favor of, although it does beg the question "If the Republicans
can't fend off a few tofu-eating, tree-hugging Democrats, how can they
stand up to al Qaeda?"

Shit, Luther, if you wanna see Democrats in attack mode just ask one to
sign a petition to put Ralph Nader on the ballot. Caffeineated Jesus on a
latte binge, just saying Nader's name aloud will turn the wimpiest old
Dead Head into fuckin' Mike Tyson.

Having judged Malkin not worth wasting any more ones and zeroes on, I
moved along to my second source of inspiration. This would be a copy of
The Practice of Writing which I picked up for the princely sum of
$1 at a used-book store.

The Practice of Writing * is a wonderfully useless book that's
chock full o' pointless writing exercises which I often pervert to my own
ends. For example, if The Practice of Writing suggests that I "draw
up a chronology of five events in my life from birth to present" I do it -
only I do it while pretending that I'm Rasputin.

1. I am born in the Tyumen district of Siberia - which totally sucks ass.
Not the being born part, although I have been led to understand that it
was a traumatic event for all involved, but the location. Siberia is a
cold and desolate region where the chief occupations are yak rapist,
village idiot, and crazed mystic. I hope to be the latter.

2. At the age of five, I discover that I posses the power of Mesmerism. I
start off small, hypnotizing ants and beetles and forcing them to do my
bidding, which mostly consists of crawling around. Within a few months I
have worked my way up to shellfish, although I suffer a temporary setback
when I discover that chickens are much harder to hypnotize than they look.
By the time I reach puberty, I can put a goat to sleep with the aid of
nothing more than a pocket watch and a large rock.

3. In my early thirties I embarked on a successful career as a Holy Man
employing the novel idea of using sin to drive out sin. You know, like
fighting fire with fire. The way this worked was that, in order to reach
God, you need to communicate with him. Now, the best way to get God's
attention is confess a sin and ask for forgiveness. Do you see where I'm
going with this? No sin - no communication. Long story short - I got to
talk to god…a lot.

4. I am introduced to Tsarina Alexandra. Jesus, the hips on that broad!
Honestly, she looked as if someone had opened a bakery under her dress.
She's going on-and-on about her son's hemophilia and all I can think is
"It must have cost a fortune to widen all of the palace's doorways so that
this escapee from the imperial stables can pass through." Seriously, she
looked like a frickin' moose wearing a tiara.

Anyway, she's bawlin' her chubby eyes out because her son, Alexis, has a
nosebleed that has been running like a facet for three days now, and she
wants me to stop it. So I go down the hall to kid's room and open the
door, real quiet like, and catch the little bastard shoving a Faberge egg
up his nose. Turns out the Tsarevich wasn't a hemophiliac after all - he
was just some sort of nose-freak. Well, I set the brat down and explained
that if he would ease up on violating his nostrils then good ol' Uncle
Gregory would arrange for him to have nice treat every now and then - like
riding a pony or beating a peasant.

5. Prince Felix Felixovich Yussupov has invited me over to his place,
tonight, for cake. I'll write more when I get back.



* The best thing about my copy of the book is that its former owner
scrawled tons of fascinating crap in the book's margins like "Michelle
[Malkin?] - I was looking through last year's yearbook and found
out that 'Andy King' (in our math class) is really called Britt."
WTFMYV? Andy King is really Britt? That's more fodder for a short
story than any of the ideas offered in the actual text of The Practice
of Writing.

The ancient Greek word of the day is:
grafw - to write

If the above word looks like ippojshit to you,
then you need to go here
and download the SPIONIC font for either MAC or PC. Dude.




Rodney on 10.14.04 @ 07:37 AM EST [link]

Four More Years of Bush May Not Be Such a Bad Thing

I can tell that I've lost a few of you already. Just hear me out on this,
OK? Take the example of Ronald Reagan. Now, I think that Reagan was a
puppy-molesting traitor who sold weapons to Iran to finance his
puppy-molesting habit. But you have to admit that Reagan's second term was
a Hell of a lot different from his first. Maybe that was because many of
the idiots who rode into the White House with him (like James Watt) were
no longer there when he was re-elected, or maybe it was the threat of
impeachment for Iran/Contra. Who knows? I've always summed up the Reagan
years this way: first term - crazy old man ready to push the red button
at any moment. Second term - crazy old man who was willing to negotiate
with the Soviets.

Fast forward to Gorge Bush v2.0. When Bush gets his return ticket punched,
Colin Powell is going to threaten to walk unless some heads roll. Let's
face it, someone is going to have to pay for the shit-fight that is Iraq
and that bill is due during Bush's second term. It's part of the deal that
Bush struck with John McCain for his support.

Just as Reagan needed the Cold War to get re-elected, Bush needed the War
on Terror. Bush stays in - War on Terror goes away. He'll no longer need
it and it certainly won't be needed by the man that the RNC has chosen to
succeed him - the man they've chosen to run against Hillary Clinton in '08
- John McCain.

Hang the threat of impeachment of Bush's head and fire a few morons
(Wolfowitz, Rice, and Rumsfeld for openers), and, just maybe, the next
four years might not be so bad.

Just don't plan on doing any traveling abroad.

You see, the whole Bush/Reagan analogy kind of breaks down on an
international level. While Ronald Reagan may not have exactly been loved
in some parts of the world, he wasn't hated with the vehemence that
foreigners seem to reserve for Bush Jr. Handing Bush another four years
may also be handing the people in the rest of the world a reason to
transfer their hatred of America's government to Americans in general.
So, if you've been thinking about Paris in the Spring, you might want to
wait until the Spring of '09.

Moving right along…

It has come to my attention (via advanced ticket sales) that many of you
are planning to attend the Dave Blood memorial/benefit concert on Nov. 21st
(From this time forward to be known as "Bloodfest '04").

In the hope of making your stay, here in Philadelphia, as pleasant as
possible (for people making the life-altering mistake of spending a weekend
in Philly), I've begun working on the "Bloodfest '04 Weekend Guide to
Philadelphia". I plan to start posting sections of the guide on 21st of
this month and putting the entire guide online on Nov. 19th. In order to
accomplish this Herculean task, I'll need your help. Please email me with
your question ("Where should I eat, and - more importantly - where should
I drink?") or suggestions ("I think that you should post a list of places
to avoid"), and I'll do my best to incorporate them into the guide. In the
meantime, you might want to take a look at the Where to Go section
of this website.

By the way, on Saturday, Nov. 20th, I will be speaking at a meeting of the
Philadelphia Alliance of Critical Thinkers (PhACT) at the Philadelphia
Community College at 17th and Spring Garden streets. Details to follow.



Rodney on 10.13.04 @ 12:18 PM EST [link]

Teh Best Magazine in America - EVAR!

I had some business to take care of in Wilmington today, and - thanks to
SEPTA's policy of only sending trains there during the vernal equinox - I
ended up having to hang around the station for bout two hours. Searching
for something, anything, to read I wandered into the station's magazine/
book/candy/soda store and picked up a copy of WIRED.

Normally, I don't read WIRED, but the headline ("The Plot to Kill
Evolution") and the little silver sticker attached to the mag which
declared "The Best Magazine in America - Chicago Tribune" were enough to
convince my to plop down five bucks for a copy. I want my money back.

OK, I realize that I'm about to brutally murder any chance I ever had of
writing for WIRED, but something really needs to be done here. After
finishing the magazine, all I could thing was: Were the folks at the
Chicago tribune high on a combo of PCP and rubbing alcohol when they
conducted their little survey? Did they compare WIRED to High
Times or Jane and just stop there? Have the drooling 'tards at
the Tribune ever heard of The Baffler or Reason?

My main problem with WIRED, apart from the fact that the Evolution
article never really kicked into high gear, is (And, again, I should
point out that I'm not a regular reader. They may've been having an off
issue) that the magazine reads like a relic from the 1990's. On every page
happy tech workers bicycle to jobs where they get to play video games all
day long. It's as if someone forget to tell the editors at WIRED
that the Internet Bubble burst four years ago and nobody gives a shit about
Halo 2. Sweet Jesus Fuck-buddy, they actually make Steve Wozniak
jokes!

In the piece about Lee Abrams, the line "but he's the guy that killed
radio" was repeated so often that it started to remind me of Rik Mayall's
"But I don't know Vanessa Redgrave" bit.

If the retro-tards at WIRED wanna do some cutting-edge tech
reporting, they should send a reporter to India to interview the guy who's
doing my job.

HALLOWEEN RENTAL ALERT!

Deathdream is now out on DVD - featuring commentary from the film's
writer, Alan Ormsby (The genius behind Children Shouldn't Play with Dead
Things) and the films director, Bob Clark (the not-so-genius behind
Porky's). Sadly, I learned from Alan's commentary track that he and
Anya are no longer together *sob*.

Deathdream is an updated re-telling of The Monkey's Paw
involving a creepy Vietnam Veteran [Insert John Kerry joke here] and his
beyond-average family. The scene with the family dog (You'll know it
when you see it) is worth the rental price alone.

Deathdream rates 666 stars. Don't miss it.



Rodney on 10.12.04 @ 10:53 PM EST [link]

My TVC15

Most of your musician/writer types would rather 'fess up to committing
heinous acts of genocide than to watching TV. Not me. I love television.

I guess that one of the reasons that I love television so much is its
innate ability to piss people off. Right Wingers hate TV because they see
it as a liberal medium created solely for the purpose of airing Will and
Grace. Ask any inbred hick (or his brother, Neal) how he feels about
Sesame Street and he'll tell you that "If them thar faggots, Bert and
Ernie, moved into my trailer park, you can bet me an' the boys would light
their asses up real good."

Lefties tend to see television as a tool of a reactionary government, Hell
bent on stealing little Darwin Dakota's attention away from his finger
painting and implanting, deep within his tiny skull, the burning desire to
acquire every product ever produced by Mattel.

Both sides are, of course, more-or-less correct. Television is a wonderful
Nazi wasteland of Gay consumerism and should only be viewed by people who
have inhaled large quantities of Nitrous Oxide while on lunch break at the
abortion clinic. Now put the coffee down. Coffee is for closers.

It's clear that what our society needs is more television. To that
end, my friend, Matt, and I have spent the last several months developing
several television shows which we hope to pitch to some network executives
as soon as we learn to dress ourselves. Here are poop-filled brownies of
our labor:


Will you help me find my puppy?

Synopsis: Pedophiles compete to see who can lure the most children into
a van.

Nanook of North Carolina

Synopsis: When a small, southern, town's advertisement for a new sheriff
is answered by an Eskimo, hilarity and harpooning ensue.

From the producers of Law and Order: Occult Related Crimes Unit
(Another show Matt and I pitched back in December)comes the first game
show based on a crime drama:

Satanists or Just Some Kids

Synopsis: Contestants look at crime scene photos and try to determine if
the perpetrators were members of an organized Satanic cult or "just some
kids. Probably high on dope or something."

Stinky Pinky

Synopsis: Join host Whoopie Goldberg to see if contestants can win cash
and prizes by properly identifying the odors on the hands of hilarious
celebrity panelists like Stephen Hawking, Carrot Top, and Motorhead's
Lemmy.

The Pitch: You don't know where that's finger has been - or do you?

Who Wants To Murder My Stepfather?

Synopsis: Angry Goth kids (a redundancy?) fellate Hobos and disheveled
shopkeepers in an attempt to "finally get rid of that fat fuckin' Nazi
who knocked up my mom."



Rodney on 10.11.04 @ 06:44 PM EST [link]