Showing posts with label The Day I Lost my Faith in Humanity. Show all posts
Showing posts with label The Day I Lost my Faith in Humanity. Show all posts

Thursday, May 06, 2010

The Day I Lost My Faith in Humanity



You know that level of "oh, what the fuck is THIS now?" that leaves you stumbling, fumbling, bumbling for any sort of coherent articulation of your boiling indignation?

Yeah, well, recently I've decided I'm not even gonna try anymore. Instead, I've decided to deploy the "Gleason Face" to succinctly and accurately communicate those feelings:

Ahhh, perfect.

Let's give the Gleason Face a test run with a little stroll through today's headlines, shall we?

Blahblahblah - oil spill - blahblahblah - British elections - blahblahblah - Times Square bomber

Oh, what the fuck is THIS now?

"KFC announces 'Buckets for the Cure'"???


Read the KFC press release here.


Monday, May 03, 2010

The Day I Lost My Faith in Humanity


"Honey, I'm sorry about cheating. To improve our marriage I just ordered us a Better Marriage Blanket. That ought to fix everything, right hon? ... Hon?"

Tuesday, April 20, 2010

The Day I Lost My Faith in Humanity: MAN, the tobacco companies are getting desperate.

I'll just file this under, "Did They Really Think They Were Gonna Get Away With This?!?"

For years, Big Tobacco has faced a pretty serious problem with its customer base. Namely, that it has an irritating tendency to die off relatively young, and in staggering numbers. Sure, smokes tend to engender the sort of "customer for life" allegiance most companies would die for. But the trade-off comes when said customer's life winds up being horribly brief, because people literally ARE dying for brand loyalty. So it becomes important to regularly replenish your user base.

If only doing that with tobacco was easier to do.

But NOOOOO. The fucking GOVERNMENT always has to step in, and slap the R.J. Reynoldses and Phillip Morrises of the world with all kinds of pesky REGULATIONS. First, it was that they couldn't use doctors in their ads. Then, they couldn't advertise on TV or radio anymore. After that came the meddling Surgeon General, who made them print "WARNING: THIS SHIT WILL LITERALLY FUCKING KILL YOU" on every single pack.

Though something like this, I feel, would be even more effective.

But perhaps no blow to the cancer merchants has been so devastating as the Federal mandate that prohibits them from marketing to kids.

"Aww, C'MON!" they cry. "That's just not FAIR! How are we supposed to continue as a going concern if we can't hook impressionable youths on our legal product, and do so at an age when their lack of rational judgment prevents them from making an informed decision?!?" And, they sort of have a point. It's a cynical, evil and transparently self-serving point, yes. But, it stands nonetheless.

And so, they try. They bend over backwards looking for loopholes, and following the letter of the law rather than the spirit of it in an attempt to draw young customers. Customers they can then ride until their early death.

Without question, the worst offender of the bunch has been Camel.

YOU might be. But the folds in your lungs? Not so much.

Sure, they can SAY they're not trying to market to children all they want. But their track record tells a different story. Whether it's getting smacked down because of Joe Camel the cartoon character, or being forced to pull candy- and fruit-flavored death sticks (with names like "Twista Lime" and "Mocha Taboo") off of the shelves, Camel has always been at the envelope-pushing forefront of the advertising-to-kids movement.

But this time, methinks they've crossed the fucking line. Because while studies show that their denials concerning the fruity smokes and colorful dromedaries have trace amounts of plausible deniability, "Camel Orbs" are just goddamned gratuitous.

That's "Camel Orbs," the one-and-a-half calorie death mint.

"Orbs" are sort of like Certs, except instead of Retsyn™, they have Nic-o'Teen™ (emphasis on the "Teen"). Camel is marketing these "Orbs" as a little dose of suckable tobacco for those places where it's considered impolite or illegal to smoke. Y'know, like Earth. And in and of itself, this is a reasonably decent idea. I'd rather be on a bus next to a guy sucking on one of these than chain-puffing pack after pack of Luckies. But, again...the marketing is being called into question. I can't really imagine why. It's not like the color, shape, and design of the package reminds me of anything.

Nope. Nothing at all, really.

But, I'm sure I'm worrying for no reason. I'm sure the good folks at Camel didn't MEAN for anyone to think these were candy. Heavens, no. They'll probably be as horrified as anyone when the similarities are pointed out, and yank these fuckers out of stores immediately. And by "immediately," I mean, "In a manner that gives the appearance of appropriate urgency, yet still ensures they can rack up a few billion in sales in the interim." Then, it'll be several WEEKS at least before they come up with something even worse. Like, say...promotional t-shirts in youth sizes, maybe.

But then again, it's possible that they're already WAAAY ahead of me, there.

Wednesday, April 14, 2010

The Day I Lost My Faith in Humanity: I Believe That Children Are Our Future Edition

Y'know, kids' playtime used to be about fantasy, and escapism. It's totally natural for children to spend whole afternoons lost in their imaginations. Imaginations where they become race car drivers, fairy princesses, firemen, athletes, rock stars...whatever their wee li'l hearts desire.

These days, all of that seems shot to hell. Maybe it's the job market, or the economy, or some impetus I'm not privy to...But now, a whole new crop of toys is coming out that sucks all of the joy out of being a kid, and instead starts preparing the young'uns for more realistic career ambitions. And by "realistic," I mean, "menial, demeaning, and/or boring as shit."

F'rinstance, if your kid has no interest in being a ballerina or big-rig driver, perhaps you could steer them with subtlety towards an exciting career in the hospitality housekeeping industry with the Toy Maid's Cart, available at FAO Schwartz.

"Dammit, Reba. Nothing in the tip envelopes AGAIN today."

Or, maybe your child has more of an aptitude for the fast-paced track of quick-service meal establishment point-of-sale. In THAT case, the McDonald's Cash Register Playset is the way to go. It's available at Toys 'Я' Us.

"BECKY? Where the fuck is the button for the Double Fillet O' Fish, again?!?"

However, if you're the sort of parent who REALLY encourages your sticky little brat to shoot for the stars, the toy you MUST get is the Little Tikes Young Explorer Computer. THIS magical device allows them the freedom to REALLY dream. As long as their dreams include someday having their very own cubicle.

"Look Mommy! The cow represents the bull market we all know is never returning!"

Yes, your child can experience all of the joy and triumph of someday taking up space in a grey, featureless box all day, clicking and typing even as their ass slowly expands to the rough dimensions of their desk chair.

Just check out these awesome features!

Included:

Bench seat that fits two children and offers storage inside for supplies
• Two locking cabinet doors
Think Centre PC with Internal DVD-ROM, 160GB Hard Drive, 1GB RAM, 19" Widescreen Flat Panel LCD Monitor and Microsoft® Windows, plus Custom Little Tikes® Learning keyboard and Tiny Mouse
• Pre-loaded educational software, including Millie's Math House®, Sammy's Science House®, Bailey's Book House®, Trudy's Time and Place®, and Thinkin' Things®

Not included:

Haranguing Boss
• Coffeemaker
Soul-crushing disappointment
• 2 AA batteries
401(k)

"C'mon, Spencer. Just a few more spreadsheets, and THEN you can have some juice."

And in case you missed the price tag on this giant pile of awesome, it can be yours for a mere $2599.99. Yeah, really.

Look, I'm not saying there's any shame in office work. Heavens, no. Lord knows it keeps ME in Chee-tos, video games and porn. It's just that this piece of spirit-killing shit is "recommended for ages 3 to 7 years." Really? I dunno...I'd kinda like to think that's still prime time for running around in circles in your backyard with a tin-foil dickey and football helmet on, fucking believing in your bones that you're an astronaut. Or tying on a towel-cape and construction-paper domino mask, and ricking a few sprains being a superhero. You have the rest of your goddamned LIFE to sit at a desk and squint at a screen for hours on end, son. And I should fucking know. I'm living proof.

Then again...maybe I ought to shut up. Because, as with anything, it can always be worse.

A lot, lot, LOT worse, as it turns out.

Monday, March 29, 2010

"It appears as though you are a simpleton, being as your trousers have succumbed to the forces of gravity."

Fact: Viral memes are the backbone of the internet.

From the charming beginnings of "Mr. T. Ate My Balls" and "All Your Base Are Belong to Us," through the halcyon days of LOLcats and Rickrolls, all the way up through "David After Dentist," "I Like Turtles," and "Chatroulette Piano Improv," the shared pop-culture touchstones of the online generation are as immediate and pervasive as they are inexplicable. Nobody knows why certain things strike a chord with the populace, while others die before they even get started.

However, few recent viral memes have crossed over with such fervor as the delightful "Pants on the Ground" song from "General" Larry Platt (military service unspecified).

"I don't know / but I've been told / Teeth look stupid / wrapped in gold."

For the uninitiated: After inexplicably being allowed through to the final round of auditions for "American Idol" 2010 (despite being well above the show's contestant cut-off age of of 28), Mr. Platt "performed" his now-famous ode to dropp't trou for the "Idol" judges, and guest judge Mary J. Blige. The song itself concerned a common old folks' lament. That being: "These kids today..." Specifically, Mr. Platt's rant-o-rama decried a host of irritating wardrobe tropes common to what is euphemistically referred to as "urban" youth. His chief grievances concerned such examples as sideways hats and metallic dental "grills." The griping culminated in what he viewed as the most egregious of these affronts: Jeans belted about the buttocks.

As a performance, it could only charitably be called "panhandler-grade." However, to be fair, it made up for in enthusiasm what it lacked in skill. Honestly, for a dude approaching retirement age, he could've been a lot worse. And I'd say I hope to be able to dance as well as he does someday, but I don't dance that well NOW.

"Damn straight, son. DAMN straight."

However, while "Pants on the Ground" enjoyed the sort of mainstream recognition that eludes most viral memes (showing up as it did in the form of t-shirts, cover versions, and even NFL locker room chants), General Platt's little song seems to be inspiring something even greater than all that.

Namely: Legislation.

Recently, the story broke that New York State Senator Eric Adams (D-Brooklyn) has spent $2,000 in campaign funds to erect six billboards in and around his district. The billboards feature a photo of a couple of fellas with droopy dungarees, and encourage the youth contingent among his constituency to ignore their example.

You have no idea how much I wish I was making this up.

The billboards serve a dual purpose: Encouraging young people to voluntarily hike their jeans above their coccyx (ahem), as well as letting them know that if they don't, they soon may not have the option. Because the Senator is sponsoring what can only be described as a state dress-code bill. A bill that, if signed into law, would make saggy pants more than just a crime of fashion. It would make them an actionable offense that could be enforced with legal restitution.

Personally, I'm sort of torn on this one. On the one cheek, I've always thought butt-huggers looked pretty fucking ridiculous. On the other, I'm pretty sure it's a serious violation of civil liberties to dictate the wardrobe of the general public via a set of statutes. I mean, sure...It SHOULD be illegal to wear a suit studded with flaming kittens impaled on the ends of railroad spikes, and I think we can all get behind that. But banning something just because it looks stupid? Where does THAT slippery slope terminate? Will the "fashion police" transition from being bitchy red-carpet queens nattering about who's wearing whom on entertainment programs into an actual sanctioned paramilitary force? Will a mullet be punishable by two weeks in jail and a trim, or socks with sandals enforceable with being sent to a re-education camp headed up by Kommandant Isaac Mizrahi and Kommissar Tim Gunn? Maybe this is the first step toward all of us being forced to wear matching unitards, like all of the sci-fi movies seem to predict.

Although admittedly, that'd be just dandy in SOME cases.

No matter what, I just don't think this is what the voters had in mind when they asked lawmakers to help eliminate crack in their neighborhoods.

Oh, come on. Don't tell me you didn't see THAT coming.

***********

P.S.: At the risk of beating a dead horse, it bears repeating: PLEASE vote for the Diary Of Fools for "Best Blog" in the City Pages 2010 readers' poll! It would mean a lot to us if you could toss us some love. And if you're feeling saucy, throwing a vote to Merton Sussex for "Best Local Tweeter" would also be appreciated. Voting ends April 5th, so please spread the word! Thanks in advance.

Tuesday, February 23, 2010

The Day I Lost My Faith in Humanity: Fashion Update

By Merton Sussex, Person of Interest

Right around the same time homo erectus shed his fur and started walking upright, early humans realized they needed clothing. So, they hollowed out a few mammoth skins in order to replace the thick coats that Charles Darwin had come along and so cruelly stripped them of, and everything was fine for awhile.

But eventually, humans also evolved taste. And at that point, we realized that clothes could be more than just protection from the elements, and against getting gored by sabre-toothed boars. And so it came to pass that clothing became something more than modesty-preservation with a built-in frostbite guard...It could also make something resembling a statement about the person inside of it. And so was born...

THE FASHION INDUSTRY.

Personally, I find the world of haute couture more amusing than anything. Reason being, it has about as much use for me as I do for it. In as much as we even acknowledge each other, it's with thinly-veiled disdain at best, and open contempt at worst. Ergo, most of the time, I dress in pretty utilitarian gear, more selected for comfort than appearance.

"Yeah...I know the invitation said 'formal wear.' That's why I'm wearing pants."

Yes, the world of fashion certainly is a hoot, what with its anorexic alien cat-walkers, hilariously impractical "that's gotta-be-a-joke" designs, and snooty devotees applauding every thrown-together getup in unison (as though nobody ever read them "The Emperor's New Clothes" as children). And yet, people still continue to take it seriously and treat it as though it matters. This, despite the fact that clothing has gotten so far away from its roots that the only homo erectus who'd be able to find a single thing to actually put on and wear is pretty much Isaac Mizrahi.

But occasionally, something so utterly ridiculous, so completely incomprehensible happens in that universe that it gets attention from even the most jaded of eye-rolling, over-it types. Something so bizarre that even Lady fucking GaGa would be taken aback...and she dresses like a scrapyard full of broken construction-site salvage and plays ringtones for a living.

She ought to be careful. Those things look like they could poke her face.

I know what you're thinking. "Is today one of those days, Unca Mert? IS it?!?"

But of course it is, my lovelies. Of course it is.

Recently, avant garde Spanish "fashion" designer Isabel Mastache débuted her new 2010 Fall line at a Madrid fashion show. And I WOULD say it got tongues wagging...but as you'll see, that may not exactly be an appropriate assessment.

Let's take a look at a few of her offerings, shall we? Oh, and as we go along, DO see if you can notice the one little over-the-top touch that was the impetus for this post. And don't worry if you miss it. Even if you do, I'll make sure you don't.

Meh. So far, so what? Buckethead can moonlight as a runway model if he wants to. His tie looks like it's suffering a slight allergic reaction, but whatever. A couple of Benadryl, and he'd still be able to hackey-sack on campus without drawing too much attention. Next?

Big deal. I've seen bath-mat jackets, teapot hats, and dresses made up of the aftermath of Christmas-morning unwrapping sessions a million times, lady. Bullshit's about as passé as balsamic vinegar. What else ya got?

Huh. And here I thought the Velveteen Rabbit was a carrier of scarlet fever. Apparently, it was actually leprosy. My bad.

Look, lady. I've got a schedule. Either you start making with something legitimately whack-a-doo, or I've got a navel that needs de-linting.

Okay, you're starting to get there. This guy looks like the product of an unholy union between Bob the Angry Flower and a Big Daddy. I guess that's just loopy enough for me to give you one more chance. So, hit me with your best shot.

This? This is IT? This is the best you've got? A beige suit with moldy pizza-hat and some wilted lilies? Are you even trying? I don't see -

Hey, wait a minute.

What the fuck?

Zoom in on those pants for a second...

Oh, sweet, bleeding mother of Christ. Really? REALLY?!?

So, it's come to this, has it? After a few centuries of clothing intended to cover our filthy, shameful genitals from open view, we're just gonna sew 'em onto the outside of our fucking trousers, now? Is THAT the plan?

Y'know, even in the Middle Ages, when dudes wore silver-studded codpieces their children could bathe in, and women wore corsets that pushed up their funbags higher than the Queen's net worth, the idea was only to accentuate the secondary sex characteristics for titillation value, not to rub them in your face. But if Isabel Mastache gets her way, you'll soon have to specify THREE sizes for your pants. Waist, inseam, and cockenballs. And what good is that? So much shock value, so little mystery.

Oh, and in case you think I'm making this up, I'm not. Here's the video. I'm not sure if this is safe for work or not. Guess it depends on where you work.


Sweet dreams, everyone. Try not to see that thing bobbing around in your face as you drift off.

Oh, and you're welcome.

Friday, February 19, 2010

The Day I Lost My Faith in Humanity: Pajama Jeans

It's just true: humans are getting lazier. And what's more, we as a species are just fine with that.

Now, don't get me wrong...There's nothing wrong with a spot of sloth once in awhile. Not being too big a fan of organized religion, I realize there's no such thing as "sin," much less seven deadly ones. All work and no play makes Jack Nicholson go apeshit nuts. I'd be hypocritical if I said otherwise, being as I am a man who appreciates the fair bit of leisure himself. Those highballs sure as shit ain't gonna drink themselves any more than the call girls are going to have sex with themselves.

(Well...wait. I mean, sometimes they do. It just runs you a little extra. But, I digress inexcusably.)

So, yes. Kicking back on occasion is just fine. But there is a LINE. A line at which a little R&R ceases to be the exception, and becomes a lifestyle. A line at which down time becomes ALL the time. A line that, once crossed, means people have just given the fuck up, and said, "Bring on the Comfort Wipe and Obesity Scooter, for I have decided I'd like a little blood in my butter-stream."

And that line is just a little closer today. Behold: "Pajama Jeans."


This is not a joke product, nor is it an SNL spoof. Things really actually have reached the point that this is a needed product. There really is a call for sweatpants...that look like jeans. And I guess anyone with eyes has probably figured that out by now. We've all stood in line at Target behind the woman in Crocs and garish flannel pajama pants. The one who did her hair with an eggbeater three weeks ago and hasn't touched it since. You know the one: she's wearing a Jeff Gordon NASCAR jacket, smells like room-temperature brie, and is buying a case of Mallomars and a few 2-liters of Dr. Pepper.

Hey, at least she matches. So she's doing better than most.
I'm not really sure how, or when this happened. It wasn't ALWAYS that way. Used to be, men didn't leave the house without wearing 27 pounds' worth of a wool three-piece suit, and women knew the neighbors would talk if they were seen out and about without at least a pinafore dress and full sleeves. Plus, they had HATS ON. And SHOES. Shoes that required SHINING.

And I'm not one of these cultural revisionists who thinks that the good old days were universally good, that "Leave It To Beaver" and "Ozzie and Harriet" reflect some cultural ideal that society ought to strive to get back to. "Mad Men" may be celebrated as a delicious slice of throwback, but let's face it: the whole era was chock full of sexual harassment, gender inequity, repressed sexuality, spousal abuse, and more than a little lung cancer. But FUCK, they looked good while all that shit was going on under the surface! There was no occasion too small; none that didn't require a sharp mode of dress, a put-together flair, and an air of class and sophistication. People may have been uptight and miserable, but at least they had style.

In fact, here is a picture of my grandparents on their way to the greengrocer's.
Then, somewhere along the line, Jeans became acceptable. Okay, fine. Then, people started wearing them to work on Fridays. Then, every day. Up to this point, I'm still okay with this, because there is a big, fat line between "casual" and "slovenly." It's possible to look composed, and still be comfortable.

However, at what point did it become acceptable for people to just roll out of bed, and then GO RIGHT STRAIGHT THE FUCK OUTSIDE?!? Sweatsuits are supposed to be workout gear, motherfucker. If I see you in a sweatsuit, your ass had better be in a gym parking lot. However, based on the fact that your spare tire looks like it came off of a piece of heavy mining equipment, I'm gonna guess you wouldn't be caught DEAD (and I mean that literally) anywhere that close to a place where there are working treadmills.

Exhibit F: "The exception that proves the rule."
I dunno. It's possible that I'm seeing this the wrong way. I'm willing to allow that perhaps the inventors of "Pajama Jeans" aren't exactly encouraging lethargy, but rather condemning it. Maybe they're just cynical enough to REALLY be saying, "Here, you lazy pieces of shit. If you're just going to waddle directly out of your bedroom in the same getup you went to sleep in, the LEAST you can do is to put THESE on. That way I don't have to deal with looking at your fucking spaceship PJ's or filthy track suit." It's wholly within the realm of plausibility that jammy-jeans are largely motivated by a "for-chrissakes-at-least-meet-us-halfway" attitude that says if you're not going to make the effort to BE presentable, the LEAST you can do is to try to LOOK presentable. To provide a reasonable facsimile of human dignity that holds up under cursory scrutiny, and maybe even score a couple of bucks of profit in the bargain.

However, my curse of raw pragmatism shapes my illusory free will, and dictates my reaction. And that is: anything that makes it easier for the whole of Western society to continue its long, slow, de-evolutionary slide into a giant, shiny pile of utter pudding-sacks who never need to bother being besotted by anything so base as discomfort or strenuous activity MUST be decried as being "part of the problem."

That said, I have to knock off. It's getting pretty close to lunchtime.

Thursday, February 04, 2010

The Day I Lost My Faith in Humanity: Abstract Edition

The recurring "Day I Lost Faith in Humanity" posts we routinely have such sport with around here tend to share a common thread. That is: "humanity" is mostly taken in its literal form; that is to mean, "people." Let's face it: there will never be a lack of source material for this feature, as human beings have what seems like a bottomless well of stupid upon which to draw. There will always be another schmuck who does something so confoundingly moronic, so stupefyingly thick-skulled that we can't help but load him up into the funny-cannon, and use him as schaden-fodder for our detached amusement.

But then I read this article, and it forced me to consider an alternate interpretation of "losing faith in humanity":

Lender Forecloses on Homeless Shelter

This building is home to over 700 people who have nowhere else to go. At least, it is for now.

A new lender has foreclosed on the massive homeless shelter run by the Metro Atlanta Task Force for the Homeless, which must come up with $500,000 to stop foreclosure. Bob Cramer, chairman of the board of the task force, confirmed Wednesday that they had received a foreclosure notice this week, and the group has a month to come up with more than half a million dollars to pay off the overdue loans.

Cramer said the task force had been trying to renegotiate the loans it had with Mercy Housing, a nonprofit lender in Colorado, and the Institute for Community Economics, a nonprofit in Massachusetts, but the nonprofits chose to sell the loans to a group called Ichthus Community Trust, which foreclosed.

"The balloon note was due over a year ago but I think it is important to note that all the interest has been paid through February," Cramer said. "We were trying to work it out."


Oh, for CHRIST'S SAKE.

Look, I'm not saying that any institution should be able to get away with not paying their bills. And I'm not saying that a bank should not have the right to foreclose on an entity that defaults. All I'm saying is, procedural by-laws of black-and-white business conduct are one thing. And common motherfucking human decency is another.


To begin with, it's a goddamned homeless shelter. So I'm sure it's hardly as though they're operating with a surplus budget. Second, they're legitimately doing their best. If they hadn't paid a red cent since the Clinton Administration, sure. Out they go. But the Director has been doing his utmost to at least pay the interest owed.

And last, there needs to be some common sense applied to the fact that, again, IT'S A FUCKING HOMELESS SHELTER!

To put a finer point on it, just try to imagine, if you will, the following hypothetical scenario:

You're Marvin Dithers, 47. You used to be a tradesman carpenter in the Atlanta area. The work was mostly steady, and you did okay. But then the recession hit. Construction ground to a halt. And not only were there no new homes being built, but there were countless people getting booted out of existing ones because their sources of revenue support had dried up.


You held on by your fingernails from savings, and the charity of family and friends for awhile, but times are tough. Everyone's hurting. So eventually, you, too lost your home. Sure, you'd tried to work with the bank, but they'd rather sit on countless parcels of property they'll never sell than take any less than the exorbitant interest fees they feel they're entitled to.

So, you'd stayed with friends for awhile, and looked for work where there was none, hoping to get back on your feet. But you eventually started feeling like a burden. You couldn't exactly make out the tense, hissed kitchen conversations between your friend and his wife after they thought you were asleep, but you definitely heard "Marvin" more than once. So, you collected what was left of your meager belongings, got up off your buddy's couch, and swallowed your pride. Then, you trudged off to the homeless shelter.

It wasn't so bad, really. People there were mostly in the same boat, and they supported each other. Once a week the lady from the career center came by, and handed out a few applications. She was harried and overworked (after all, there are 700 folks in this shelter alone, and she's got a few more to get to this week), but she was available in case you needed résumé help or a letter of recommendation. The beds were a little lumpy, but better than a steam grate. And the food wasn't gonna win any awards, but you got to eat. It was a little Spartan, more than a little industrial, but it was a safety net. Somewhere to go for a little while. This would do until the opportunity presented itself to rebuild a better future.


Then one day you came back from handing out applications to surly fry cooks half your age, and there was a big foreclosure notice posted on the front door. Your stomach lurched in a sickening dive-roll to the left and down. Oh, no. not again. Not HERE.

The people inside wore tired smiles under their red-rimmed eyes. How could this happen, you ask? They explain that they're trying, but money is tight, and the bank is unsympathetic. And that's when you remember the bank. The bank, which probably collected a metric shit-ton of TARP money, and then added the number to its Q4 profit outlook rather than lend it back out. The bank, where the men in $500 suits shoo you away from the marble columns by the front door. The bank, the place where what's left of the newspapers can't stop reporting that record bonus payouts are taking place...The same newspapers that serve as bedspreads for a few of your less-fortunate friends.

The bank...which had bought the troubled loan that had previously underwritten the operating costs of the shelter from a non-profit lender called, "Mercy Housing."


"Mercy," indeed.

Look, I know this is more than a little moribund and heavy-handed for what's ostensibly a humor portal, but FOR FUCK'S SAKE. "The Day I Lost My Faith in Humanity" has taken on an extra layer of meaning for me today. Because while it's easy as pie to single out one moron and hold him up as a paragon of idiocy, using him as evidence of why the human race is a hilariously doomed gaggle of barely-evolved primates only 2 chromosomes away from hurling feces at each other, it's another thing entirely to lose faith in the entire abstract concept of humanity. Because, confirmed cynic though I am, one of the only things that rocks me to sleep at night is the admittedly-idealistic notion that people are basically good, civil, and compassionate. That deep down, when the dust settles, we really do give a shit about each other. That no matter what, everything's going to be okay.

So, fuck you, "Ichthus Community Trust." Fuck you upside-down, sideways, and in your ear. It shakes me to the core to think that there's not at LEAST one actual soul-possessing human being on your entire Board of Directors that had the stones to stand up and express even the SLIGHTEST reservation about looking at a building that provides 700 homeless people a place to go and the barest of dignities and essentials...and then taking even THAT away from them.

But most of all, fuck you for making me consider the duality of the term "humanity." Because, in doing so, I'm led to yet another phrase with plural meaning, in as much as it applies to both you, and the people you just put back out on the street...

"I don't know how they're gonna sleep at night."

Thursday, January 28, 2010

The Day I Lost My Faith in Humanity: Mama Mia, make it stop!


Imagine for a moment you're a prisoner at Guantanamo Bay, unlawfully detained, tortured, terrorized and dehumanized for years.

You'd think the old adage "welp, it could always be worse" could not possibly apply in this scenario.





Tuesday, January 26, 2010

The Day I Lost My Faith in Humanity: SCOTUS Edition

Non-political-junkies, feel free to tune out. As a matter o' fact, go ahead and click here for something a little more your speed.

As for the rest of you: In case you missed it (which you probably did)...

On January 21st, the United States Supreme Court reached an interesting landmark decision. In the case of Citizens United v. Federal Election Commission, the SCOTUS came to a shocking-to-anyone-with-a-functioning-cerebral-cortex conclusion that can be summed up with a phrase so trite, AC/DC used it for a song title: "Money Talks."

In a slightly more detailed description, the case determined to be legally viable an opinion that even a six-year-old would find fishy: the idea that corporations are basically individuals. Y'know...people, more or less. And that as people, they have the same right to free speech that we're ALL guaranteed under the first Amendment to the U.S. Constitution. So far, so good, right?

"I AM A PERSON. I WILL BE HEARD."

Sure. Until you realize that in the same breath, the SCOTUS also decided that a financial contribution to the political campaign of a specific candidate is a form of legally-protected expression. That is to say, when an individual gives money to someone running for something, that action falls under the auspices of "free speech." Again..."Money Talks."

I'm sure most of you can see where this is going. As for you, Ms. Simpson, Hi! OMG your tits look AWESOME in that shirt! LOL!

ANYway...In essence, this provision has made it perfectly 100% legal for any corporation to donate any amount of money to any political candidate for any reason. Yeah, really. No, I'm serious. Yeah.

The court voted 5-4 in favor of this, with the division breaking down pretty much how you'd expect: any Justice appointed by a right-leaning President was all, "Yeah! Money good!" Whereas any Justice sent to the bench by a lefty pretty much came down on the side of "OH MY GOD NO JESUS CHRIST YOU FUCKING IDIOTS NO DO YOU HAVE ANY IDEA WHAT YOU'RE DOING"

Artist's rendering of the decision.

Suffice it to say, no. They didn't. With their typical short-sighted verve, the Conservative justices saw the possibility of a whole lot of corporations giving a whole lot of money to a whole lot of Republican candidates...because Republicans tend to be more friendly to businesses than their counterparts across the aisle. And by "friendly to businesses," I mean, "happy to take their money, then hit their knees and start sucking, thereby rendering themselves unable to see the company turn around and pollute, cheat on its taxes, and amass absurd, unregulated profits on account'a being blinded by corporate pubes."

Hey, if a corporation can be considered a person, then it can also be considered to have pubes. Just go with me on this one, okay?

In any case, the possible implications of this nasty bit of legal maneuvering are obvious. Any company who more or less literally wants to up and buy themselves a candidate can do so. If a corporation has both the desire and the scratch, they can toss unregulated, unrestricted millions into the campaign coffers of any candidate who will enact legislation that benefits them.

Similarly, if there's a public official who has ALREADY been elected, and he or she is up for re-election, a representative from that company can march on into that official's office and say, "We don't like you. You voted for legislation to preserve wetlands. Wetlands we were going to use to dump our waste products. And now, we have to dump them somewhere else. Somewhere where they charge us an extra half-cent per metric ton we dump, meaning we're paying out $17 million per year extra that we wouldn't have had to, had you not been so in love with the fucking Yellow-Bellied Sap-Sucker and its endangered habitat, or whatever. That's why were giving a few million to your opponent in the upcoming mid-terms. He promised us he'd let us dump our shit anywhere we want. Better start cleaning out your desk, asshole."

So long, Senator. I hear Hardee's is hiring.

And, yes. The idealists among us will still cling to the notion that it's not money, but actual people who head to the polls. And they'd be right. But think about how stupid the average person is. Then think about the fact that statistically speaking, half of everyone is even dumber than THAT.

F'rinstance...There are still people out there who disavow evolution. People who think Saddam Hussein was behind 9/11. People who not only bought Sarah Palin's book, but who also believe she actually WROTE the fucking thing. THESE are the window-licking idiots who are easily-swayed by things like campaign ads. Or flashy buses with American flags emblazoned on them. Or big billboards that paint a given candidate's opponent as a baby-eating adulterer who wants to clean out your wallet, and then use the money to buy a gun to shoot your grandparents in the face. And these are the things that money CAN buy.

So, you see.

But, hey. Far be it for ME to suggest that the Supreme Court just hung a gigantic fucking "BEST OFFER" garage-sale price tag on the front of the White House and the Capitol Building. But the fact remains that whether or not I see it that way, some of our fine country's wealthiest corporate denizens certainly will. And at that point, how long will it be before the Speaker of the Maxwell House® asks the Gentleman from Dell® if he'll yield the rest of his time speaking in support of the "Coca-Cola® is Fucking Awesome H.R. #345" so that the Congresswoman from the Great State of Monsanto™ can offer a dissenting opinion on declaring June 21st "Con-Agra™ Day"?

Hooray for capitalism.

Monday, September 28, 2009

The Day I Lost My Faith in Humanity, Volume XXII






Hmm.

Dogs are great and yoga is cool, but putting them together makes about as much sense as Nuts and Gum (together at last!).

Welp, let's just hope for humanity's sake all customers find on their Yoga4Dogs DVD is this: