Thursday, April 08, 2004
I am the king, I can do anything
ps
The savage, unintended irony of the American Revolution/Iraq War analogy in the last post just dawned on me. I couldn't have done better if I had been completely awake. King George and his gallant American troops...think about it. Only their coats are red coming out of battle. In body bags. Get our soldiers the hell out of there now. NOW.
The savage, unintended irony of the American Revolution/Iraq War analogy in the last post just dawned on me. I couldn't have done better if I had been completely awake. King George and his gallant American troops...think about it. Only their coats are red coming out of battle. In body bags. Get our soldiers the hell out of there now. NOW.
Freedom fries
One quick act of civil disobedience to add interest to your day:
The lunch menu for tomorrow just came around our office. See, we usually eat together on Fridays. It's a nice excuse to get together and fraternize and stuff our faces with (usually) yummy food.
My first thought was that I was out of cash, but I could always bring some in tomorrow. I started to open the menu so as to examine this establishment's board of fare, as another pudgy Greek-American with fine comic timing once said in a movie.
The two words that title this blog entry caught my eye.
I suddenly lost my appetite, it being replaced by the effervescent fizz of boiling blood.
I scribbled a post-it note, thought to stick it to the menu and pass it on to the next office suite, and ultimately just stuck it to my monitor and passed the menu on without a word. The post-it said:
"I'm sorry, but I protest—I refuse to give any of my money to any restaurant that still has the nerve to call french fries 'freedom fries.' "
Such heresy could conceivably make me quite unpopular. So I kept it to myself.
So I'm laying it out here, to anyone who cares to read my silly blogs: I'm urging all conscientious Americans to boycott any eating establishments that still insist on the "patriotic" act of serving "freedom fries" instead of french fries. Not only is it mindless war propaganda—duckspeak, as Orwell put it—and xenophobic besides, but it demonstrates our singular utter ignorance of history (french fries weren't named for nor invented by the French). But we generally are bad with history anyway, aren't we? After all, if our spiritual ancestors in the late 18th century hadn't resorted to what would now be called "terrorism"--and, in pre-Dubya times, "guerilla warfare"--if, in other words, we were not Iraqis to King George's gallant American troops, the best-equipped, strongest army of the day, you wouldn't be here beating your chest in service to the good old Red White and Blue. Not this one, at least.
Remember, no matter what you call 'em, they're still just strips of potato deep-fried in oil. They're bad for you anyway. You should be on the Atkins diet.
curmudgeonly yours,
Billy S.
The lunch menu for tomorrow just came around our office. See, we usually eat together on Fridays. It's a nice excuse to get together and fraternize and stuff our faces with (usually) yummy food.
My first thought was that I was out of cash, but I could always bring some in tomorrow. I started to open the menu so as to examine this establishment's board of fare, as another pudgy Greek-American with fine comic timing once said in a movie.
The two words that title this blog entry caught my eye.
I suddenly lost my appetite, it being replaced by the effervescent fizz of boiling blood.
I scribbled a post-it note, thought to stick it to the menu and pass it on to the next office suite, and ultimately just stuck it to my monitor and passed the menu on without a word. The post-it said:
"I'm sorry, but I protest—I refuse to give any of my money to any restaurant that still has the nerve to call french fries 'freedom fries.' "
Such heresy could conceivably make me quite unpopular. So I kept it to myself.
So I'm laying it out here, to anyone who cares to read my silly blogs: I'm urging all conscientious Americans to boycott any eating establishments that still insist on the "patriotic" act of serving "freedom fries" instead of french fries. Not only is it mindless war propaganda—duckspeak, as Orwell put it—and xenophobic besides, but it demonstrates our singular utter ignorance of history (french fries weren't named for nor invented by the French). But we generally are bad with history anyway, aren't we? After all, if our spiritual ancestors in the late 18th century hadn't resorted to what would now be called "terrorism"--and, in pre-Dubya times, "guerilla warfare"--if, in other words, we were not Iraqis to King George's gallant American troops, the best-equipped, strongest army of the day, you wouldn't be here beating your chest in service to the good old Red White and Blue. Not this one, at least.
Remember, no matter what you call 'em, they're still just strips of potato deep-fried in oil. They're bad for you anyway. You should be on the Atkins diet.
curmudgeonly yours,
Billy S.
Wednesday, April 07, 2004
Been so low, I'll never get high...
(Thanks to Jodi for penning that memorable line. Hear it sung on Twiggy & Frollywog's "Something Stupid" EP.)
I love it when life imitates art. I shouldn't, though. It's rather pathetic. Have you been reading what's been going on lately? Bush has been taking a worse beating than Mel Gibson in any of his movies (to say nothing of lead actors in movies he's directed), soldiers get treated like so many sides of beef in Fallujah, Bush responds with his increasingly ludicrous macho posturing, Iraq explodes in violence. This could be the synopsis of a really wicked black comedy, or a testosterone-soaked action movie (Bush. Cheney. Bring 'Em On. From 21st Century Fox, a News Corporation Company.), except it's more like a network reality show that is hurtling off-script, flying merrily out of the control of the location crew, with the cameras running. Survivor, indeed. That's what all of us will be reduced to if this nightmare keeps up: surviving (instead of living).
It's not just the helplessness of watching all this carnage being done in my name, the powerlessness to do anything significant about it, that has had me feeling dumpy since last post. It's the idea that God doesn't seem to want me to have a car that runs, or money saved up. Can you believe that after months of thwarted attempts to get myself back on wheels, the manual transmission on my Nissan Sentra destroyed itself? A week after my getting it street legal? That asteroid out of Cygnus X-1 set me back a cool (make that cold and clammy) grand. So much for any more musical toys, or that dive computer I was hoping to have for my Bahamas trip. But at least I do still have a car that runs. Several people I know must be relieved.
On the one hand, an online IQ test estimated my score as 146, give or take five points. On the other, an online BMI calculator put my body mass index at 33.2, which according to their scale, makes me obese and destined to early death. Thank you, doctors, for making me feel like utter fecal matter.
Sorry, I'm bellyaching again. I did have at least one interesting weekend, that is my very fun road trip to Louisville with Twiggy et al. It was a good show.
Okay, I've fulfilled my goal for today. You know that I'm still alive, and as incorrigible as ever. All is yet well in the world. I sall try to write more later, when I'm not at work and/or in a better mood. Have a good lunch. And remember to curse that brain-deficient runt in the White House at least once daily.
cheers
Billy S.
I love it when life imitates art. I shouldn't, though. It's rather pathetic. Have you been reading what's been going on lately? Bush has been taking a worse beating than Mel Gibson in any of his movies (to say nothing of lead actors in movies he's directed), soldiers get treated like so many sides of beef in Fallujah, Bush responds with his increasingly ludicrous macho posturing, Iraq explodes in violence. This could be the synopsis of a really wicked black comedy, or a testosterone-soaked action movie (Bush. Cheney. Bring 'Em On. From 21st Century Fox, a News Corporation Company.), except it's more like a network reality show that is hurtling off-script, flying merrily out of the control of the location crew, with the cameras running. Survivor, indeed. That's what all of us will be reduced to if this nightmare keeps up: surviving (instead of living).
It's not just the helplessness of watching all this carnage being done in my name, the powerlessness to do anything significant about it, that has had me feeling dumpy since last post. It's the idea that God doesn't seem to want me to have a car that runs, or money saved up. Can you believe that after months of thwarted attempts to get myself back on wheels, the manual transmission on my Nissan Sentra destroyed itself? A week after my getting it street legal? That asteroid out of Cygnus X-1 set me back a cool (make that cold and clammy) grand. So much for any more musical toys, or that dive computer I was hoping to have for my Bahamas trip. But at least I do still have a car that runs. Several people I know must be relieved.
On the one hand, an online IQ test estimated my score as 146, give or take five points. On the other, an online BMI calculator put my body mass index at 33.2, which according to their scale, makes me obese and destined to early death. Thank you, doctors, for making me feel like utter fecal matter.
Sorry, I'm bellyaching again. I did have at least one interesting weekend, that is my very fun road trip to Louisville with Twiggy et al. It was a good show.
Okay, I've fulfilled my goal for today. You know that I'm still alive, and as incorrigible as ever. All is yet well in the world. I sall try to write more later, when I'm not at work and/or in a better mood. Have a good lunch. And remember to curse that brain-deficient runt in the White House at least once daily.
cheers
Billy S.
