Who gives a shit about National Bubble Bath Day? We don't. National Take Your Grand Kid Out to Lunch Day? Fuck that, and your grand kid, too. For the really fun days, the ones that nobody else has the imagination to celebrate, days like National Ain't Woke, Do Not Disturb Day℠, National Ignore the Ban on Plastic Straws Day℠, and others visit . . . The Book of Daze℠.
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A half-century's worth of smoking pot/hash/shatter/live resin carts has led us to conclude that horoscopes are more fun and more accurate when you're stoned...and they're even better when the person who wrote them was stoned, too. If you're looking to turn over a new leaf, visit GanjaScope.
The Grammar Prick
Meaner than a 250-pound lesbian Language Arts teacher, The Grammar Prick will split your head if you split an infinitive, dangle a participle, or dare to misuse penultimate. Visit The Grammar Prick.
There's a Saint for That
There's a saint in every pot, and a prayer card for every condition. Just tell us where it hurts you, and we'll tell you whom to call and where to send your donations. Let us pray.
Here's to a Brighter Day
Brights neither seek nor accept any supernatural "explanations" for life. If that sounds like a bright idea to you, click here.
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Quit Calling It a Fucking Mural Jul 13, 2020 - 11:39
WEST GOSHEN TWP, Pa.–A distressing number of Black Lives Matter "murals" have sprouted up recently like so many mushrooms out of a mycelium of resentment and hate. That doesn't necessarily mean shit to a toad, but the inclination of the press to refer to these eruptions respectfully as "murals" makes me wonder if they've ever seen a real mural. It also makes me wonder if black people will ever wake up to the fact that their minders, both black and white, treat them like mushrooms: keeping ‘em in the dark and feeding ‘em dung.
To begin, a mural is defined as "relating to, or resembling a wall; applied to and made integral with a wall or ceiling surface." There's no mention of streets in that definition, bro. What’s more, shouldn't a "mural" have more than two colors, lest it be mistaken for a paint-by-numbers exercise for slow learners? Or a group therapy project writ too large?
Nevertheless, street painting has been elevated to the status of “murals” by a fawning and obsequious press, the same crowd that declared rap was poetry back in the day. That crowd doesn’t see the difference between Robert Browning’s “That’s my last duchess hanging on the wall” and Kanye West’s “I know she like chocolate men / She got more niggas off then Cochran.”
Persons whose bias prevents them from acknowledging the difference between real murals and BLM street “murals,” should consider these illustrations. One is a real mural, created by a person with an idea, working pretty much in solitude, a certain indication of white privilege for sure. The other is something the mayor said it was OK to paint on the street and was willing, in at least one case, to assist the “artists” in painting … in the hope of preventing unauthorized shopping sprees, also known as QVC for looters.
So much for what motivates mayors; what about the press? For starters (and finishers), “Journalists' brains show a lower-than-average level of executive functioning … which means they have a below-average ability to regulate their emotions, suppress biases, solve complex problems, switch between tasks, and show creative and flexible thinking.”
That last, from a study referenced by Business Insider, explains why such notions as affirmative action, trigger warnings, busing, and the cancel culture keep flourishing and re-flourishing like mushrooms popping up out of the cow pies of popular culture.
Like the poor, those cow pies are always with us. I first encountered one when I taught English in an all-black junior high school in 1965. I was part of a group of teachers asked to judge student essays, the best five of which would be featured in the main lobby’s trophy case. We were instructed to judge the essays for content, original thought, expression, and other non-quantifiables. Leave those red pens in the desk. Grammar, punctuation, and even spelling are irrelevant.
“Jump back,” I thought. “Are semiliterate kids part of the goals of the Great Society, too?”
That’s when I began referring to myself as the foreign language teacher. That’s also why I believe the bog-standard BLM “mural” isn’t worth a thousand words. It is even worth three.
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The Pug Bus Interview
Enjoy the interviews nobody else has the sack to do. We aren't afraid to stop totally at the surface, because no matter how beautiful a person might be on the inside, you've still got to look at him or her when you're speaking to 'em..Read on.