stupid people


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Okay, so I realize the show is called Grey’s Anatomy, and she is Meredith Grey. But it should really be called She’s Never Coming Back because she’s Cold, Dead and Grey – Anatomy.
This is sort of like how I used to love Dawson’s Creek but absolutely could not stand Dawson at all. Mostly because he was an asshole but also because James van der Beek’s forehead is out of control.
Well, I’ve figured it out. It’s not just Meredith – I can’t stand Ellen Pompeo either. It’s actually very simple. Hollywood isn’t that picky. Not really. All it asks of you, in exchance for stardom are good looks and the ability to speak. Ellen Pompeo has neither. It all comes down to the S.
First the obvious.

  • Too fucking skinny! Seriously. I’ve been slender and attractive. She is way beyond slender and it is so not attractive at all. She’s skinny with a capital SK for skeletal. It’s gross. The costume people realize this and try to fake the audience out but it’s not working! She’s yucky and she needs to eat.
  • She is squinty eyed. I don’t mean that in a racial sense, I mean it in the literal, she’s constantly squinting her eyes kind of way. I don’t get it. Glasses? Contacs? Lasik? What’s the deal. She has pretty eyes, she just needs to quit squinting them.
  • She snarls. No really. I don’t know, maybe it’s some botched attempt at a pout to enhance her non-existant lips but she snarls. She’s a mouth breather who snarls. Not cool.
  • Snarling is not enough, apparently, she must smirk too. A lopsided, thin lipped, snide little smirk.
  • She has a lisp. She speaks with an incredibly obnoxious sibillant S that makes me want to strangle her skinny, squinting, snarling throat.

So here’s the thing. If you’re skinny, squinty, smirky and snarly, you’re not fulfilling the good-looking portion of the requirement and if you talk with a fucking sibillant S then you’re not accomplishing the speaking part either. So if you aren’t good-looking and you can’t talk right? You shouldn’t be on my television screen!!!

If I wanted to watch ugly, selfish people with speech affectations, I’d go outside and socialize!!
Television is supposed to be a haven from the outside world. What’s with the lowered expectations Hollywood? Remember when tv stars were beautiful and, oh I don’t know could actually act talk?

Curses on you Shonda Rhimes! You got my hopes up. I really wanted her to die, damnit!

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… is the expurgated book. – Walt Whitman

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By the time I was five I could read and write in two languages. Reading was second only to breathing. There was never a limit to what I could find out, so long as I kept reading. Throughout elementary school, I was constantly getting into trouble with teachers and with my parents for reading at inappropriate times and for preferring to read than doing any homework. If allowed, I’d read rather than play with my friends or even eat. I would get so lost in whatever worlds in the pages that everything else ceased to exist.

I developed fascinations with certain subjects and would spend weeks reading only about those topics. I became obsessed with slavery and with the Civil War, then with WWII and with the Holocaust. I was completely fascinated by Ancient Egypt and then Rome. I couldn’t get enough of the Middle Ages and of Royal genealogy. I researched and read volumes about dynasties from the Romanovs to the Plantagenets. Ancient female figures and monarchs became my heroines. I would dream of being Aspasia or Cleopatra or Eleanor of Aquataine and in desiring to be like them I read everything I could about them, which sometimes included very obscure and mature literature.

My teachers both adored and detested my presence in their classes. I was enthusiastic and incredibly inquisitive but also indignantly precocious. Too often I would question the veracity of their information or often times simply inform them that they were wrong. And on many occasions, they were. No matter what subject we learned about in school, I would inevitably go home and read far and beyond what was in the curriculum, if it was of interest to me, and most things were.
My standardized test scores were through the roof. In the third grade, at age seven, I was admitted to a Gifted Children’s program. At ten, my vocabulary and reading comprehension were those of a college student’s.

But not because I was extraordinarily privileged in the quality of my education.
It was simply the result of being given the freedom to educate myself. My parents didn’t own a TV until I was nearly six years old, but we did have a two room library. When we lived in Central America, my mother made sure to speak with and read to us in English and when we moved to the states, she did her best to continue to do so in Spanish.

If I had a question about something, I was encouraged to look it up. And in the days before ubiquitious internet, we would pack up and head to the library. I was frequently irked by the 30 book limit upon my child library card. See, we could only go to the library once every two weeks. How was I to survive that long with only 30 books to read? The library at school was an absolute joke, as far as I was concerned. We traveled very frequently but I survived and actually looked forward to the many international flights and several cross country road trips we took because all I ever wanted to do was dream and read.

There was never a single moment that my parents denied me my right to read. Not on the basis of content, at least. On certain occasions when I really misbehaved I would get punished not by getting grounded from television but by having whatever book I was reading, temporarily taken away. It would get returned only upon completion of whatever chores or homework it was that I had been avoiding due to said book. As far as what I read, however, my parents never placed limits. At ten, when my fascination with the Holocaust reached it’s peak, my mother refused to allow me to rent Schindler’s List and I was livid. But it was a movie. I could read the book, if I wanted, but the movie was off limits.

I remember one particular instance when I was fifteen. At twelve, my younger brother had been turned on to the subject of satanic cults and came home from school filled with questions regarding the matter. My mother very calmly told him that she didn’t know much about the subject however she was sure they could find plenty of information at the library. And they did. It was less than a month before my brother lost interest, much to my mothers relief.

At ten, at the height of the Lewinsky/Clinton scandal, I was a habitual reader of every morning’s newspaper. My mother was not at all pleased to have to explain all about oral sex and the impeachment process to her sixth grader, however I was never forbidden to read about the sordid and horrible things going on in the world. And if I ever needed to discuss or have things clarified, my parents were very willing to help.

Growing up, we didn’t have a lot of toys, especially not by American standards. But we always had a steady stream of books coming to our way. I wouldn’t have had it any other way. What I lacked in dolls and videos, I more than made up for with words and dreams. I remember being so sad, when at eight my floor to ceiling bookshelf got so filled that I had to move some of my personal collections to a different shelf in another room of the house. I had no idea how truly fortunate I was to have such a dilemma.

See, my parents believe, as do I, that the only true evil in this world, is ignorance. Reading is the most important means of educating yourself. Without the freedom to read and learn at will, we have nothing except what other people tell us. The only way to form an opinion is to be educated on it. They also knew that denying us information could only bring about conflict.

There are a lot of things I dislike about how my parents raised us, but the way that they shared with us their appreciation and love for books is something I will always be thankful for.

Which is why it cuts me the core and really just pisses me off to read about yet another censorship story.

And for what? Because of the word “scrotum”?
Are you kidding me?

I won’t even go into the ethics and absolute immorality that is book censorship, because that is a whole other can of worms that I’m just too tired to go into.

But scrotum?
Seriously?

For the love of god. It’s a body part. One which 50% of the population is in posession of. I could understand if the word were something like copulation or ejaculation, as those are words much more indicative of something too mature for small children. But scrotum? A noun. A simple little noun. Just a run-of-the-mill body part is creating this uproar? What exactly is so threatening about this word? I don’t get it. A scrotum is just as much a part of the male anatomy as penis or testicles and most boys are well aware of what those two words mean. I just fail to see how a child reading or hearing this word could possibly be upsetting. What is it, exactly, about our sexual organs that make people so jumpy? These are children. They have bodies too. How is knowing the correct term for a body part going to negatively affect them at all, unless they are taught that it is something to be ashamed of or hidden? A scrotum alone is not dangerous or volatile in any way. Hiding the word away isn’t going to hide away it’s existence from the 3 Billion people that possess it. All boys, by the age of two are well aware of their scrotums, even if they don’t know what they’re called. What is denying them a word going to accomplish? What can possibly be accomplished by causing an uproar and trying hide such a basic and integral bodypart?

The problem is that people equate knowledge with immorality. It’s the age old apple in eden complex. Knowing and understanding their bodies isn’t going to instigate a sudden onset of hyper-sexualization in children. If anything, teaching them the scientific terms from an early age, could only improve their future sexual health as they will already be familiar with the concepts once they are old enough to be taught in greater detail. There are many things in this world that children need protecting from, but the knowledge of their own bodies is not one of them.

What kind of ridiculous, puritanical world are we living in where people will go to such astonishing lengths in order to do what? Delay in the inevitable? I mean, really. There are just so many other issues, much more worthy of distress than this word.
Knowledge, in and of itself, is never a dangerous thing. It is only the absence of knowledge that gets us all into trouble.

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Does anybody else think it’s rather fucked up ironic that Saddam was executed for shit he did while he was our ally?
Wouldn’t that make Reagan equally responsible for those deaths considering he encouraged enabled the killings when he dished out billions of American tax dollars funded Saddam’s military, funneled intelligence information and generously gifted him with standard and biological weapons back in the 80’s?

No?

I guess I forgot that basic, linear logic just doesn’t have a place in American politics.

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My father is very proud of his Maya Lenca heritage. Nevermind that he gets his height, his forehead and his last name from his Basque and Spanish ancestry. As far as he’s concerned, the European in him is irrelevant. So when he asked me to go see Apocalypto with him, I agreed despite the fact that I’d heard very bad things about the movie. I’m not one of those people who harbors deep feelings of resentment towards Mr. Mel, either. When everyone was gasping and shaking their heads at Mel Gibson’s jew scandal hoopla? Yeah, I didn’t really care. If anyone knows anything about stupid drunken behavior it’s moi. Glass houses and whatnot. Besides, I don’t think my dad has ever sat down and watched a movie with his kids. Not once. That and he was paying.
I never saw the Passion of the Christ but I heard that it was incredibly violent, and I heard similar accounts of the intense violence in this movie but I wasn’t really that worried. I’m not squeamish in the least. Hell, I’m one of those freaks who thinks blood and gore is fascinating. In fact, I’ve been known to watch the discovery health channel like it’s going off the air. And I actually look forward to getting my blood drawn so I can watch. Weird, I know. So color me apalled when not once but three times during the movie, I actually had to look away because certain scenes were just that gruesome. I’ve seen my fair share of gory horror flicks but this was beyond twisted. It takes a really disturbed mind to enjoy something like that. This is the kind of movie that serial killers would masturbate to. Mel Gibson has much more serious problems than his racism. It was sick. I’m talking you might as well admit him now because there is no way someone could think up such depravity and perversion and not be a total psychopath. At least with the Passion, he was depicting a real story. But he just fabricated this entire thing soley for the purpose of depicting death. And for what? I don’t buy into the whole it’s an allegory for imperialism bullshit. Nevermind that the movie is full of blatant (and racist) misrepresentations of Mayan culture and is loaded with historic inaccuracies that any ninth grade history student should be able to recognize. Yes, the cinematography was beautiful and the use of Yucatec Mayan language was an interesting touch, but it creates this faux-authenticity that falsely gives the viewer the impression that what they’re watching is real.
Needless to say, I hated the movie. I was disgusted and apalled and when the predictable ending faded out to the credits I grabbed my stuff and demanded to leave as fast as possible.
What I wasn’t prepared for was the wave of even more intense horror that I felt when, as we were exiting the theater, a large latino family filed out, three of whose members were under the age of ten. I audibly gasped as I saw a little girl in a white flowered dress, who couldn’t have been older than five, holding her (presumably) mother’s hand as they walked out of the dark theater and into the lighted hallway.

What. the. Fuck!?

I can’t even verbalize the intensity of the anger and shame that surged through me.
My brother went with us and at 15 even he is deemed too young to go watch such a movie without a parent. And for good reason! The R for Restricted is not just an arbitrary classification; it’s there so that the public can take into account the content of a movie prior to seeing it or letting their children see it. What would possess anyone to take their small child to go see something like this? But this wasn’t even just the ignorance of one person. The entire family was there. There were at least four other adults in addition to the little gir’s mother and a set of twin boys in matching outfits who looked to be about eight or nine, as well. How can an entire family be so irresponsible as to expose their children to such gratuitious violence? This isn’t some questionable cartoon; it’s graphic torture, rape and murder; images that made me wince in repugnance! And they sat there and not only allowed but encouraged their children to watch. Even if they truly had no idea that the movie was going to be so deliberately and vehemently violent, after the opening sequence where a group of natives graphically slaughter and then slice up a boar, dividing it up and doling out various bloody body parts, I think any sane person would be able to conclude that maybe such a movie isn’t so appropriate for elementary aged children. But they didn’t leave! Not when the first massacre of a little village took place or when the prisoners were tortured and beaten. Or at any time during the entire 2 hour bloodfest. No. They sat there and allowed their three children to sit and watch. I felt and still do feel sick just thinking about it. This crosses the line. It’s beyond irresponsible or even bad parenting; it’s child abuse. These people intentionally exposed their children to images and themes that not only are they too young to be able to grasp but that are intense to the point that they could cause significant psychological trauma.
I’m beyond words. And I’m fucking pissed off. Igorance is no excuse for poor parenting decisions. And classifying this as poor parenting choice is putting it very mildly. Quite possibly the shittiest part of it all is that these people probably don’t even realize that they’re doing anything wrong and I’m sure there are thousands of other parents who are behaving in the same manner and subjecting their children to such awful things.
And there is absolutely nothing I can do about it.

So, fuck you Mel Gibson. Fuck you.

My shrink once told me that I have slight sociopathic tendencies. At the time, I laughed because it sounded kinda cool. Now, I wish it were true because I can’t for the life of me figure out how to talk myself out of this mess. I’m trapped. I’m living in a hotel, paid for by my employers. Originally they stated that they would pay for it for two months (2 mo = $4,000), during which I was supposed to save money and look for a permanent place to say. Well, I found a place. I want to move. Only problem is that I haven’t actually gotten a paycheck from them yet and I’ve spent, literally, every penny I have on this move and on my car. They didn’t pay me to relocate, which I now realize I should have tried to negotiate beforehand. Basically I’m in a position where I need their money. The security for this place is $1300. They are willing to advance me the money so that they can take a little bit out of my paycheck every week until it’s paid off. This is good. Except that there is no way I want to be in debt with them for three months. The idea I put forward was that they use some of the money that I saved them by moving out of the hotel a month and a half early on the security for my deposit. Afterall, if the money was going to be used on my housing anyway, wouldn’t transering it make sense? Makes perfectly good sense to me. Erm, no. Not to the selfish assholes that are my employers. No. According to the father, what they were doing by paying for my hotel was them generously investing in my getting settled. Generosity my ass. I moved out here on the condition that I would have a freaking roof over my head. That I would have two months to save money for a place to say. Well, the instant I got here, I got e-mails after e-mails with listings for apartments. It was clear that they wanted me out of the hotel as soon as possible. They even loaned me a company car when mine broke down so that I could drive around looking for places to stay. Not because it might be a bit dangerous and scary for me to be stranded in a strange town with absolutely no means of transportation. No. So that I could look for apartments. So I did. I found a place. It’s a house share in a beautiful home that’s owned by a really sweet Indian couple. Well, because this isn’t a regular apartment, they didn’t ask for a lease agreement. This is a problem for my employers. They feel that it’s too big of a risk to hand over so much money without a written agreement. Okay. That makes sense. I get it. I agree to get a written agreement the following day. Half an hour. Half an hour I sit there listening to the husband explaining all the risks involved and the reasoning behind their pressing this. I get it! Really. I get it. I nod. I say, okay. I understand. Over and over again. I feel like I’m listening to my father telling me about boys and why they can’t be trusted. Broken record. Really, I get it. I get it. Finally, I approach with my idea regarding the money saved on the hotel and my security deposit. What do I get it? A patronizing smile and yet another rant about their generosity and how it isn’t as though they has allotted a certain amount of money for me. That it wasn’t intended to be transferable, that my getting an apartment sooner wasn’t some sort of incentive to pocket money, though that’s clearly not what I’m doing. And so I’m pissed. More than pissed. I’m pissed at me. I’m pissed at them. I’m pissed because they are being godamned misers and over what? $1300. That’s fucking pocket change for them. It wouldn’t make a dent in their checkbooks. And it’s not as though they weren’t intending on spending nearly double that on my housing anyway, right? But on the otherhand, I don’t want to be a begger. I don’t want to have to plead for this, because damnit, I’m too proud for that. However, I definitely do not want to be in debt with them for three months. Either way, I’m still a charity case. Either way, I’ll owe them. Owe them for their generosity, or literally owe them money. And I’m starting to hate them. For being affluent assholes. For talking to me like I’m twelve. For making me feel like I’m in a vault with no way out. And there is no way out. And I hate it. Because I’m here thanks to them. I can’t leave. I can’t escape. I’m completely flat, fucking, broke. So I’m lassoed to them. Completely shackled and trapped.
Shit.