F**k The Children
The other day I was reading an article in
The Hartford Courant. It was about a bill before the Connecticut legislature that would allow for controled amounts of marijuana for people suffering from certain illnesses that the drug has been shown to help. Montel Williams, who suffers from MS, gave a moving speech about marijuana's ability to get him through his day. I would link the article if I had the faintest clue how. (I am not technologically illiterate, but I defnitely move my lips when I read) And then they brought out the people who disagreed with the bill. One of their main arguments- what message does this send the children?
Let me repeat that. This bill is designed to help people with horrible debilitating diseases- AIDS, MS, Cancer and the like- and these people think that little Billy might get the wrong idea so we should scrap the whole thing. "What about the children?" they cry. "Oh, won't someone please think of the children?!?"
Well, my answer is, "Fuck the children." That's right- fuck 'em.
The testicular grandiosity required for you to look some poor bastard who's body is tearing itself apart and say, "No, you cannot have that relief, because my kid might get the wrong idea," truly staggers my mind.
Let me start with the obvious problem. If your kid is so unformed intellectually that the sight of grandma toking up to help with her arthritis makes him decide that pot is a-okay, well, he wasn't going far in this world anyway. You don't need to be straight to work the deep fryer. Indeed, it is probably a hinderance. Your kid either will decide to smoke pot or he won't- just like a hundred other decisions you worry about. This decision will be based on a thousand little things that have a great deal more to do with your parenting than with Montel's doobage habits. Maybe that's what really worries you, but I couldn't care less. Don't drag your parenting hangups into other peoples lives, jerkoff.
My main problem with the argument, though, is that it is intellectually dishonest. Children have become the catchall for dealing with controversial issues. Anything that makes us uncomfortable, we instantly raise the children issue. What will this do to our children? Is it harmful? Will it make them promiscuous, or evil or Jehova's Witnesses? It's an easy out because we all worry on some level about children, about what happens to them. Most all of us have one in our lives, be it one of our own or a relative or a relative of a friend. Mention children and most of us conjure an image of some wide-eyed moon face full of trust and love that we want to protect from the big bad world and it makes us hesitate. But it's all bullshit.
Because you are not really worried that junior's gonna toke up if the bill passes. You're worried because you've lived your whole life believing that pot is bad. You saw "Reefer Madness" in health class or heard some crazed urban legend about some kid becoming a drooling ninny or you're just thinking back to your hazy college days and your embarrassed by the useless little shit you were back then. Or maybe you're realistic enough to recognize the floodgates this could open- that if pot is beneficial to these people, maybe it's not bad enough to warrant being illegal. And if that's the case, what else are we prohibiting that isn't so bad. And maybe we have to rethink the whole war on drugs and that would be hard work and give you headaches. But none of these are good enough arguments, so you invoke the children.
And so I tell you again, "Fuck the children." I say it loud, I say it proud.
Understand, there are legitimate arguments to be made against using marijuana for medicinal purposes. Perhaps you do not feel the benefit outweighs the damage it does. Maybe you think there are safer, universally legal, alternatives that work as well if not better. I am happy to hear these arguments, though I may not agree with them. At least it means you are doing yourself and others the courtesy of formulating a real, well reasoned argument.
Have the decency to leave your little bastards out of the public discourse on sustantive adult issues and in the closet. Safely locked away with a food dish, where they belong.
Delayed Reactions
There's a scene in the movie "An American President" where Michael Douglas, finally growing weary of the slanders being hurled at him and his girlfriend by Richard Dreyfuss, stands up at a press conference and delivers a nice, definitive verbal ass-whooping. He stares at the cameras with powerful determination and declares, "You wanna fuck with me, assface? Bring it on, 'cause I'll stomp you like a narc at a biker rally and send you crying back to obscurity. It is a nice, well enough written scene in keeping with the fantasy nature of the rest of the film. But I was reminded of it when I heard that Kerry was finally standing up to refute the swift boat allegations that took so much wind out of his campaign's sails.
There have been countless articles and several books written on the swift boat campaign that emerged during the '04 elections to slander Kerry's war record. It was a ballsy move, considering Bush's lack of any military record of note. You would think a guy who ran off into the "Champagne Unit" of the Texas Air National Guard to avoid service- who, according to many sources, didn't even show up for his full tour- would do everything possible to keep the focus away from military service. But instead, the Republican slander machine went wholely in the opposite direction. And the amazing thing, they pulled it off. They were actually able to make a man who volunteered to serve his country in one of the most dangerous assignments of the Vietnam war seem more cowardly, less patriotic than a spoiled rich kid who ducked any real commitment.
So thank you, Mister Kerry, for looking to set the record straight two years later. We shall be sure to tack that footnote on to the dustbin of history where you, and every other milquetoast, politically triangulating Democrat are rightly deposited.
Someday, one of you guys will have the balls to look Rove and all his weaselly disciples in the eyes and say, "Is that all you got? Some unsubstantiated allegations and slimy rumors. Well, bring it on, fuckers, and I'll wipe the floor with your asses." And then, oh then, things will get really interesting. Because the day you do that is the day the country realizes these guys have nothing else to hide behind. And that's the day we will start winning again.
Until then, Mister Kerry, enjoy your delayed reaction.
I Wanna be a Pirate
I want to be a pirate. I have grown tired of a life endlessly mired in reality and common sense. I want to slice the seas in a Spanish Galleon manned by salty rogues. Perhaps, if I am fortunate, a monkey on my shoulder.
I want to raid passing cruise ships. I want to pull up beside one of those Disney liners, cannons pounding. I want to make the poor bastard in the Mickey suit walk the plank. If they want, I would let the seven dwarves join my crew. Always room for small fellows who know their way around a pickaxe.
Yo-ho-bloody-ho
The Devil and the DLC
The pigfuckers are at it again. I watch them as the blood seethes through my temples and my eyes mist over with red rage. I watch their spines liquefying and oozing from every available orifice. You can see it in their faces. Those faces- ruined by the excesses of lobbyist lunches and failed, broken inertia. Look closely, you can see the tattered remains of their souls peering helplessly out of their moist, dead eyes. Some horrible Lovecraftian beast from a million years past has latched itself onto their collective brainpans. It huddles there, hungry and sinister. Look closely, dear reader. Do you see its dagger toothed grin? It has tasted the cerebro-spinal fluid of the modern American Democrat, and it likes what it tastes.
I wonder sometimes why the Democrats bother showing up. They do little enough to bring balance to politics in Washington. They slump low in their seats, wallowing in their own impotence. They have come to know fear. They have tasted its copper tang. They've forgotten what life was like without that puke in their mouths. Never before have I seen a group of grown men so attatched to the idea of failure. I'm Irish, I know well the heady allure of the lost cause. Yet, I cannot fathom the sense of going out of your way to become one. Not like the Democrats have.
Across the aisle, their mortal enemy stands firm, gloating. They are led by a creature named Karl Rove. Rove is not human. You doubt me, because you have not taken the time to look. He proudly wears the doughy face we easily recognize as that of the quiet man who lives down the street- the one with the immaculate lawn. The one who never married, who lived with his mother his whole life. The one who engenders rumors of homosexuality- barely spoken, only whispered, but universally recognized. But beneath that mask is the leathery hide of a lizard creature. Colored contacts mask the cold, yellow eyes that stare out at the world with a glare of pure evil. Pure greed. Deep in a compound beneath the Washington Monument is his lair. Row upon row of bodies lie in artificially induced comas. They lie waiting for him to come. And feed. He likes the babies the best- their warm flesh still tender and succulent. His hunger is insatiable. He will spend hours down there- choosing the tastiest morsels. And as the newborn blood drips down his scaly chin, he stares upward, peering through the layers of concrete and dirt and sod. And an inhuman howl of pure lust issues forth from his bloodied lips. And he lays in wait for the coming of the dawn, and another chance to humiliate his enemies.
Perhaps someday, a hero will come. Like something from mythology- a Democrat willing to stand up and lead the charge. A titan, breaking loose the shackles of the DLC and stepping proudly to the senate floor. On that day, perhaps, his brethren shall actually stand up for something. They shall find their spines solidifying yet again. They shall feel the warmth of the long dormant sun upon their pasty cheeks. And that day, that day dear readers, the creature called Rove shall be driven back into the pits from which he emerged. That day, the milquetoast demons shall find the flavor of Democrat fluids has become decidedly sour.
Perhaps that day, we shall have government again.
I guess this means we're a team
A friend of mine sent me the address of your blog; she thought it was interesting. I do too. That's why I posted the comment to your first post.
Actually, I thought you'd just laugh, rather than sending the invitation to be on your team. I didn't know what a team was either. I'm not generally what's known as a team player, and my guess is you're not either. But as long as we're here, let's share a few details of our lives.
I'm 54, which is probably about 30 or so years older than you. I've been divorced twice, and I have two lovely children, both of whom are heroin addicts. I have Stage IV breast cancer; median survival post diagnosis is about 2 years.
And yet I'm happy. No, really. Right now I'm eating chocolate (not good for my diabetes); this afternoon I learned the basics of Sufi dancing, the kind the whirling dervishes do. I first put paintbrush to Bristol paper about two months ago. I have little talent, but I'm having a lot of fun.
When I found out my cancer had metastasized, I retired onto Social Security disability. I suddenly received 5 or 6 awards for the work I'd been doing, which I thought was a bad sign. You never know, though, I may surprise everyone.
I could probably say some motherly things to you, but I don't think I will. You know you write well and you think well. I suppose that now that we're a team you'll be able to see my blog, if you couldn't before. You may decide to take me off your team.
Your name's not really Jimmy, is it?
When you are a child, they tell you your life is full of possibility. And you believe them. You believe them because you know they are right. And they are- as a child, your life is full of possibilities.
What they don't tell you- what the bastards never mention- is that possibility can go either way. It's the fine print that fucks you.
Sure, when you're a kid, it is always possible that you could be the guy who discovers the cure for cancer. Of course, it is equally as possible that you will be the poor bastard mopping up after the guy who cures cancer after he leaves the porno shop viewing booth. Possibility- she's a bitch.
Life is a series of choices, each one affecting your eventual outcome. What really screws you is that you never know which choices are really going to impact you. Your college choice might mean little in the grand scheme of things. But one day you decide to have the chicken instead of the beef for dinner. The chicken gives you food poisoning so severe that the girl you are about to propose to ends up watching in horror as you shit yourself in the middle of the Dairy Queen, loses respect for you and starts sneaking around with the swarthy guy from her gym who swears he's gonna be a film producer and suddenly they're running off with your life savings and your mint condition Spawn #1 and you have to move back in with your parents, who, by the way, never much cared for you but managed to hide the fact while you were young but now they don't have that kind of patience and you realize that every childhood memory you ever had is a complete sham and you end up locked in your garage with Counting Crows blaring on the radio as you're gleefully sucking in carbon monoxide and insisting that "This'll show 'em all!"
Not that I'm bitter.
Or maybe you like a bit of symbolic imagery. The moments in your life are like forks in a path in the middle of a dense wood. You cannot see where either direction will lead, but you need to make a choice. Do you take the easy path, with its even surface and cheerful woodland creatures? Or do you take Frost's road less traveled? Or, like me, do you look at the two paths and say, "Wait a minute- what the fuck am I doing in the woods? I hate nature!" I do, by the way. I absolutely hate it. But I guess that's not the point.
You know, you start out in a nice middle-class suburban home. You have loving parents, access to good schools and a mind full of possibility. Suddenly, one day, you're the Unabomber. And that's when you realize- possibility has gone and screwed you again.
