Satanized For Your Protection (apologies to xaos)

So Joe Kolbe (R-AZ) (that unrepentant flamer) addressed the Republican Convention. Big Fucking Deal. His 3-minute speech was Fucking Boring. Apparently being Fucking Boring is not a Special Right.

Planet Out: "The big moment came for Congress' only "out" Republican, and though there was no sex in his trade speech, some convention delegates protested in prayer."

Well, that's not completely true. He did say "fruit," "partners" and "a[head]." PERVERT!!! I too, shall pray for him and his predictably banal gray-suit-with-red-tie-ensemble.

Query: If homosexuality is "learned behavior," and inherently "unnatural," what does that make religion? I have yet to see any animal pray. Except for a praying mantis. They also eat their mates.

PlanetOut: "Gary Bauer, the anti-gay former Family Research Council head who had at the time just ended his own Presidential campaign, called it "bizarre to pick somebody to speak at the convention based on their sexual preference, because once you go down that road, why don't you pick a transvestite?"

Well, Bay Buchanan wasn't available. She and her brother were busy ripping apart a small ghetto child with their carefully filed teeth.

And Now, A Rebuttal:

(Cougar) i wanna hear..BOXERS....NUDE....MUSCLE.....MAN 2 MAN SEX....NOT POLOTICS....IF I WANTED SO....I'll GO TO CONGRESS!!!!!
(Cougar) strip IT BOYZ!!!!!!
(Cougar) and some music plz

(Nolo contendre)

Mocha JaVoodoo

Just when you think you're fuckin cool and all and would NEVER spill coffee on a keyboard, IT HAPPENS. You wipe it up very carefully, making sure to tuck thin slices of paper towel into every crevice between each key, even though you're pretty sure there were only three little drips. Then you try to do work and forget about it.

After about ten minutes, you notice that you're mysteriously putting in extra keystrokes when you really hadn't intended to an3d e#ve#rything@ geeets all scre#wy. You stop and take a deep breath.

You retype everything and focus your mental powers into somehow sucking up all the extra moisture somewhere on the other side of that molded plastic thinking please, no, please no be okay baby, ok muthafucka don't play me I will do you! oh I'm sorry please forgive me my sweet keyboard.

Finally it just starts beeping out a continuous rhythm like a heart monitor about to pack it in and you cross that river in your head that leads to Staples and imagine yourself forking over that devil's toenail called a credit card and purchasing a brand spanking new ergonomic keyboard for $49 with a $10 rebate and realize it wasn't that bad after all. Except it's like buying underwear and socks.

If I Had A Hammer. Oh Wait, I Do.

I don't get bored so much as realize that I have a lot of stuff to do and I get paralyzed by the admittedly self-imposed urgency of it all.

It's hard to muster up the energy sometimes to come home from a full day of work, eat dinner, watch the news, then stand around in the basement and whack away at a chunk of alabaster with a 2-pound hammer and chisels for an hour or two. But sculpting is one of the few things I've found satisfying both in the short term and in the long run, and feelings as rare as that need to be held onto.