I’ve recently added a new cardio CD into my workout rotation. Because, reasons (change is good; bored with the old jumping around….). This new routine is one I’ve become quite fond of, although its “soundtrack” (the various workouts are choreographed to hip-hop music) has leads to several awkward parent-child moments…
…when those too-damn-catchy tunes stay in my brain after I’m done exercising. I will come downstairs, oblivious to what I am humming only to myself (or so I think) and find son K and/or daughter Belle giving me the what-the? eye. Eventually, one or both will ask me why I am singing just-loud-enough-to-hear-what-they-don’t-want-to-hear-their-mother-singing:
Don’t cha wish your girlfriend was hot like me?
Don’t cha wish your girlfriend was a freak like me?
Cue the violins: writers complaining. Chapter 576 in a never-ending anthology.
“The thing is, it wasn’t always this way. Publishers used to do most of the marketing for the books they put out. The best an author could do was finish the last chapter and then show up reasonably sober for a tri-city book tour. The hope was that the book would eventually be widely reviewed, and then take off on the strength of word-of-mouth. But social media has crushed that seemingly innocent past…
I also feel a mixture of contempt and sadness when I see other authors (often friends of mine) typing things like “Here’s my new book trailer!” or “I’ll be appearing at Barnes & Noble on Wednesday!” or “Win a signed copy of something so valueless I’m giving it away for free!” mainly because it’s embarrassing to watch their yearning for bandwidth slam against the indifference of a million kitten-occupied Twitter accounts.”
I am not so involved with social media as the author of the above observations, but I can identify with many of the points he makes in his thesis, Hell is self-promotion.
Thus, readers will be spared that particular hell from moiself. This week.
* * *
* The pathological homo-hatred of a certain Russian President
* A certain New York mayoral candidate’s ongoing, informal relationship with reality and his bizarre delusions of adequacy
* a certain Louisiana parish is arguing that it should not be held liable for the rape of a 14-year-old girl in a juvenile detention center because the victim “consented” to be sexually assaulted by a 40-year-old corrections officer at the facility.
* noted players and featured conference speakers in the skeptics movement engaging in sexual harassment of fellow conference speakers, attendees and co-workers
There are far too many candidates for AssHat of the Week
and/or the prestigious EatCatShitandDie Award
But preparing a dinner party for dear Swenadian friends who have returned to the ‘hood after a summer in Sweden is a much more pleasant task than contemplating which of the abundant doofi  shall be awarded which particular prize – even the relatively benign Crabby Carrot Man – and so I shall open it to nominations.
Your Name could be here!
Except, one thing: that list at the beginning, the fourth one isn’t all bad. As per the linked article: Rebecca Watson, a major writer and speaker on the skeptic/atheist circuit wrote in Slate last year, the amount of sexual harassment aimed at women over even the tiniest suggestions of how to make the movement more female-friendly is absolutely stunning. Which is, of course, major bad. But, as little Ms. Sunshine moiself is noticing, the fact that we are learning about this disgusting mess is because more and more women – and men – are speaking up, naming names and corroborating others’ stories, despite the very real and documented fear of personal and professional retribution .
A predatory snake-in-the-grass is a predatory snake-in-the-grass, regardless of worldview. I admire those with the courage to speak up about this “dirty laundry” more than I can say; thus, once again, graphics will have to suffice. With apologies to my reptilian brethren and sistren for the snake-in-the-grass epithet,  I present all the truth-tellers with the soon-to-be-esteemed, Compassionate and Courageous Snake in the Pond award:
Always carry a flagon of whiskey in case of snakebite,
and furthermore always carry a small snake.
(W. C. Fields)
Wishing you Fun Friday Flagons, ® and may the hijinks ensue.
Parting note: today would have been my father’s 89th birthday. I think he would have enjoyed this blog; I know he would have, in his weekly calls to me, proposed nominations for Asshat of the Week.
Thanks for stopping by. Au Vendredi!
 Yes, plural of doofus.
 There aren’t nearly enough footnotes in this post.
 There should be at least three, don’t you think?