A Performance Artist in the Family
Belle and her friend LW recently used our humble abode for a guerrilla art project [1]. Sometime within the past couple of days, every framed family picture in our home, from the photos on the mantle to framed prints on the walls, was goo goo-eyed, as per this one of MH and I, taken during a backpacking trip in Big Sur.
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Department of Regressive Passive Aggression
Dear Future Husband is the new song by the same twat twit who brought us All About That Bass. Don’t know what I’m talking about? I envy you. Read the lyrics. [2]
Holy Fucking Stepford Wives. Would someone get this woman a girdle, a pool boy, a valium prescription and a one-way ticket to a pre-Enlightenment time machine?
On the positive side, this song is like a Public Service Announcement for Decent Men © : Gents, if the woman you are interested in subscribes (even jokingly) to any of the sentiments expressed in this narcissist, needy, whiny ditty, y’all better sprint, not walk, in the opposite direction.
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Department of I Knew They Reminded Me of Something
I dreamed I was sitting on the top row of smelly, sticky, rickety bleachers at a tacky, three ring circus, booing along with other members of the audience at the third rate juggling and acrobat acts. A VW Beetle clown car drove into the circus’ center ring. The car stopped, its doors flew open, and one by one a stream of Republican presidential candidates emerged from the tiny vehicle.
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It’s Nice to Have Them Both Home For the Summer
By them I refer to the two fruit of the loom Fruits of My Loins ®, son K and daughter Belle. Yes, it’s nice. And loud. And often unintentionally amusing. To wit: a group of K’s friends were over Monday night, [3] and I overheard two of the young men reminiscing in our living room as they played a game of 8-ball [4] :
“Do you remember the first time we were playing, and little Belle came down from upstairs and asked if maybe she could join in, and then she sharked us all?”
“Yeah! I knew we were in trouble when she pulled her own cue stick out of a leather case.”
Would this sweet young thing clock her brother’s friends? Nooooooo, never.
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Department of White People Problems
In my forty-plus never-you-mind-how-many years of driving, I have received only two parking tickets. The first was thirty-seven years ago, when I was a college student attending UC Davis. [5] The second was earlier this week, after K, Belle and I had taken friend SCM and her daughter Ph to lunch at their favorite sushi place to celebrate Ph’s eighth birthday.
No problem with the first parking spot. After lunch I dropped off K and Belle (and Belle’s backbreaking load of four bags of books) in front of Powell’s Books. We were to meet at the store’s book buyback counter after I found a new parking space.
Parking can be quite a challenge in that part of Portland, but I’m familiar with the area and know how to read signs…don’t I?
I found a space four blocks away from Powell’s and overpaid for parking (two hours, when we’d likely need less). We had another 30 minutes of time left on our stub when Belle, K and I returned to our car, and spotted an ominous yellow envelope tucked under the windshield wiper. Apparently, I’d chosen the one spot in a two hour zone that was actually good for only 30 minutes, and for this flagrant violation Portland wants NINETY DOLLARS.
Are you satisfied, City of Portland, for catching the evil parking scofflaw? Huh? HUH? Huh? HUH? Huh? HUH? Huh? HUH? Huh? HUH? Huh? HUH? Are you satisfied?
My anger surprised me. [6] I now understand…almost…why some people mail in their parking ticket payments in an envelope stuffed with desiccated dog turds. [7]
Ninety fucking dollars. I hope the parking meter ticket staff has a nice lunch out (I can recommend a nearby sushi venue), on me.
I get to enrage people while wearing this bitchin’ hat – is this a dream job, or what?
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Why Didn’t I Know About This, Much, Much Earlier?
Being a non-pork consumer, I missed jumping on the everything-is-better-with-bacon bandwagon. Still, I jumped for joy when I came across The United Church of Bacon.
Once again, magician Penn Jillette (of Penn and Teller) and his friends have used humor (and in particular, Penn’s finely honed craft of satire and ridicule) to point out a serious flaw in our culture – the fact that religious people are seen as (and often claim to be) morally superior to atheists and that religions getting special privileges in the law, over secular non-profit organizations.
The United Church of Bacon describes itself as a “real, legal church with a funny name but a serious mission.” From their website’s intro page:
Praise Bacon!
- We oppose supernatural claims. We are skeptics and atheists. In our religion, we doubt religion.
- We fight discrimination. Atheists are not inferior and should not be hated and marginalized.
- We raise money for charity while accepting no donations for ourselves. We do not claim tax exempt status.
- We perform legal weddings, always for free. How joyful!
- We expose religious privileges as silly by claiming the same rights for Bacon.
- Praise Bacon If you don’t like pigs, praise Vegetarian Bacon or Turkey Bacon.
We now have nearly 10,000 members from around the world and have performed hundreds of weddings. Join us! Raise your voice in protest, and to Praise Bacon!
My MIL has been on the lookout for witnessing opportunities ever since MH and I came out of the closet, all those many years ago, about our religion-free status. [8] How happy she will be when she has the opportunity to discover that we (or at least, I) have found a church that truly suits our spiritual needs!
Not only that, the Mormons ain’ got nothing on the United Church of Bacon when it comes to proxy baptisms, as per the UCB’s membership form:
We will baptize any family member in the name of Bacon. Please enter the name(s) of any relative(s) you would like to give the eternal glory of our Lard to.
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Speaking of witnessing opportunities, during our trip to Central Florida I saw an an auto repair shop [9] that called itself Just Brakes Total Car Care. I admit to being in a humidity-heat induced stupor during much of that trip, but even now, back here in temperate Oregon, that particular business name has me confused.
I may suck at reading parking zone restrictions, but I know the definitions of the words just and total. So, which is it: do you do fix brakes and only brakes, or everything?
Dadgummit, sonny, I said just the brakes – keep your grubby hands offa my air filter!
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End Notes
Yesterday afternoon, driving home after a lunchtime errand, I found myself stopped at a traffic light behind a guy whose vehicle sported a license plate holder with the phrase, He Died For Me.
My gut reaction: And you’re bragging about it, you heartless bastard?!
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May you find comfort (not to mention calories) in the Eternal Glory of Our Lard…
and may the hijinks ensue.
Thanks for stopping by. Au Vendredi!
[1] She has yet to confess…but we know it’s her.
[2] Please, don’t waste your stereocilia by listening to the song.
[3] And if the pattern continues, it will be every other night.
[4] After Belle took a billiards class when she was in 8th grade, we sold the piano she never used (but had begged for when she wanted to take piano lessons, which lasted all of 3 months) and bought a used pool table. Ever since, our living room = the pool room. One of the best trades we ever made – the room gets used!
[5] And I did not have to pay that ticket, after a judge, reading the note of apology/explanation I sent in with the fine, returned my check to me.
[6] and included a pathetic, tell-it-to-the-judge whine, if this was a 30 minute spot only why did the parking machine allow me to buy two hour’s worth of time ?
[7] My favorite of the many stories I’ve read about parking ticket rage.
[8] More ickily and sadly, she has several times reminded us ( and our children, her grandchildren) how disappointed she and my FIL are that we have “rejected god.”
[9] apparently, it’s a nationwide franchise, in mostly southeast & southwest states.
