Twitter Campaign for a More Holy America

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Hey, folks!

As I can probably guess, there are many of you are dissatisfied with the ungodliness that pervades this great country.

It is because we have forgotten Her.

She is a goddess-like, urbane, stylish, fashionable Feminist Icon who deserves a place in each every one of our souls.

Our inspiration:

Because She Lives

If this post so moves you, please use the Twitter hashtag #BecauseSheLives to express your love of cultured sophisticates.

 

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The case of the homosexual, non-alien predator.

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When I was still a little faggot, sheltered from the realness of the world of queerdom, I used to go to one of Colorado’s few gay bars semi-regularly.

That woman clearly doesn't want to see whatever he's got.

That woman clearly doesn’t want to see whatever he’s got.

The first time I went, I was smoking in the alley when this guy in a white shirt came up to me, and asked me if I had a light. I handed it over to him, instead of a lighting his roach for him, so as to avoid the implication of cruising.

I was very drunk that night, so when the guy leaned against the wall I was leaning on and tried to talk to me, I crushed my cigarette and returned to the dance floor to slut it up.

The next time I was there, I had to piss like a horse, so I went to the bathroom as soon as we got there. Someone was having sex in the stalls, as usual, and I went up to the urinal. The guy stood at the next urinal, still wearing the same shirt, and asked me, as though not a moment had passed from our last meeting,

“So, you like Nirvana?”

I was wearing my Nirvana t-shirt at the time.

I nodded. I think I noticed the guy take not-so-surreptitious glance over the urinal divider. I zipped up my pants and walked out the bathroom.

Later that night I was busy slutting it up on the dance floor again. Well, trying to, anyway. I think that was the night I made out with a metal-head wearing a Beavis and Butthead t-shirt. He seemed nice, from what I could tell from his lips.

Then, white shirt dude comes barging through my friends’ dance circle. He gestured emphatically at me. I shook my head. I had no intention whatsoever of going anywhere with someone who couldn’t take two clear no’s. I turned around, ever so subtly, and started dancing with the nightly straight chick of the club.

Don’t be a fucking creep, I guess is the message. Keep your creepiness to yourself unless someone wants to see it. Seek someone who actually wants to see your creepiness.

The poop-hat

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The poop-hat: we all wear it.

We wear the poop-hat when we are stuck in an infantile frump.

We wear the poop-hat when we are jag-weeds.

We wear the poop-hat when we refuse to acknowledge our wrongness.

The poop-hat is a state of being.

You wear the poop-hat when you play beer pong against me. You wear the poop-hat whenever I see you, wearing that poop-hat, as you are wont to do.

We all wear the poop-hat.

Ornithology whilst stoned

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I guess I haven’t posted about this yet here.

This is my side project, which I’m going to update this weekend, if you care to check it out.

From the first post of the blog:

“This blog is an exercise in recall, ornithology, and cannabis. This is the shtick: every time I smoke marijuana, I shall post a number of facts about birds that I keep on hand in my mind. You know, a mind-hand. Ahem. I will also post what I was smoking. Please, please join me on this high adventure of a bird-brained twenty-something.”

If that sounds like something which would interest you, check it out.

Cops are pieces of shit.

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It was after a Rocky Horror Picture Show. We were walking across the town, all dolled up in leather, tutus, makeshift toilet paper ascots, corsets, and Amanda Palmer stockings. We were all very drunk, but that’s why we were walking.

We were at the town’s campus’s student center, a large swath of concrete with flood lights pouring down on it, and woman who was with us hopped onto her husband’s back. The husband, being too drunk to carry this sudden weight, toppled to the ground, his wife scraping her chin against the pavement.

And FWOOMP! there were three campus cop cars on the scene. The cops saw the woman with a bleeding cut on her chin with her husband standing over her and made an assumption. They sat her down on a bench and examined her. Her husband tried to approach her, only to be warded off by this policewoman.

An ambulance was called, and a firetruck. The EMTs flashed their lights into her eyes, and put a bandage on her chin.

That’s when the trouble started. After the fact, the woman told us the EMTs gave her the impression that if she didn’t get to a hospital and get treatment IMMEDIATELY, SHE WAS IN DANGER OF GETTING IT INFECTED, AND DYING. The guy said the cops told him the ride to the ambulance would be free, an offer which enticed him because of his new-born baby and their skinny budget. It was bold-faced lie. Once the policewoman left the vehicle, the woman, who was now in the ambulance, somewhat against her drunken will, asked the EMT if she actually had to go to the hospital. The guy confessed that, no, if she disinfected it and put a butterfly stitch in it, she would be fine.

All of this happened in the middle of campus, with drunk cabals of freshmen wandering hither and thither to blackout drunkenness. We were all in costume, so we were kind of spectacle. Hoss told them to fuck off. Some asshole, staring with his friends, said he was looking at they “eye-candy” or whatever. It was rewarding to see Hoss in a tutu yelling at him to suck a dick.

After squabbling with the cops a bit, we got the information that if there was a car to take her home, she didn’t have to take the ambulance. We all started looking through our phone books for viable options to call at midnight. Hoss saw a couple walking on the sidewalk, two perfect strangers, and asked them if they had a car. They nodded, and he explained the situation to them. By Satan’s good fortune, they let the husband and wife ride in the back.

The cops lied to us. That ambulance ride would have put a serious dent in the couple’s finances. In a town where we drive past cops harassing houseless, where they are “mysteriously” absent from the street corners during the college’s football games, it was another moment of disillusionment.

And I leave you with a song from the Wingnut Dishwashers Union, “Fuck Every Cop“.