No Words, So I’ll Fake It

I’m going to try this again, after starting and stopping and starting and stopping a bunch of times. Here’s my two cents: It’s wrong to kill people. This is true no matter what color you happen to be. When we look at a system that clearly kills significantly more of one group than another, we can say that the system in question is fucked up and needs to be fixed. When we look at a system that clearly allows the investigations into the deaths of one group over another to drag out or be shut down without justice, we can say that the system in question is fucked up and needs to be fixed.

Black people in the US have a substantially higher chance of getting killed by police than white people. This is not because black people are substantially more dangerous than white people, it is because the system is fucked up and needs to be fixed.

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Know Your Penis Laws!

Did you know that Canadians can, in the privacy of their own home, show their penis (and presumably any other genitalia, either digitally or fleshtastically) to anyone who comes over? I know, this sounds too good to be true! Well, it is. The actual answer is that you can whip out the privates for anyone who comes over, regardless of their interest or lack thereof, so long as your victim is at least sixteen years of age.

Because being sixteen makes it okay to get flashed and all.

Section 173 of the Criminal Code of Canada was written for the purposes of figuring what’s okay and what’s not when it comes to the meatspins, and it’s very clear on the subject. If the lion cannot remain caged and you’re at home with people who are all at least sixteen years old, you are fine.

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Male Body Image Stuff – My Take

A friend of mine from High School, approximately a million years ago, wrote a status on Facebook about male body image issues and how he thinks it is getting worse. This will be my response to that. Because I am well aware of how the internets work, allow me to please explain first that this is my take on the subject, that I am a heterosexual male, that I have in my adulthood been extremely skinny, extremely fat, and am now mostly healthy with a few extra pounds. Nothing I say should be interpreted as The Way Things Are, be it for girls, for guys, in the minds of girls, in the minds of guys, or anything.

I don’t really think society has a Male Ideal. Sure, advertisers typically go after young skinny men with washboard abs and boyish half-smiles, but male sex symbols break all possible boundaries, and I’m not talking about the weird corners of the internet that find truly odd things hot. I mean the number of women who would slaughter a village to be able to have a night with Sean Connery or Leonard Cohen. These are not exceptions to the rule, men are allowed to vary in size and shape and age and style in ways that women are not.

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Lending My Voice

I have started writing this post about eight times now, but as much as I’m genuinely a loudmouthed prick, there are times when I’m at a loss for words. I’ve tried to get all intellectual, I’ve lost myself in emotions, and everything in between. So I’m going to give it another try.

Hey. Cops. You have got to fucking do better. And to the people, so do you.

In the past few days, despite my thinking of myself as someone who’s smart and knows all about how the world really is, I’ve been stunned. Michael Brown has been a lightning rod for the debate… Jesus, I’m doing it again.

It isn’t even a fucking debate. Militarized police murdered a black kid. There’s no national conversation. The people of Ferguson, Missouri are exploding with their frustration and shared pain. There is no closure to be had, no arguments, no sides. A kid was killed, and the story of Young Black Killed By Cops is almost a daily occurrence. Nobody talks about it. The media doesn’t report it. Black people get angry, robocops suppress them, and eventually it all just goes away.

That’s what we’re creating. When we don’t absolutely explode and demand justice, we don’t get it. It’s easier to look at the situation and try to find the justification. “Well, he’s a decorated police officer, so he MUST have had a real good reason for it…” Bullshit. We give them guns because we accept that shit can get real dangerous for our protectors and we want them to be safe. These stories aren’t about safety, and when we don’t go absolutely bugshit over them, the message that we’re sending is that it’s okay.

It’s not fucking okay.

I’m a white Canadian male. I have the easiest bullshit life on earth. I will never be shot by a cop. I will never experience what it’s like to have to teach my children how best to not get murdered. I will never have to think, “Hey, that street won’t be safe for me because the neighbors might just look at me and think I’m bad and shoot me for it. I will never have people look at me and wonder what in the fuck I am doing in their neighborhood. I will be profiled, based on my general appearance, like when the security guard where I work decided I was homeless. But seriously? A little annoyance and indignation and it’s all fucking better. I get how pathetic that is.

The simplest thing for me to do when I hear about any of this shit would be to say, “Gosh, that’s awful” and turn the page. I just don’t want to do that. I think that when we do that, we’re selling out the people who were killed or beaten or tortured. I think that when we do that, we’re saying “Hey, cops, it’s okay to be lazy and just assume that anyone who doesn’t look like me is a drug-crazed killer”. I think that when we do that, we’re hiding. I don’t want to hide.

In my day job, I’m an analyst. My job is to break down big problems until we understand them enough to fix them. This is a big problem, but nobody has bothered to break it down. Every problem can be solved, so long as there is a desire to solve it. No, scratch that. Every problem can be solved, so long as there is a desire to solve it and the actual resources to enact the change. When we don’t make a big fuck off deal about a young black man being murdered by police officers, we tell our leaders and protectors that it’s a bad thing, but not a bad enough thing for us to want to solve it.

That’s where we, and you’re damn right I’m including myself in this, that’s where WE are complicit. We look at it, we see a big problem, and we decide it’s too big for us to do anything about. And that’s true. I, sitting here on my deck in My Home Town in fucking Canada am not going to be able to fix the problems that resulted in the death of Michael Brown. But if we all start screaming, we force their hand.

Do our leaders lead us or represent us? That’s kind of the big question. If we raise our voices and demand change, they have two options. They can enact change because they represent us and have those resources, or they can ignore it, essentially leading us to complacency. If we keep screaming and they don’t listen, then we fire their asses and find people with the balls to get things done.

I can actually hear one of the people I know telling me that it’s a very expensive problem to fix. I agree. I’m just not prepared to accept that the frequency of abused power resulting in the permanent injury, psychological trauma, or death of innocent people is a problem we should look at on a balance sheet. Destroying injustice and corruption is worth the fucking investment.

These things are problems. Reservations and ghettos are ripe with problems. It’s easy to say that they aren’t our problems because we don’t live there. It’s easy to say “Hey, black people, you really ought to do something about this”. It’s easy to turn the page. It’s just wrong.

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Making Words Change Perceptions

I love words. I’ve always had a desire to know them, to use them correctly, and to share them. I’m that asshole, the one who tells you when you say “me” but mean “I”. I’m not saying I’m proud, but I’m definitely glad for my the breadth of my vocabulary. But the big thing is, I know that words have meanings, and I know that those meanings are important. When teenagers say something was epic, I want to slap their mouths. It’s just how it is.

I think, though I may be wrong, that news agencies have the same respect and understanding for words. They understand the proper use of words in ways that even jerks like me do not, though they largely write their articles at a lower level to ensure that John Q Public doesn’t have to ask what numismatic means. Still, these are writers; they know the power of words. Thus, reading things like this makes me want to go to New York, head up to 1 New York Times Plaza, and just start turkey slapping everyone I meet.

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The Morality Of The Anti-Choicers Comes From The Bible

Onan’s tale is one that many of my Christian friends do not seem to know much about. It’s a sincerely interesting story, especially when you consider the people who believe that their morality comes from the Bible. The story is told in Genesis 38 if you want to follow along at home, but here are the broad strokes.

Onan had a brother named Er, and since God hated him a bunch for being a wicked jerkface, God killed him. The culture of the time meant that Onan had to take Er’s wife as his own, because back then a woman who didn’t have a man was just about fucked. Onan manned up and did the necessary, but God instructed Onan to have sex with her. Somehow, Onan got it in his head that if they had a baby, it wouldn’t be his. Clearly, Onan wasn’t what you’d call a scholar, but we won’t judge him. As a result, when he banged his dead brother’s wife (as per God’s mighty instructions), he pulled out. So naturally, God killed him dead.

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What Will I Say About My Tattoos When I Am Old

“Every body is a book of blood; wherever we’re opened, we’re red”
– Clive Barker (The Books Of Blood)

From the day of my first tattoo, I have been asked what I will say about them when I am old. I’ve always found this to be an utterly strange question, though I recognize that this is because of what my tattoos are. I could see those who get stupid tattoos having regrets in their dotage, but I do not in any way worry that I will be anything short of thrilled about my skin.

My skin tells many stories. The scar on my left thumb knuckle was from learning that you can’t turn 90 degrees on a bicycle. The scar on my chin was my last time on ice skates. The scar above my lip reminds me that it isn’t pit bulls you need to worry about. My stretch marks remind me of what can happen if I eat poorly. The difference between those scars and the other marks on my body is that I get authorship of the story my skin tells.

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Sometimes Comments Are Worth Destroying

I want to reply to a comment I got here. We don’t get many comments here. We get a lot of spam, which (thankfully) is almost always caught by the tools on this site and isolated. I just finished emptying the spam trap here of almost 3000 comments, which is about 3 times the number of approved comments throughout this site’s history. We’re not a well-traveled blog, and most of the time any comments actually come from friends of mine. Only one post really garnered any significant internet interest, and it just pissed me off when the troll army unleashed their hordes on my lowly blog.

But this morning, I got a notification that I had a new comment. Normally, this’d be spam that didn’t get through the trap, but in this case, it appears to be a legit comment by some random person on a 2010 post of mine about the myth that we only use 10% of our brain. So now, I shall retort. Continue reading

NSFW – To F*ck A Mind Or Not To F*ck A Mind, That Is The Question

A friend posted two links to Facebook and asked for comment. The first article, 7 + 1 Ways To F*ck A Woman’s Mind, was written by a man (in tragically comedic I ARE ROMANTIC MIDEVUL WARRIAR words) and the second, a rebuttal entitled 7 + 1 Ways Not To F*ck A Woman’s Mind, was written by a woman. Both were interesting, and I felt I could comment on both. But being the wordsmith that I am, rather than posting a quick comment on Facebook, I ran down to the mighty heat of my cauldron and began crafting the words for a rebuttal in the fires of my wordsmithery. Many days did I struggle whilst hammering ‘pon the vowels and consonants to craft this retort.

To the first piece, there is a word… Rapeporn. Okay, that’s two words, and I removed the space to make it one word like my German ancestors did with one way street (Einbahnstrase) or submarine (unterseeboat), but that’s what it is. Written as someone who clearly watches too much Game Of Thrones, it is an article that tries to discuss the passion that is rough, passionate sex.

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Dr. Oz, John Oliver, And Why I Hate Lying Bastards

The key to an excellent news program is to make information accessible. John Stewart has a long running program which you may be familiar with called The Daily Show and does an excellent job of this. John Oliver’s new show, Last Week Tonight, is also excellent at this, but has the added bonus of not needing to censor profanity, which makes it a win fucking win. If you haven’t been watching this program, you really ought to. Oliver is a great host who takes on difficult topics, and presents things in a thoughtful manner. But for this, I want to focus on his recent comments on Dr. Oz, the supplement industry, and the deliciousness of snake oil. I’ll include the video below the fold.

I cannot call myself a fan of Dr. Oz. I believe he is a charismatic sociopath who, through the power of Oprahfication, has become one of those most dangerous men in Western society. Hearing that he was going to be testifying about weight loss products to Congress, I got me a big old surly chubby. I just knew there was no way that he could scoundrel his way out of looking like a dangerous quack, and I was happy as all fuckbuttons when that was exactly what happened.

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