About biguglyjim

Like a caterpillar that spins a coccoon and emerges as a walrus with a mohawk, Big Ugly Jim has become something unexpected. Raised a fine young Christian boy in the city of Calgary, Alberta, Canada, Jim began to question his teachings, first evaluating the wisdom of other religious and eventually realizing that none of them seemed any more accurate than any other, and not a one of them made a lick of sense. Today, Big Ugly Jim is a musician, a Business Analyst with Large Oil Company Whose Name Is Not Important, a music promoter with the Calgary Beer Core, a writer of fiction and non-fiction, a prick, an atheist, a father, an ex-husband, a role model, a horrifying vision in a red speedo (or at least he would be, if ever that happened which IT WOULD NOT), an announcer, and soon to be an officiator of weddings. Also, he's nice and does dishes. Jim continues to live in Calgary, spreading his filthy doctrine of free, critical thinking and appreciation for music. And ladies, he's single! Hard to imagine, I know, but this loud-mouthed old timer who never grew up's turn-ons include people who can think for themselves, people who aren't afraid of a good giggle or a good pint, and people who know how to give back rubs. His turn-offs include people being shitty to each other, fundamentalism, and zebras. Fucking zebras... Who the hell do they think they are, really?

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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Does Evolution Justify Rape

I’ve let this one slip because I’ve not really paid that much attention to anything that contains the name “Hovind” for a very long time, but I just read a post by PZ Myers which included a video response by Rebecca Watson to the remarkable comment by Darek Isaacs on Eric Hovind’s show that asks the poignant and thought-provoking question, “Well, if evolution is true and it’s just all about the male propagating their DNA, we had to ask hard questions like, well, is rape wrong?”

Rebecca, unsurprisingly, does a fine job of showing just how sturdy a question this is by using the same logic the question provides to question other important things, my favorite being “If Newton’s third law of motion is all about every action having an equal and opposite reaction, is it wrong to poop on a baby who just pooped on me?” Cutting edge thought, I’d have to say. But I still feel the need to address Isaacs’s question.

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The Old Brown Belt

My dad, as a child, spent most of his summers on my Uncle Jack and Aunt Ivy’s farm. When you did something bad on the farm, you were told to go cut yourself a switch. That process involved going out to a thicket of trees and finding just the right branch to bring back to offer to the adults that they might use it to whup you. A thin branch was awful, as it cut through the air so much better and could really cause damage, but too thick a branch would result in a higher number of whacks, so one had to be quite thoughtful and strongly consider each branch to find the perfect balance.

We didn’t have a grove of trees nearby, so my dad hung an old, brown leather belt in the kitchen. When we had pushed things to the point of ridiculous, he would tell us to go get his belt. It was a very humbling experience, taking it down from the wall, handing it to my father, and knowing what that meant, and as a result, it was something we didn’t push our luck to all that often.

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