September 12, 2008
September 5, 2008
A world of difference
Meghan recently started 3rd grade. 3rd grade! I am old enough to have a 3rd grader! OK yeah, because, clearly, this is all about me.
No, I'm not stressing about turning 40 in 4 months. Why are you looking at me like that?
Anyway. No one gave me the 3rd grade handbook (actually, her school did give me a handbook, which I read from cover to cover - total pageturner), so I did not realize until this morning that I have been somewhat hampering/stifling her social life. In 3rd grade, your parents do not walk you onto the 3rd grade playground. You walk yourself, foo!
Duh. The signs were there but, because my relationship with Meghan is rather unorthodox, the lightbulb did not appear above my head until today. See, as she gets older, Meghan and I get closer and closer. I know that it's usually the other way around, but Meg's an unusual girl, so this doesn't surprise me at all. We're sorta like The Gilmore Girls: The First Decade. I am quite appreciative of this, and I've worked really hard at getting to this point with her, so I am unabashedly happy about it.
Apparently, so is Meghan. She still wants me to hold her hand on the playground, and hug her goodbye, and stay with her until school starts. But I have received the stink eye from no less than 457 children in grades 3-5. And their body language says, "Uhm. You DO realize you're a parent, right? And you DO realize that we are all ages 8-11, right? And you DO realize that you are totally uncool, right? GET OUT!"
Meg's been attending the same school since Kindergarten. (Man, that school is the absolute shiznit!, but that's another story.) In grades K-2, her classrooms were on the east side of the building, which is quite lovely. There are lots of trees and grass on the east side, and always lots of parents milling about. Parents here, parents there, parents everywhere. But, dude, grades 3-5 are on the west side of the building. Meghan has seemingly graduated from the Will Smith School Of Mainstream Rap/Rap Lite and moved right on over to the Tupac Shakur School of Gangsta. Damn, you think her school would clue the parents in on this kinda crap. Parents need to know this stuff!
On the west side, there are no trees. There is no grass. And there are no parents. No parents!, I am not even kidding. There are always 2 adults present, and they appear to be either teachers or aides, specifically planted there to watch the kids so no one Suspicious Looking comes a-calling. Which I'm sure all the (non-existent) parents appreciate.
But in the place of parents, there are now cliques. And drama. And snippiness. And fashion queens. And boys teasing girls. And running, lots of running. And general immaturity masking itself as maturity, which is how immaturity seems to function in schools, anyway. I get the distinct feeling that middle school is right around the corner, which makes me slightly annoyed and quite worried for Meghan.
Oy. What a world of difference one schoolyear makes.
No, I'm not stressing about turning 40 in 4 months. Why are you looking at me like that?
Anyway. No one gave me the 3rd grade handbook (actually, her school did give me a handbook, which I read from cover to cover - total pageturner), so I did not realize until this morning that I have been somewhat hampering/stifling her social life. In 3rd grade, your parents do not walk you onto the 3rd grade playground. You walk yourself, foo!
Duh. The signs were there but, because my relationship with Meghan is rather unorthodox, the lightbulb did not appear above my head until today. See, as she gets older, Meghan and I get closer and closer. I know that it's usually the other way around, but Meg's an unusual girl, so this doesn't surprise me at all. We're sorta like The Gilmore Girls: The First Decade. I am quite appreciative of this, and I've worked really hard at getting to this point with her, so I am unabashedly happy about it.
Apparently, so is Meghan. She still wants me to hold her hand on the playground, and hug her goodbye, and stay with her until school starts. But I have received the stink eye from no less than 457 children in grades 3-5. And their body language says, "Uhm. You DO realize you're a parent, right? And you DO realize that we are all ages 8-11, right? And you DO realize that you are totally uncool, right? GET OUT!"
Meg's been attending the same school since Kindergarten. (Man, that school is the absolute shiznit!, but that's another story.) In grades K-2, her classrooms were on the east side of the building, which is quite lovely. There are lots of trees and grass on the east side, and always lots of parents milling about. Parents here, parents there, parents everywhere. But, dude, grades 3-5 are on the west side of the building. Meghan has seemingly graduated from the Will Smith School Of Mainstream Rap/Rap Lite and moved right on over to the Tupac Shakur School of Gangsta. Damn, you think her school would clue the parents in on this kinda crap. Parents need to know this stuff!
On the west side, there are no trees. There is no grass. And there are no parents. No parents!, I am not even kidding. There are always 2 adults present, and they appear to be either teachers or aides, specifically planted there to watch the kids so no one Suspicious Looking comes a-calling. Which I'm sure all the (non-existent) parents appreciate.
But in the place of parents, there are now cliques. And drama. And snippiness. And fashion queens. And boys teasing girls. And running, lots of running. And general immaturity masking itself as maturity, which is how immaturity seems to function in schools, anyway. I get the distinct feeling that middle school is right around the corner, which makes me slightly annoyed and quite worried for Meghan.
Oy. What a world of difference one schoolyear makes.
August 15, 2008
Separate Letters to the Edwardses
Dear John Edwards:
First of all, I would just like to say that I totally judge you. I'm sorry to admit that so heartily, but it's true. There's no point in denying it. It's not that I don't understand or empathize with you, because sadly, I have been where you are. It's not fun, it's not pretty, and it's not right. Cheating slowly eats away at your soul unlike anything else I've experienced before. That palpable guilt you feel? That's your conscience, kicking the hell out of your heart.
Since I am a member of the Cheaters' Club, I have absolutely no reason to go all St. Peter on you. While sneaking around on your woman isn't that cool, I really don't care what you do with your penis, as long as it doesn't come into contact with children or barnyard animals. As a voter, I mean, I just don't care. Two consenting adults having sex is just that: two consenting adults having sex. Big whoop, man. In my book, it's not even close to being on the same level as, say, killing millions of Iraqi citizens (and countless numbers of Afghani citizens) and thousands of American troops (and countless numbers of international troops). But I digress.
No no, my problem with you stems from another arena entirely. I think that you are what the folks who frequent Craigslist (including myself) all over the world refer to as a fucktard: someone so truly stupid that they are not to be believed. A fucktard's lack of critical thinking skills can only be described as awe-inspiring.
Dude. Were you not aware that, while you were banging Rielle Hunter, you were running for the highest elected office in this great land of ours? And if not, how is it that you were not aware? Also, were you not aware of the international, widespread pandemic (otherwise known as "The Mainstream Media", via the internet) sure to foil your plot to keep a mistress? I fail to understand this. Please explain. Your Nightline interview didn't do dick in adequately explaining such mind-boggling fucktardishness.
In addition, please cease and desist denying the obvious love child you fathered from your consistent shenanigans with Ms. Hunter. Anyone with half a brain can do the math here. Americans are not as stupid as you apparently think we are. Seriously, you have already screwed any credibility you gained over your years in the Senate and running for public office. You have already caused your wife, children, friends, extended family, and supporters immense and untold amounts pain. So why in fucking hell would you deny that you are this cute little kid's baby daddy? Are you shitting me? Now, you are not only a fucktard, but a douchebag as well.
If Al Franken wasn't running for a Senate seat in Minnesota right now, I'm fairly certain that he would call you to ask you these questions/relay these concerns himself. Maybe Michael Moore will do it in his place. Jon Stewart is probably all over this shit, but I don't have cable, so I don't know. I'm willing to bet money that Keith Olbermann has already busted a blood vessel in his forehead talking about you on Countdown.
Jesus Christ, John. WTF, OMG, LOL all around. Oh, yeah: good job making Obama's chances of getting elected that much harder. You go sit at the Jeremiah Wright Dunce Table, OK?
Spitballs and Hand Grenades,
Steph
-----
Dear Elizabeth Edwards:
Get down with your bad self. Your strength is amazing, and I cannot believe how awesome you are. You rule.
Some people want to paint you as a victim, or an enabler, or a behind-the-scenes power player. I think that you are none of the above. I think you're a mother and a wife who did her best to cope with a really awful situation. The reason that you have earned so much respect during your husband's last presidential campaign is because you stand up for yourself and speak your mind, but you do not try to hurt or impugn anyone else in the process. You will not go quietly into the night, and you will not demure, but you will not start shit unnecessarily. I love that about you, and I love that you keep doing that, and I love that you made a decision to stay with John because you feel that it's best for you and your family. It is your decision, and I respect it. It's your marriage, and your life, and I completely, totally respect that.
Also, I think your husband is insane because I have seen pictures of you back in the day and you were an absolute hottie! No woman, including Rielle, has anything on you, Elizabeth. You are wonderful. You are woman, I hear you roar.
Much Love and Aretha Franklin,
Steph
P.S. As a way of coping, I highly recommend making an Angry Woman's Mix on playlist.com. It could start with "It's a Shame" by Monie Love, have a few Alanis songs, maybe an Ani song or two, and end with Pink's "U + Ur Hand". Just a thought.
First of all, I would just like to say that I totally judge you. I'm sorry to admit that so heartily, but it's true. There's no point in denying it. It's not that I don't understand or empathize with you, because sadly, I have been where you are. It's not fun, it's not pretty, and it's not right. Cheating slowly eats away at your soul unlike anything else I've experienced before. That palpable guilt you feel? That's your conscience, kicking the hell out of your heart.
Since I am a member of the Cheaters' Club, I have absolutely no reason to go all St. Peter on you. While sneaking around on your woman isn't that cool, I really don't care what you do with your penis, as long as it doesn't come into contact with children or barnyard animals. As a voter, I mean, I just don't care. Two consenting adults having sex is just that: two consenting adults having sex. Big whoop, man. In my book, it's not even close to being on the same level as, say, killing millions of Iraqi citizens (and countless numbers of Afghani citizens) and thousands of American troops (and countless numbers of international troops). But I digress.
No no, my problem with you stems from another arena entirely. I think that you are what the folks who frequent Craigslist (including myself) all over the world refer to as a fucktard: someone so truly stupid that they are not to be believed. A fucktard's lack of critical thinking skills can only be described as awe-inspiring.
Dude. Were you not aware that, while you were banging Rielle Hunter, you were running for the highest elected office in this great land of ours? And if not, how is it that you were not aware? Also, were you not aware of the international, widespread pandemic (otherwise known as "The Mainstream Media", via the internet) sure to foil your plot to keep a mistress? I fail to understand this. Please explain. Your Nightline interview didn't do dick in adequately explaining such mind-boggling fucktardishness.
In addition, please cease and desist denying the obvious love child you fathered from your consistent shenanigans with Ms. Hunter. Anyone with half a brain can do the math here. Americans are not as stupid as you apparently think we are. Seriously, you have already screwed any credibility you gained over your years in the Senate and running for public office. You have already caused your wife, children, friends, extended family, and supporters immense and untold amounts pain. So why in fucking hell would you deny that you are this cute little kid's baby daddy? Are you shitting me? Now, you are not only a fucktard, but a douchebag as well.
If Al Franken wasn't running for a Senate seat in Minnesota right now, I'm fairly certain that he would call you to ask you these questions/relay these concerns himself. Maybe Michael Moore will do it in his place. Jon Stewart is probably all over this shit, but I don't have cable, so I don't know. I'm willing to bet money that Keith Olbermann has already busted a blood vessel in his forehead talking about you on Countdown.
Jesus Christ, John. WTF, OMG, LOL all around. Oh, yeah: good job making Obama's chances of getting elected that much harder. You go sit at the Jeremiah Wright Dunce Table, OK?
Spitballs and Hand Grenades,
Steph
-----
Dear Elizabeth Edwards:
Get down with your bad self. Your strength is amazing, and I cannot believe how awesome you are. You rule.
Some people want to paint you as a victim, or an enabler, or a behind-the-scenes power player. I think that you are none of the above. I think you're a mother and a wife who did her best to cope with a really awful situation. The reason that you have earned so much respect during your husband's last presidential campaign is because you stand up for yourself and speak your mind, but you do not try to hurt or impugn anyone else in the process. You will not go quietly into the night, and you will not demure, but you will not start shit unnecessarily. I love that about you, and I love that you keep doing that, and I love that you made a decision to stay with John because you feel that it's best for you and your family. It is your decision, and I respect it. It's your marriage, and your life, and I completely, totally respect that.
Also, I think your husband is insane because I have seen pictures of you back in the day and you were an absolute hottie! No woman, including Rielle, has anything on you, Elizabeth. You are wonderful. You are woman, I hear you roar.
Much Love and Aretha Franklin,
Steph
P.S. As a way of coping, I highly recommend making an Angry Woman's Mix on playlist.com. It could start with "It's a Shame" by Monie Love, have a few Alanis songs, maybe an Ani song or two, and end with Pink's "U + Ur Hand". Just a thought.
July 23, 2008
Kickin' it old school
I hate break ups. I am going to go out on a limb here and say that they are not fun.
Mr. GenY bit the dust. It is fine, which is to say that it's good in the long-term sense, but Jesus H., I am really sick of crying. Oh, the whoa that is my life and stuff.
I keep telling myself that this is normal. I keep telling myself that this is supposed to feel like shit, that it is supposed to feel like my heart's been ripped out, that this too shall pass. That a year and a half spent on some dude (who I knew wasn't emotionally available when I first met him) is a long time, and that it will also take some time for me to heal. To repair the gaping hole in my heart, and other melodramatic sentiments of the like. Blah blah blah, cry me a river, I know.
See, this is why really, really bad love songs are written. Gaping holes in the heart, my friends.
My clan has been duly informed of said break up, and they are prepared. For the 3 a.m. calls, when I really want to call Mr. GenY instead. For the crying and carrying on and the stages of grief. For the gritting of the teeth when, after 3 months, I still have not moved on and they have to tell me that they are ready to strangle me with the (non-existent) cell phone cord if I bring up Mr. GenY's name one more goddamned time. They know that they need to kick my ass, and they know that they have to be gentle with the ass kicking.
Because I really don't want to be in this position again. It was doomed from the start. Age difference, lifestyle difference, maturity difference, and those are just the big ones. My friends know that. So they will have to remind me of what a tool Mr. GenY was, and who cares if he looks exactly like Shia LaBeouf? Big deal! Looks are not everything, they will say. I will sadly agree, and hang my head in shame that I gave some 25-year-old guy all my power. They will speak of how amazing I am, and that I deserve much better, but all I will be able to think about (for awhile, anyway) is how his eyes sparkled when he talked about those obscene Gangland shows. And how he made the cutest smooching sounds to his dog when we were on the phone. And how he would just randomly say, "Yeah", whenever there was a lull in the conversation. And how he once called Barack Obama a dicksneeze, just so I would punch him.
Love sucks.
I heart him. I wish I didn't, but I really, truly do. I can't just turn these fucking feelings off, no matter what my head says. My head is ready to beat my heart's ass the next time it so much as feels a mushy, positive feeling for Mr. GenY. I'm kickin' it old school, the hard way, and I hate it. I HATE it! But I don't want to become one of those bitter women who are rude to cashiers just because they are having a bad day. Damn, in 2008, is there any hope left? Is there any love anymore? Is there such a thing as doing right by someone else? Am I the only one out there who still believes in integrity, in honesty, in trust? Am I too old to be dating anyone? Or should I just go buy some cats and call it a day?
My landlord won't let me have cats, anyway, so I can't even do that. I guess my only option is to get through this, to face the blinding pain, and to come out of it that much stronger and that much more hopeful. I know that time, she is a bitch. She will move very, very slowly over the next few months, making this totally agonizing. What a cheerful thought.
Oy. Almost makes me want to become a lesbian. Again.
Mr. GenY bit the dust. It is fine, which is to say that it's good in the long-term sense, but Jesus H., I am really sick of crying. Oh, the whoa that is my life and stuff.
I keep telling myself that this is normal. I keep telling myself that this is supposed to feel like shit, that it is supposed to feel like my heart's been ripped out, that this too shall pass. That a year and a half spent on some dude (who I knew wasn't emotionally available when I first met him) is a long time, and that it will also take some time for me to heal. To repair the gaping hole in my heart, and other melodramatic sentiments of the like. Blah blah blah, cry me a river, I know.
See, this is why really, really bad love songs are written. Gaping holes in the heart, my friends.
My clan has been duly informed of said break up, and they are prepared. For the 3 a.m. calls, when I really want to call Mr. GenY instead. For the crying and carrying on and the stages of grief. For the gritting of the teeth when, after 3 months, I still have not moved on and they have to tell me that they are ready to strangle me with the (non-existent) cell phone cord if I bring up Mr. GenY's name one more goddamned time. They know that they need to kick my ass, and they know that they have to be gentle with the ass kicking.
Because I really don't want to be in this position again. It was doomed from the start. Age difference, lifestyle difference, maturity difference, and those are just the big ones. My friends know that. So they will have to remind me of what a tool Mr. GenY was, and who cares if he looks exactly like Shia LaBeouf? Big deal! Looks are not everything, they will say. I will sadly agree, and hang my head in shame that I gave some 25-year-old guy all my power. They will speak of how amazing I am, and that I deserve much better, but all I will be able to think about (for awhile, anyway) is how his eyes sparkled when he talked about those obscene Gangland shows. And how he made the cutest smooching sounds to his dog when we were on the phone. And how he would just randomly say, "Yeah", whenever there was a lull in the conversation. And how he once called Barack Obama a dicksneeze, just so I would punch him.
Love sucks.
I heart him. I wish I didn't, but I really, truly do. I can't just turn these fucking feelings off, no matter what my head says. My head is ready to beat my heart's ass the next time it so much as feels a mushy, positive feeling for Mr. GenY. I'm kickin' it old school, the hard way, and I hate it. I HATE it! But I don't want to become one of those bitter women who are rude to cashiers just because they are having a bad day. Damn, in 2008, is there any hope left? Is there any love anymore? Is there such a thing as doing right by someone else? Am I the only one out there who still believes in integrity, in honesty, in trust? Am I too old to be dating anyone? Or should I just go buy some cats and call it a day?
My landlord won't let me have cats, anyway, so I can't even do that. I guess my only option is to get through this, to face the blinding pain, and to come out of it that much stronger and that much more hopeful. I know that time, she is a bitch. She will move very, very slowly over the next few months, making this totally agonizing. What a cheerful thought.
Oy. Almost makes me want to become a lesbian. Again.
July 9, 2008
Smackdown! GenX vs. GenY
An Open Letter to the Youths of Today Who Utilize MySpace:
Look kids, I know that your internet image is very important to you. I get that you cruise around on MySpace like I used to cruise around in cars. To look cool. And to find boys. I totally understand that the bowels of the World Wide Web are 2008's stomping/training grounds. I am not without a smidgen of sympathy for you, however small.
But quite frankly, I seem to be up on this whole 2008 business more than some of y'all. And I am fucking 39-years-old! It is pitiful that I have more game than many of you do, truly it is. Because back when I was your age, 39 did not understand a goddamned thing. 39 was outdated and embarrassing. Sadly, I have just recently become aware of this because I am doing some marketing work on MySpace for a friend of mine. Being forced to look at your pages is cringe-worthy, for the following various and sundry reasons:
1) Goth is out. Goth has been out for a very, very long time. Even Trent Reznor looks kept and clean these days.
2) 1995 graphic displays do nothing but make you appear out of touch and weird (and not in the good way). Also, my computer heaves and sputters at these graphics, which makes me fondly recall old school dialup.
3) Saying shit like "I am who I am! Love me or hate me!" will surely make most people hate you. Good call.
4) I don't need to see a picture of you puking on some club floor, dude.
5) I don't need to see every fucking picture you have ever taken, dude.
6) Finding IMDB photos for every single movie you enjoy seems like a complete waste of time to me, but that might just be 39 talking.
7) While I enjoy looking at/ogling over David Beckham as much as the next person (or anyone with eyes, really), 30 pictures? Really? 30?! (I counted, Y. I'm keeping track of your transgressions here.)
8) Internet quizzes are, like, so totally FUN! Here! Let me put ALL of them on my MySpace page!
9) Being in love is awesome. I am in full agreement with you on this. Mentioning your boyfriend/girlfriend 30 times on your page is not.
10) This sounds like a gimme, but seriously: why would you think I could read your page if your background is light blue and your font is light blue? Are you trying to singe retinas or something?
Y, you should know that I am very fond of you, in a general sense. We tend to get along smashingly well, probably because my maturity level usually hovers at around 17-18 on my good days. Some of my best friends belong to you, as does my semi-boyfriend. But my peeps seem to understand a concept that you do not, and it is very simple.
Sometimes, Y, less is more. Overkill is boring and tired. Please stop.
Forever Yours,
GenX
Look kids, I know that your internet image is very important to you. I get that you cruise around on MySpace like I used to cruise around in cars. To look cool. And to find boys. I totally understand that the bowels of the World Wide Web are 2008's stomping/training grounds. I am not without a smidgen of sympathy for you, however small.
But quite frankly, I seem to be up on this whole 2008 business more than some of y'all. And I am fucking 39-years-old! It is pitiful that I have more game than many of you do, truly it is. Because back when I was your age, 39 did not understand a goddamned thing. 39 was outdated and embarrassing. Sadly, I have just recently become aware of this because I am doing some marketing work on MySpace for a friend of mine. Being forced to look at your pages is cringe-worthy, for the following various and sundry reasons:
1) Goth is out. Goth has been out for a very, very long time. Even Trent Reznor looks kept and clean these days.
2) 1995 graphic displays do nothing but make you appear out of touch and weird (and not in the good way). Also, my computer heaves and sputters at these graphics, which makes me fondly recall old school dialup.
3) Saying shit like "I am who I am! Love me or hate me!" will surely make most people hate you. Good call.
4) I don't need to see a picture of you puking on some club floor, dude.
5) I don't need to see every fucking picture you have ever taken, dude.
6) Finding IMDB photos for every single movie you enjoy seems like a complete waste of time to me, but that might just be 39 talking.
7) While I enjoy looking at/ogling over David Beckham as much as the next person (or anyone with eyes, really), 30 pictures? Really? 30?! (I counted, Y. I'm keeping track of your transgressions here.)
8) Internet quizzes are, like, so totally FUN! Here! Let me put ALL of them on my MySpace page!
9) Being in love is awesome. I am in full agreement with you on this. Mentioning your boyfriend/girlfriend 30 times on your page is not.
10) This sounds like a gimme, but seriously: why would you think I could read your page if your background is light blue and your font is light blue? Are you trying to singe retinas or something?
Y, you should know that I am very fond of you, in a general sense. We tend to get along smashingly well, probably because my maturity level usually hovers at around 17-18 on my good days. Some of my best friends belong to you, as does my semi-boyfriend. But my peeps seem to understand a concept that you do not, and it is very simple.
Sometimes, Y, less is more. Overkill is boring and tired. Please stop.
Forever Yours,
GenX
July 3, 2008
Completely sober and tripping on acid
This video signifies why I love this show. This group number was choreographed by the legendary, Emmy-winning Mia Michaels. The YouTube video comment says, and I quote:
"I drop some acid before I watched this or did Mia just turn up the trippy?"
It is fucking disturbing. In a really weird, make-you-think kinda way.
"I drop some acid before I watched this or did Mia just turn up the trippy?"
It is fucking disturbing. In a really weird, make-you-think kinda way.
July 1, 2008
ohmyGOD!
Dear Senator Obama:
Ya know, I keep pretty damn current with all the hot and sweaty political news. I am nothing if not disgustingly informed, although some might argue that the word "informed" could easily be replaced with the word "obsessed". (Sadly, those people would not be wrong.) I usually check progressive websites many times per day, often to chuckle at some asinine thing John McCain said at a VFW fundraiser in BFE, Alabama. Then I read your response to his asinine comment, and I sigh and smile and swoon, and then I shout, "Atta boy, Barack! Atta boy!" And then you and I transport back in time to the 1950s to catch a double header at Wrigley Field, and eat hot dogs, but only because tofu dogs haven't been invented yet.
But I have spent the past two weeks immersed in a very emotional and horrible medical situation that required immediate attention. So please forgive me for the belated questioning: DUDE! WHAT THE FUCKING SHIT?!
Who the hell are you? Has a soul-sucking alien invaded your body? Did you and Hillary Clinton actually figure out the physics required to become one person? Or are you sick, too, and maybe have a case of Cheney on the brain? What is this, with the voting of the FISA bill? And the personal attack on General Wesley Clark? And the sudden devotion to Bush's wonderful faith-based initiatives? And the criticizing of MoveOn? And all of the other boneheaded crap you've said and done in the past two weeks? Does Michelle know about all of this bullshit? Where's Michelle?! I'M TELLING MICHELLE!
ohmyGOD, I'm wondering now if I wasn't completely wrong about you. I can't even believe I am saying/writing these words! I totally believed in you, man! Every cynical person I've talked with about politics, for the past 7 months at least, appears to have been right. I wanna be right! I don't want those clowns to be right! Because they were all (in sweet, soothing, condescending tones), "He's going to play the liberal card until the general election starts. And then he's going to move to the center, just like Al did, and John did. He is not the rock star that you think he is, Steph." And I was all, "You are so wrong! Ha ha ha, I laugh at you. Wrong! This guy is the real deal! Why do you have to be so negative about everything?" And then I would babble about positive energy and goodness and light, and What the &*%$# Do We Know? would somehow seep its hippie way into the conversation, so that I could in turn look down on them and, thusly, feel superior. As an American, one upsmanship is totally my right.
Barack, sweetie, let me spell this out for you: stop listening to the fools who keep telling you to "Move to the right! Move to the right!" You do not need them, because they could not be more wrong. How can you not see this? How can you not know this? It didn't work for Al Gore or John Kerry, and it ain't gonna work for you. (OK, technically, it did work for Al Gore, but that's another story.) In general, Democrats are really, super sick and tired of members of Congress who appear to be watered-down versions of Republicans. We do not need another pussy! We have enough pussies as elected officials! We do not need another idiotic Democratic candidate for president who is masquerading as a toned-down Republican. Next thing I know, you'll be chilling at NASCAR events and talking smack about gay marriage.
I am your base, Senator Obama. I feel betrayed and somewhat unhinged, but that could just be the aforementioned medical issue. But I really feel deceived by you. I am no longer sure that I can trust you. And you're going to have to win back that trust, sir. From what I gather, your base is pissed as fucking hell about all of this. I am one of those people, one of those funtastic "netroots" folks. Actually, this is one lesson that you should have learned from George W. Bush: do. not. piss. off. your. base. Ever. I am the bread to your butter, the cake to your ice cream, and the tequilla to your lime. We compliment each other, we go well together, and we look awesome in both ebony and ivory. C'mon, man. Don't wreck this Stevie Wonder and Paul McCartney moment in time. And don't make me consider voting for Ralph Nader, or not voting at all, especially after my diatribe to Hillary supporters several weeks ago. I hate eating crow, because it tastes like total shit.
I'm sad. I'm heartbroken. I thought that what we had was real. How could you do this to me? Please tell me that you love me. Please tell me that this is all a big misunderstanding.
Yours,
Steph
Ya know, I keep pretty damn current with all the hot and sweaty political news. I am nothing if not disgustingly informed, although some might argue that the word "informed" could easily be replaced with the word "obsessed". (Sadly, those people would not be wrong.) I usually check progressive websites many times per day, often to chuckle at some asinine thing John McCain said at a VFW fundraiser in BFE, Alabama. Then I read your response to his asinine comment, and I sigh and smile and swoon, and then I shout, "Atta boy, Barack! Atta boy!" And then you and I transport back in time to the 1950s to catch a double header at Wrigley Field, and eat hot dogs, but only because tofu dogs haven't been invented yet.
But I have spent the past two weeks immersed in a very emotional and horrible medical situation that required immediate attention. So please forgive me for the belated questioning: DUDE! WHAT THE FUCKING SHIT?!
Who the hell are you? Has a soul-sucking alien invaded your body? Did you and Hillary Clinton actually figure out the physics required to become one person? Or are you sick, too, and maybe have a case of Cheney on the brain? What is this, with the voting of the FISA bill? And the personal attack on General Wesley Clark? And the sudden devotion to Bush's wonderful faith-based initiatives? And the criticizing of MoveOn? And all of the other boneheaded crap you've said and done in the past two weeks? Does Michelle know about all of this bullshit? Where's Michelle?! I'M TELLING MICHELLE!
ohmyGOD, I'm wondering now if I wasn't completely wrong about you. I can't even believe I am saying/writing these words! I totally believed in you, man! Every cynical person I've talked with about politics, for the past 7 months at least, appears to have been right. I wanna be right! I don't want those clowns to be right! Because they were all (in sweet, soothing, condescending tones), "He's going to play the liberal card until the general election starts. And then he's going to move to the center, just like Al did, and John did. He is not the rock star that you think he is, Steph." And I was all, "You are so wrong! Ha ha ha, I laugh at you. Wrong! This guy is the real deal! Why do you have to be so negative about everything?" And then I would babble about positive energy and goodness and light, and What the &*%$# Do We Know? would somehow seep its hippie way into the conversation, so that I could in turn look down on them and, thusly, feel superior. As an American, one upsmanship is totally my right.
Barack, sweetie, let me spell this out for you: stop listening to the fools who keep telling you to "Move to the right! Move to the right!" You do not need them, because they could not be more wrong. How can you not see this? How can you not know this? It didn't work for Al Gore or John Kerry, and it ain't gonna work for you. (OK, technically, it did work for Al Gore, but that's another story.) In general, Democrats are really, super sick and tired of members of Congress who appear to be watered-down versions of Republicans. We do not need another pussy! We have enough pussies as elected officials! We do not need another idiotic Democratic candidate for president who is masquerading as a toned-down Republican. Next thing I know, you'll be chilling at NASCAR events and talking smack about gay marriage.
I am your base, Senator Obama. I feel betrayed and somewhat unhinged, but that could just be the aforementioned medical issue. But I really feel deceived by you. I am no longer sure that I can trust you. And you're going to have to win back that trust, sir. From what I gather, your base is pissed as fucking hell about all of this. I am one of those people, one of those funtastic "netroots" folks. Actually, this is one lesson that you should have learned from George W. Bush: do. not. piss. off. your. base. Ever. I am the bread to your butter, the cake to your ice cream, and the tequilla to your lime. We compliment each other, we go well together, and we look awesome in both ebony and ivory. C'mon, man. Don't wreck this Stevie Wonder and Paul McCartney moment in time. And don't make me consider voting for Ralph Nader, or not voting at all, especially after my diatribe to Hillary supporters several weeks ago. I hate eating crow, because it tastes like total shit.
I'm sad. I'm heartbroken. I thought that what we had was real. How could you do this to me? Please tell me that you love me. Please tell me that this is all a big misunderstanding.
Yours,
Steph
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