Check THIS out!!! These so-called taxpayers group have their dirty little fingers in Big Tobacco’s pie!!!
http://tobacco.ucsf.edu/prop-29-opponents-california-taxpayers-assn-and-california-hispanic-chambers-commerce-have-financial
Be wary of what groups are named! You can name a group ANYTHING, and it doesn’t necessarily MEAN anything!!!
Here’s a summary of Proposition 29, courtesy of the Sacramento Bee:
http://www.sacbee.com/2012/05/14/4487568/tough-sell-for-tobacco-taxes-in.html
Yes, tax the hell out of cigarettes! Smokers say the tax is unfair? Well, I think it’s unfair that I should be exposed to second hand smoke, or that my taxes should have to pay for MediCal coverage for all the diseases caused by smoking.
The only problem with Proposition 29 is that the smoking tax isn’t high enough!
LaDonna Porter, who apparently will give a medical opinion for a price (even when she knows it’s a lie) got just what she had coming! Thank you, Governor Jerry Brown for giving her the boot!
http://sanfrancisco.cbslocal.com/2012/05/11/gov-brown-boots-anti-prop-29-doctor-from-advisory-panel/
And it’s not the first time the rent-a-doc has abandoned her Hippocratic Oath for cash! The Board of Medical Quality Assurance should yank her medical license!
http://tobacco.ucsf.edu/ladonna-porter-tobacco-industry-spokesphysician-against-prop-29-advocated-toxic-industries-against-p
Have you seen this “No on 29″ campaign?
The first time I saw it, my reaction was… Hmmm… I don’t know if I believe that this gal is really a doctor. I’m not sure why, exactly… maybe because she seems to struggle to pronounce “bureaucracy” and I believe that most doctors have impeccable elocution, or maybe because I find it hard to believe that any doctor would speak out against an anti-tobacco proposition. Even IF the money would be wasted on “brurocracy,” a dollar per pack tax is still a financial deterrent to smoking. And anything that deters smoking is a good thing.
Let’s be clear… Smoking kills. Period. It is indisputable. And, it doesn’t just kill the smoker, it affects the health of people around the smoker, without their permission and against their will.
Smoking kills.
Period.
According to californiansforacure.org, the simple summary of California’s Proposition 29 is: Prop 29 – The California Cancer Research Act – is a qualified ballot initiative that will be placed before voters in June 2012. Through a $1 per-pack tax on cigarettes, Prop 29 delivers over $700 million every year for cancer research and to keeps kids from smoking. (http://californiansforacure.org/)
Personally, I don’t care if they take the tax money collected and put it through a shredder. If it helps stop people from smoking, it’s worth every penny.
But some don’t agree, which brings us back to that commercial with the suspect doctor. Did you notice the fine print at the end? The major backers are Philip Morris USA and RJ Reynolds Tobacco Company. Surprise, surprise. Big Tobacco is ponying up to protect their bottom line. And it’s a BIG pony. A $38 million pony.
Here’s what the Sacramento Bee had to say about that:
http://blogs.sacbee.com/capitolalertlatest/2012/05/tobacco-firms-chip-in-another-15-million-against-prop-29.html
How to vote on Proposition 29? This one’s a no-brainer. Big Tobacco is the “fashion don’t” for responsible voters. Whatever they want – vote against it.
“I don’t want to scare you,” my husband said quietly to me after Christmas dinner, so my son and daughter wouldn’t hear and be horrified (because “horrified: is usually a party-foul on Christmas), “but there was a maggot crawling up the wall near the bedroom.”
“Oh, not to worry,” I replied. “It’s not a maggot. It’s worms from those blasted little moths that get into the cereal.”
I don’t know how those little buggers get so far away from the cereal boxes. But they do turn up in the darnedest places from time to time — crawling up walls and across ceilings. I’ve been fighting them for weeks, but the moths are winning. Unless you’re very lucky, you know just which ones I mean: they’re very tiny and gray, and come fluttering out of whatever cabinet you store your crackers, cereal and dry goods.
Unless you’re militant about storing things in Tupperware and never allowing an opened box in the cabinet, you’ve probably had an infestation. And, they’re such a pain in the tail to get rid of. The only option is to throw away every opened box, and go through every container to check for grains of rice that move.
I don’t like to kill things, not even bugs, but those moths are an exception. My vision goes all red and sirens go off in my head like The Bride from Kill Bill when she saw an enemy. They must die. I’ve been fending the moths off for weeks, but I can’t seem to completely exterminate them, and cleaning out the kitchen cabinets during the holidays was just too tall a task. I snuffed them out by hand one by one, but every day, one or two more will come fluttering through the kitchen. I was keeping them at bay, at best. But clearly not prevailing. But I also hadn’t been able to locate which box or container they were coming from, and everything I checked looked okay.
My husband, however, had lost his patience with the tiny invaders, and on the spot, just after Christmas dinner, he attacked the cereal cabinet and started pulling things out by the fistful. He was only able to find one container with oat flour that had some unwanted visitors, but I doubt that was the main source. I suspect there’s something somewhere where the bulk of them are coming from. I remember one year, I discovered a pail of walnuts, still in the shell, way in the back of a cabinet, and it was swarming with tiny moths.
This year, it’s still a mystery. But my husband felt satisfied that he’d at least put a dent in their population. However, along the way, he tried to get me to part with cornmeal and raisins and various seeds and miscellaneous whatnot that I’ve hoarded over the year, and insisted they needed to be thrown out. So, while he handed me bags of this and that to throw away, I checked them, didn’t see any movement, and put them back in another cabinet when he wasn’t looking. (I’ll find out if he reads my columns if he, so if he starts searching for cornmeal and raisins to re-purge.)
As Joe attacked the boxes of shredded wheat and pasta, it occurred to me that it was such a symbolic activity for this time of year. The rush and frenzy of Christmas is over, and the decorations are still up for as long as you care to enjoy them, and it’s not quite New Year’s Eve yet. It’s the “down time” of the year, when you can just stop and relax, and think about your next step.
With the new year just ahead, I started thinking about what things in my life needed purging. Just like our cabinets, I think it’s a good time to take a thorough look at everything I’ve stored up over the year and dump out the things/relationships/activities/choices that didn’t serve me well. Toss them into the dumpster, brush my hands together, and move on. Then I can take a long, hard look at the cabinet and see what belongs where, and what needs repackaging, and try to put everything in comfortable and efficient order.
I think that will be a great mental exercise for these last few days of 2011: taking some time to take a walk, sit in the sun, think and ponder, and carefully identify what’s infested with pests or has outlasted its shelf-life, and eliminate it. And once I’m rid of all that, I can turn my attention to the best part: Figuring out what I really want in all that space I just created.
It’s one of life’s great lessons — if you want to add new things, you must first let go of some old ones to make room. And that’s true whether it’s life or a kitchen cabinet crammed with shredded wheat and rice cakes and sunflower seeds. Keep the good stuff, get rid of the bad, and decide what you really want on those shelves.
Here’s to 2012, and looking forward to all good, fresh, new things on the shelf. 2011 didn’t exactly set the bar too high, so it shouldn’t be too much of a stretch to top it. If there’s one word to describe 2011, it’s “meh.” (If you don’t get that reference, ask a teenager.) And one way to make life less meh-y is to purge all the moth-eaten stuff from your shelves. If it’s not healthy, toss it. Meh and moths. Less of both in 2012.
So help me God, had I not seen this with my own eyes (albeit nearly squeezed shut in horror), I wouldn’t have believed that anyone could be this desperate. This devoid of integrity. This pathetic.
First, let me ask you: What is the price of your integrity? What line(s) would you never cross for money? Fifty-thousand dollars, let’s say. Would you drink dog urine? Cut off a finger? Leap into a vat of maggots?
As for me, no, no, and no. In fact, I could easily list about a thousand things that’d be too cruel, too disgusting, too painful or too degrading to do for any amount of money. But apparently there are people whose No Way bars are set way lower than mine.
Way.
I discovered this by accident one night after watching a TV show I’d recorded on the DVR. When it ended, I hit “delete” and as the show disappeared into oblivion, it left the television running on the last channel I’d watched: Channel 3/NBC.
It was a segment of “Fear Factor,” which I’ve never watched. I don’t enjoy watching people endanger themselves any more than I enjoy these so-called “reality” shows in which people do and tolerate all sorts of humiliation for a chance to win money, fame or affection. If that’s reality, you can keep it.
So, at the exact moment that I was unfortunate enough to have this sewage splashed into my brain, the show’s host was explaining the next challenge to three swimsuit-clad couples in their quest to win $50,000: jump into this plexiglass tank filled with cow’s blood.
Eww, right? And if you’re a normal person, you’re already balking. Me? I’d have tapped out right there. But wait — it gets ever so much worse.
Once in the tank, continues the host (who apparently has an Olympian gag reflex), one person will dive down to the bottom of the tank and feel around for several raw cow hearts, pick them up one at a time and place it in his/her partner’s MOUTH (are you throwing up a little yet?), then wade through the blood and spit the heart into a container sitting just outside the tank. The couple with the most cow hearts in the container wins.
I absolutely, positively could not believe what I was seeing and hearing, and the only reason I didn’t switch to another channel, any channel, on the spot was because I was sure that at the last minute, just before anyone’s toe dipped into the blood, that a buzzer would sound, and the host would say, “Just kidding, guys! Ten points for your team just for being willing to saturate yourselves in blood and sink your teeth into a cow’s heart! Well done!”
The host didn’t.
And the contestants did.
To my horror, the first couple slid into the blood as the timer started and the man dove beneath the surface. Within seconds, he popped up completely covered in deep red blood, looking like he’d been skinned alive. He handed his partner the heart (which is about as big as a tri-tip roast), and she sunk in her teeth, sloshed to the side and spit it into the container.
And the crowd went wild.
I quickly channeled up to the QVC station for an emergency psychological detox. Sadly, you can’t un-see something like that. And it’s not just the image, but the whole concept, and all its ramifications: How many cows did they slaughter to fill up a hot-tub sized tank with blood? How much suffering does that represent? How long would it take to get your body clean after being saturated in cow blood? How long would it take for your soul? Would you ever really feel clean again? What sort of people even think this kind of thing up? And what sort of people would subject themselves to this level of degradation for a relatively small amount of money? And what sort of people watch this for entertainment?
The last time I was this disgusted with something on television, the same thing had happened. I was switching between recorded programs, and I was snagged by a segment of “The Biggest Loser.” It was the car wreck phenomenon: shock and disgust seized me and I was unable to look away.
There was some sad, sweaty chubby-wubby, red and panting, desperately plodding on a treadmill while that screechy little strip of beef jerky, Jillian Michaels, verbally bullied him and shrieked at him to keep pushing. The guy was clearly dangerously winded, and the sheer irresponsibility of it all astounded me.
As one who has endured sports injury after sports injury, and in every case from ignoring my body’s cues (read: pain) that I was pushing my limits, I wondered if Ms. Michaels would be paying for all the physical therapy required for that guy’s ruptured Achilles tendon or blown-out knee. Moreover, does she know how to do CPR if Fat Albert keels over from a massive coronary? And if not, will she bother to send his family a sympathy card?
I found myself thinking, “What reward could be worth subjecting yourself to this level of humiliation?” and for myself, I could only think of one: the opportunity to punch that smug, scrawny little rat queen Jillian Michaels right in the teeth.
Honestly, I didn’t think “reality” TV could be any worse than that. Clearly, I was sadly mistaken. “Fear Factor” sinks us to a new low. And, how shall we entertain the roaring masses when they’re bored with blood-diving for cow hearts? Are those lions I hear?
So, the writing is on the wall. My beloved Impala, Pearl, is in her death throes. This makes me ridiculously, neurotically sad because I really love this car, maybe because it was the first car I ever purchased and paid for completely on my own. She represents something. And she’s a perfect fit. I’m going to miss this car. I actually dream that I’ve traded it in, and then spend the rest of the dream desperately trying to find it. I never do. It’s a sad, hollow dream.
Yes… I’m that attached. And that neurotic.
I have not dreamed that I’ve lost my husband or kids.
See?
Anyway… I am considering a couple of cars and want to hear from anyone with feedback on Chevy Cruze or Equinox, Honda CRV or Accord, Toyota Camry, or Subaru Legacy or Impreza. The Cruze, CRV and Accord are currently my top contenders.
I would get another Impala, but it will never be another Pearl. It will never compare.
*sigh*
What AM I eating before bedtime.
Seriously.
This dream simply must be shared. My apologies to Hans Christian Anderson and Walt Disney.
There I was, in a lovely, ornate bedroom with Sting and a dark-haired beauty, the room swathed in deep blue, green and gold organza. We all sat on the edge of his plush, velvety bed, placed on a high platform with steps as every proper Tantric centerpiece should. But yet, we were not focusing on a three-way exchange of ecstatic breath or the merging of Second Chakra energies. No, we were admiring his new toilet.
Yes, toilet.
And it sat right next to the bed, on a slightly smaller pedestal of its own, and a finer specimen of sculpted, shiny white porcelain surely never graced an ornate blue and green Tantric celebrity bedroom dreamscape. Suddenly, Sting stood up next to the bed, and as he did, I seemed to pan up into the air as if in a movie, where I could view everything as if through a camera lens, and observed as Sting whipped out his penis and sprayed a fine,pure, golden stream of urine up into the air, in a perfect arc, right into the toilet, without making even the tiniest splatter. Immediately his girlfriend then also leapt into the air in a similar arc, and dove headfirst into the toilet.
And the camera pans down, way down, into the dark blue water where things go after they whirl away post-flush, and we see that lovely sylph glides deep into the water, transforms into a sparkling, magical, alluring mermaid as she ripples along. She streaks straight toward the cloud of Sting’s urine, floating there like a golden, glittering orb, and she slides straight inside, slowly twirling… euphoric… golden and glittering… reveling in the joy and delight… and she tells me, not through words, but telepathically, that her DNA and Sting’s are now one.
No, I don’t get it.
And no, “Under Da Sea” wasn’t playing as the soundtrack.
And no, I am totally not installing a toilet next to our bed, no matter how much my husband begs.
Strange thoughts trickle into your mind at 3:30 a.m., that dull, fuzzy cross-section in time between “I’ve had four hours of sleep, I could just get up” and “It’s two hours until the alarm goes off, I could still get some sleep.” Trouble is, time stops in that no-Sandman’s zone, and I nether get up nor fall asleep. What happens in the meantime? I think about stuff I don’t get around to thinking about during the day. And having had this irksome non-sleeping pattern my whole life, I have had ample opportunity to think about a LOT of things. In fact, I think I may have already thought about everything at least once.
Except one.
Orgasms. For animals, specifically. For female animals, precisely. Do lady animals ever really get their groove on? I mean, clearly they come in heat, and are completely open to the idea of making a jungle love connection… but as I ponder this at 3:30 a.m., it occurs to me that while I’ve seen plenty of male animals satisfied with their close encounters, I’ve never seen a female animal express the same. Yet, they’re still quite willing to keep trying. And, as human animals can attest, there is a far and wide difference between being interested in sex — participating even — and getting any satisfaction out of it.
Can I get an “Awomen!”, ladies?
I think about all the cats and dogs I’ve had in my life. Seen them participating in what nature calls them to do, but it seems like it’s all about the male. Male cats essentially overpower the females, sink their teeth into their necks just far enough to get a good grip but not actually draw blood, and from all the howling that goes on, it’s clearly good for the guy. I’ve heard cat pensises have barbs on them. Hmmm. Maybe it’s the lady cats howling after all. And not in a good way.
As for doggy style, bitches have it goin’ on. I have heard that after a male dog ejaculates and is ready to hop down and run on his way, a female dog has the ability to clamp down her vagina on the male’s penis and trap old Rover boy until she gets some satisfaction. God/dess, that is brilliant. Wonder how many kegel exercises I’d have to do to develop that kind of muscle control. Let’s see… one… two… three…. (Don’t mind me while I continue quietly in the background).
I reflect back on the many horses I had while growing up, and how breeding day would be a big event at our little pasture. There’s be beer and merriment, and we’d have someone serve as a priest and marry the happy couple, and once even put a bridal veil on the mare. And while this was all good fun for the people, the stallion at this point is nearly bursting with trembling, sweating, snorting lust, and the mare (if she’s ready – if not, Mr. Studly will get a mouth full of hoof) has her tail up and is peeing a stream that seems to contain something that drives a stud into pheramonal madness. The horses aren’t interested in all the human folderol and fiddledeedee, they want to get down to business.
For all the pure, raw, sexual energy of a stallion, however (and they’re equipped with penises the length of your arm), the actual act is pretty pathetic. A dramatic mount, and a grunt, grunt, grunt, heeeaaaaave… and he’s spent. And so God/dess is my witness, I have seen mares turn their heads around and look back with disgust and disappointment at all this ado about nothing. Sadly for horses, they only breed once a year and they have teeny little brains the size of walnuts. By the time breeding season rolls around again, the mares forget how sorely dissatisfied the last encounter was, and they fall for it again.
So. I thunk and thunk, and in all my life, I’ve never seen a female (non-human) animal scream or shiver in shimmering delightful satisfaction after having sex. Come to think of it, I’ve seen many a mammalian vulva in my time — cats, dogs, horses, cows, sheep, pigs — and have never noticed a clitoris on a single one. Maybe this is Mother Nature’s way of being kind. I mean after all, to give a four-legged animal a clitoris when she can’t reach it would be downright cruel. Dogs and cats excepted, of course, because if they had them, they could reach them just fine. And as their well-adept at using their tongues, well… who would actually NEED a male mate anyway. If I had that sort of flexibility, I’d probably never leave home. So… there you go. That’s why Miss Purry and Fifi don’t have clits. They’d be so good at pleasing themselves, there’d be no future litters to pass on the bloodline.
I thought about the unfairness of all this in the animal world — the males getting all the joy, the females getting nothing but the weight of pregnancy and the pain of birth, and then little ones hanging from their teats until they’re old enough to be kicked or nipped away, and I think it’s just entirely unfair. But maybe I’m wrong – maybe there ARE clitorises out there in the animal kingdom, or maybe compensatory HUGE G-spots. So, I sought to answer this question in the way we all get fast semi-accurate information nowadays — I posted my query on Facebook. The few who responded told me that female Great Apes have clitorises, and know how to use them. But aside from that… no hard and fast answers.
So… I put it out to the online universe… How do Miss Purry anf Fifi, and Trigger and Bossie and Bessie and all the others, get their groove on? Or do they?
Goddess, forgive me, for I have snarfed.
I know I shouldn’t consume these things but sometimes…. under just the right circumstances… when no one’s looking…
~ Cadbury mini-eggs
~ Red Vines red licorice
~ Barbecued potato chips with sour cream
~ The crispy skin on the turkey when it comes out of the oven (you didn’t think it just magically disappeared, did you…)
~ Pork sausage with maple syrup
~ Cinnamon hearts, Red Hots, Atomic Fireballs or anything else so cinnamony that it makes your eyes leak (but not Goldschlager because it makes me puke.)
Gee, I’m seeing a trend here… pork things and hot cinnamon things… somebody invent cinnamon-covered sausage for me (Spring Warren, are you paying attention)
~ Peanut butter sandwiches
~ Peanut butter minus the sandwich
~ Bubble gum – good old-fashioned Bazooka (ah, how I miss Bub’s Daddy ropes – three points for anyone who remembers them… and could chomp the hole rope in one big ball…)
~ Peeps (it’s not food, it’s an obsession, a dare… like eating haggis…)
~ Cherry Jell-o
~ Cheetos, nacho cheese Doritos, cheap-ass house brand cheese puffs, or anything covered in that atomic orange cheese-food substance, and in particular:
~ Macaroni and cheese – in any form, from a box or homemade… I would dive into a vat of it if I could (which actually sounds disturbingly kinky, particularly if I could get Catherine Zeta Jones to dive in with me.)
I’m sure there are many more to add to this list. Particularly if it’s cinnamony, sour-creamy, porky, peanut buttery orcherry-y.
Feel free to confess in the safety of my blog all those things you aren’t willing to admit you’ll eat when no one’s looking. (The internet – it only feels like no one’s looking.)
