Mexican Bus Drivers Demand Tips for the Ride From Hell: Mexico City’s union of “Pesero” bus drivers are demanding tips for taking their riders on the ride of their lives. Pesero bus drivers are renowned for serving up cheap thrills and dangerous spills. In fact, the spread of American television has caused Mexico City’s youth to demand to “go to Disneyland.” In response, Mexico City parents have duped their children into believing that the Pesero is in fact run by Mickey Mouse, and the kids are eating it up (until they die in a fiery crash).
Union leaders are demanding tips, in part to cover “driver training.” Each Pesero driver must undergo a rigorous 50-hour training program, the last 2 minutes of which is the official Pesero driving test, in which the driver-to-be must kill at least one person to pass.
Disclaimer: yadda yadda yadda. I made this up.
But seriously. Tips for being shitty? Next thing you know, I’m supposed to tip the burger joint for giving me food poisoning and the chick from Supercuts for giving me a faux-hawk and the Metro for giving me whiplash.
Although the presidential race is certainly worth mentioning, I’ll leave that for respectable news outlets. I point your attention to other events that are equally newsworthy.
Founder of LSD dies of heart attack. On Tuesday, Albert Hofmann died in his Switzerland home at the ripe age of 102. Hofmann is the Swiss chemist who discovered the psychotropic effects of LSD by “accidentally” ingesting the substance. As reported by the NYT, “More important to him than the pleasures of the psychedelic experience was the drug’s value as a revelatory aid for contemplating and understanding what he saw as humanity’s oneness with nature.” Former hippies all over the world are holding vigils in Hofmann’s honor. The entire city of Berkeley has shut down in a moment of silence. Opportunistic business-owners have begun restocking their shelves with tie-dye t-shirts, causing a spike in epileptic seizures and bad taste.
When is a Lesbian not a Lesbian? A legal dispute is brewing in the capital city of Greece. The suit is against the Homosexual and Lesbian Community of Greece–plaintiffs are three individuals from the island of “Lesbos,” which is located in the Aegean Sea. Plaintiffs take issue with defendant’s use of “Lesbian” in its name, as natives of Lesbos are Lesbians. Although much of the world defines “lesbians” as women who are romantically and sexually attracted to other women, the natives of Lesbos have been Lesbians for far longer. Curiously enough, Lesbos is also the birthplace of the ancient poet Sappho, who praised love between women. Since news of the lawsuit broke, Joe Francis and the entire production crew for “Girls Gone Wild” have moved their headquarters to Lesbos. Travel agencies have also reported a spike in inquiries and travel to Lesbos from males between 14-24.
Disclaimer: Read the article for the actual story. My reports are kind of like a game of telephone . . . except I skipped right to the end of the game.
So Disney has hopped on the morality bandwagon in publicly lashing Miley Cyrus for appearing in photos holding only a sheet. The pictures were taken by the famed Annie Leibovitz and were, for all intents and purposes, artistic (and come on people – she was covered and if anything, looked like a refugee or a public service announcement for Idol Gives Back). At the same time that Disney has verbally whipped Vanity Fair (e.g. “a situation was created to deliberately manipulate a 15-year-old in order to sell magazines”), Disney itself has posted this billboard abroad.
Umm . . . I’m not well-versed in child porn or anything, but I sure know a hypocrite when I see one. He who lives in glass houses . . .
So BFF called my attention to the story of Josef Fritzl. Fritzl has confessed to holding his daughter captive in a cellar under his home for 24 years; fathering 7 children with his daughter; and being a complete and total lunatic. Here’s a quick rundown of the story. Fritzl is 73 years old and lives with his wife in what used to be a quiet town in Austria. He began sexually abusing his daughter at the outrageous age of 11. When his daughter turned 18, Fritzl drugged her, handcuffed her and locked her in the cellar of his home, which he had transformed into an underground dungeon. For 24 years, Fritzl repeatedly raped his daughter in that dungeon (devoid of any windows/light) and fathered 7 children. At one point, his daughter gave birth to twins, one of whom died. Fritzl, of course, decided to burn the dead infant in the equivalent of his fireplace. How lovely. Fritzl allowed 3 of the children to live above ground with him and his wife–he told his wife that the children were abandoned by mother/daughter. The other three children/grandchildren lived in the dungeon with Fritzl’s daughter.
Dude. This is f*ckin’ nasty. Where do people like this come from? First of all, one question many people are asking is how Fritzl’s wife never knew that her husband (til death do us part my ass) was operating the Neverland Ranch from hell underneath her feet. I’m not saying I blame the poor woman–I’m sure news will come out that she herself was abused by Evil Fritzl, but I’m just saying that if I was living in a house for 24 years and my husband was “going to the cellar” for no reason at all every day, I would get a teensy bit suspicious. The other question is how anyone could do the things Fritzl did. I think the more appropriate question here is what we should do to someone like Fritzl. I am opposed to the death penalty–of course if Fritzl was subjected to some terrible “accident,” I wouldn’t be crying over that spilled milk, but I think the better course of action would be to lock Evil Fritzl up in a 2 X 6 dungeon with no windows; to have strobe lights flash at random moments; to force feed him to keep him alive to endure the torture; to make him listen to an awful song on loop forever (the I Love You Barney song comes to mind); and maybe make him drink his own pee. Damn. This story is definitely a WTF?
Yesterday, at the end of the day, I looked down at my clock to see that it was 3:14 p.m. I sighed in disbelief. After what felt like an eternity, I had only been sitting at my desk for 7 hours. Sigh. Then, to add insult to my self-inflicted injury, I realized it was Monday. And I thought it was Wednesday. Believing it’s Wednesday when it’s actually Monday is one of the most disheartening things–something that can crush your spirit for the rest of the week. Why is it that I never have the opposite feeling, e.g. on a Friday, being pleasantly surprised that it’s not a Monday? Why oh why can’t I go to work one day and think, “Boy, Mondays sure suck. By golly gee, I can’t wait for Monday to be over,” and then have someone tell me at 5:00 p.m., “Hey! What are you doing this weekend? It’s Friday! Get the hell out of here!”
Ugh. Such is life.
Disclaimer: I am in no way suggesting that I am a supermodel. I am far from it. I eat cows, chickens, pigs, and fish. Hell, I’m Chinese/Taiwanese–I eat parts of that cow, chicken, pig, and fish that you didn’t know existed. I eat ice cream. I eat cookies. I box. I lift weights. And I don’t throw up voluntarily. Supermodel, I am not.
However, I do love Banana Republic. Their clothes are of relatively high quality, but I don’t vomit when I see the price tag (usually). However, I have come to the conclusion that their pants only fit women who are 6 feet tall. I’ve never received a pair of BR pants that don’t require alterations. Now I’m pretty tall for being a chick (5′ 8″ with my shoes on, thank you very much). But when I put on BR pants, I suddenly feel like I’m a 10-year old wearing mommy’s clothing and perhaps with a gangload of lipstick all over my face and curlers all up in my hair. Wait. That’s not me. That’s some movie I saw. I never did the wear mommy’s lipstick thing as a kid. Although, I did do the mini hair-bear thing. You know what I’m talking about–you were alive in the 80s (and if you weren’t, you suck and you make me feel old). I took the front part of my hair and made it go just high enough on my head to create a little wave. Kind of like this, but much tamer (since I have flat, straight Asian hair). Thank you Ms. Jackson, I think you’re nasty:
Then I sprayed a shit-load of 89 cent Aquanet all over that beauty until it crusted over. If anyone touched the wave, the Aquanet would flake off, creating a snowstorm of nasty, crusty, hair product. In fact, if anyone tells you they once saw snow in the California Bay Area in the late 80s or early 90s, that wasn’t snow. It was some pre-pubescent chick’s nasty ass wad of hair. Imagine that on a California holiday card. Just put a bunch of hair bear chicks in a treehouse. Plant the family underneath. Hair bear chicks shake their crusty scalps, and voila! It’s a White F*cking Christmas.
Anyways, I digress. I have to go to the tailor today to get my pants altered. Because supermodel, I am not.
This weekend, I watched “Forgetting Sarah Marshall,” a movie starring (and written by) Jason Segal. Segal reigns from How I Met Your Mother, perhaps the only good sit-com on television today.
Segal stars as Peter Bretter, a musician who composes music for his girlfriend’s crappy television show. Herein comes the spoiler. Within the first 10 minutes of the movie, one sees multiple snapshots of Jason Segal’s junk. Yes, male frontal nudity.
With that, I delve into a question many women (and men) have asked about popular culture. Why not more penis? Historically, women have been the subject to nudity in film and television. Where decades ago, female nudity would have been reserved for pornography or other “obscene” forms of entertainment, female nudity has now burst into the mainstream, entering mass-appeal genres such as the comedy and the action film. In other words, folks, boobs are everywhere. Boobies are no longer limited to your daddy’s Playboy magazines but can now be found in your kids’ Sponge Bob lunch boxes (speaking of which – what’s up with Miley Cyrus baring all???). But why not more penis? It seems, from an equity standpoint, that more penis would be warranted at this stage–simply as a natural progression of entertainment. By showing his penis on the big screen (heehee–I wrote big and penis–heehee), is Segal really attempting to equalize the portrayal of the sexes in mass media? Perhaps Segal is attempting, in a compelling and courageous manner, to eradicate the objectification of women by subjecting himself to the same inequities and humiliation that all women face?
Nah. Go watch the film. Segal just wanted to flash his goods. There ain’t no shame in his game.