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.:[Friday, January 30, 2004]:.
DR. STRANGELOVE (OR HOW I GAVE UP AND LEARNED TO LOVE ANIMAL PORN)
Speaking of porn...
I got an email from my brother today about Sweden's bestiality problem.
Of the many fascinating things I learned from what is actually a very short article:
1. Child porn was legal in Sweden until 1999, when it was outlawed.
2. There has been an increase in animal injuries related to sexual contact with people.
3. The purchase of animal porn in Sweden is on the rise.
4. Apparently, 3 is caused by 1.
5. According to a British study, 1 out of 20 reported animal injuries is caused by sexual contact with a human.
Now, I'm not to sure I buy the contention in this article that people have turned to animal porn because child porn is no longer available. How would the thought process work? "Hmmm... they're out of underage gang bangs. Well, I guess I'll go with the woman fucking the horse." I mean, just because someone has one dysfunctional sexual interest doesn't mean they have every dysfunctional sexual interest.
I'm also kind of curious about whether or not, when someone is buying animal porn in a Swedish porn store, they try to buy a bunch of other stuff to distract the clerk from the fact that they're into screwing animals.
P.J. O'Rourke has this to say about Sweden, pornography, and censorship in Eat the Rich: "'Jurgen is a film censor,' said his dinner companion, also sincerely. Jurgen reassured me. 'We're only looking for violence,' he said. So Showgirls was okay, but Hamlet was out? 'No, no, I don't believe anything should be censored [Interesting attitude for a censor, no? -- Ben],' said the censor. 'I'm looking for real violence - porno films where women are actually injured. And child pornography.' Wasn't that more a matter for the police? And it was. But for some reason these moviemakers needed to be censored as well as arrested."
O'Rourke describes the Storkyrka (Great Church) behind the royal palace as containing a statue of St. George slaying the dragon, which is carved "in a manner extremely lifelike, right down to a well-whittled horse anus." So maybe bestiality is a genuine Swedish historical culture phenomenon. Maybe, being socialists, they're tired of screwing up their economy and they've decided to start screwing the pooch.
Or maybe socialists are insane.
There's substantial evidence to support this. Their presidential ticket this year appears to be the assistant manager from the local Kinko's and an animated corpse. That's my guess based on their photos.
So there you go. The international socialist movement has produced five-star cuisine, an unstoppable army of miniature men, full employment, and bestiality as a replacement for pedophilia and pederasty.
Thank you, socialism!
| a BEN production by me at 3:11 AM
DogBlog points to an anti-porn crusader in my hometown. The fact that the good Reverend has nothing better to do than go to considerable lengths to harass decent, porn loving people whose only real crime is wanting to rent a wholesome rimjob DVD goes a long way towards explaining how boring Fort Worth can be sometimes.
Maybe he should start a Sex 4 Salvation branch office. Or sell these.
| a BEN production by me at 2:31 AM
.:[Monday, January 26, 2004]:.
WHITE SETTLEMENT: THE JEWEL OF NORTH-CENTRAL TEXAS
Ha-ha, just kidding, White Settlement sucks! Thanks for playing along, folks!
Via Fark comes this little gem about efforts to repeal White Settlement's beer and wine restrictions, from my hometown paper the Fort Worth Star-Telegram. I'd say it's a better paper than the Austin Chronicle, but that's like saying I could construct a better roommate than Plucker out of fire, termites, and a dead hooker.
Fark somewhat inaccurately describes White Settlement as "a small Texas town." It isn't, however, some Little-House-on-the-Prairie "Pa's gonna be gone a few days cause he's gotta go do some tradin'" kinda place. The whole town is within Fort Worth's city limits. Fort Worth is ridiculously large for it's population, and has several of these little pocket cities scattered throughout. And, for some reason, they are almost all dry towns.
Who wouldn't be moved to tears by the heart-wrenching plight of Loretta Richey, who doesn't have a car and has to walk across Loop 820 or pay someone to give her a ride if she wants to buy a six-pack? And because White Settlement hasn't invented refrigeration yet, she has to try to keep her Natural Light tall-boys cool in a wet burlap sack.
Opponents of the beer ban are trying to collect 880 signatures to get a referendum on the May 15 ballot. Says a local pastor who supports the beer ban, "You can find 800 drunks anywhere." In an effort to maintain that well-earned Baptist reputation for Christian charity, he added, "I'm not saying everyone who signed the petition is a drunk."
The pastor further stated that if the ballot initiative succeeds, he'll mount an ongoing opposition. Damn right, says I, because what's the point of worshipping a wrathful Old Testament God if you can't spread a little of the ol' gospel via socks full of pennies upside some heathen heads? I know that I personally can't be satisfied that beer drinkers will get there just desserts in hell with the mud people and dirty Jews, I want satisfaction now. If you want to enjoy your beer, buddy, I've got your hellfire and damnation right here! Open your heart to Jesus or I'll open your skull with a baseball bat!
Oh, except by "opposition" the good pastor means "we'll do ads and fliers. We'll not just use the Bible; we'll attack economically, logically." Aw, crap! That's what's wrong with your sissy religion, Pastor! Fuck this, I'm joining the Taliban so I can push walls over on gay people and stone adulterers.
Another fun fact about White Settlement: it's the home town of Madelyne Toogood, 2002 Mother of the Year semi-finalist and all-around super gal. And by the way, guys, this child-abusing hottie is a dirty gypsy whose turn-ons include returning stolen goods to department stores for credit or cash, roofing scams, and family trees that resemble the Gordian Knot! In case your wondering, I'm practicing picture captions for the "Girls of Theiving Subcultures" Playboy pictorial that I'm producing.
Yes, among its other virtues, White Settlement is home to a booming Irish Traveler community! Book your vacations today, folks!
Maybe selling alcohol in White Settlement isn't such a good idea.
| a BEN production by me at 9:12 PM
.:[Thursday, January 22, 2004]:.
MY BIRTHDAY WAS LAST WEEK
Here's a gift idea. And, conveniently enough, it fits in with my plans for global domination.
| a BEN production by me at 11:08 PM
.:[Wednesday, January 21, 2004]:.
LIVING WITH MY FORMER ROOMMATE WAS LIKE LIVING IN A "TWILIGHT ZONE" EPISODE STARRING CHEECH AND CHONG
Except with more of a creepy serial killer vibe.
I suppose that I should have known bettern than to advertise for a roommate in the local "alt-weekly," the Austin Chronicle (the web description for which is "Austin paper with local flavor of Austin," said local flavor being euphemistic shorthand for crab-infected cooch with a hint of burning vinyl). Don't get me wrong, I have nothing against "alt-weeklies" or "alt-lifestyles." After all, in most places living an "alt" lifestyle probably means you're into Sandra Bullock movies or you eat sardines. That isn't what "alt" means in Austin.
I should have wised up and pulled my roommate ad as soon as I realized that every single caller began our conversation with, "Are you open minded?" I thought that I was open minded. And you would think that living in close proximity to the freaks that populate this town would open my mind even further.
In this however, among probably many other things, you would be wrong.
Living in Austin makes me long for the day when I am High Emporer of Texas, Lord of All I Survey, with an army of jackbooted thugs at my command to put the strong-arm on (among others) the "golden-showers" crowd, several of whom, incidentally, called me about my roommate ad. The Austin public-at-large, however, could use some open mindedness. To be more specific, they could use an axe upside their head to open their minds a little and spare us the pain of their existence.
I chose my roommate because he seemed the least frightening of all the possible candidates. I discovered quite rapidly that if he were the least frightening of possible roommate candidates, I am in serious trouble when civilization collapses and Darwinism begins in true force.
He seemed non-threatening, for the most part, because he was a dirty stoner. It's hard for serious stoners to be scary, because they are too busy eating Ho-Hos and watching "The Simpsons" to put the fear of God into you. I mean, my former roommate was such a hard-core stoner that to have a conversation with him I had to get out my "Bong to English" dictionary (oh, "bong rip, cough, cough, bong rip" means "turn on some cartoons, dude"). It was the little details that would send the chill down my spine:
1. We went to a titty bar one night. My former roommate (who I called "Plucker," because he used to deliver chicken for a restaurant by that name) was quite fond of the horrible shit-hole titty bars, the ones where you wish that they would sell crab shampoo in the bathroom and give you penicillin shots when you leave. He picked up a stripper at this place, gave her our phone number, and she ended up following us home. Once at our house, she was in his room for maybe a minute and a half, came running out, handed me our phone number, asked me to throw it away, and disappeared into the night. Now, truthfully, I have no idea what he said or did in there that chased her off, but it had to be worse than the shit that was going down in that titty-bar, and, frankly, nothing could be more frightening than that.
2. We used to watch "New Detectives: Case Studies in Forensic Science" every night. I would be sitting on the couch, drinking my beer, and listening to his editorial comments along the lines of "ah, so obviously I'd need to cut her hands and head off before I dumped her." (you think I'm kidding. I'm not).
And I have barely even scratched the surface of the "Plucker Problem." But I've got class tomorrow and two more beers to drink, so I'll share the rest another time.
But let me close with this: beware the alt-weeklies, you poor naive bastards! You'll put an ad in one to sell your lawn-mower and, next thing you know, some guy is showing you his scrotum piercing, giving your dog bong rips, and secretly storing snuff porn in your garage. Don't say I didn't warn you!
| a BEN production by me at 10:09 PM
.:[Monday, January 19, 2004]:.
GIVE WAR A CHANCE
Via Tim Blair comes this gunsight footage from a U.S. Apache helicopter in Iraq. As Tim notes, it is graphic and... well, horrifying, on several levels. UPDATE:: This link should be a valid link for the video, since the one above doesn't seem to be working.
Most people viewing the footage would be disturbed, to say the least, to hear the somewhat detached voices of the pilot and arms control as they target Iraqi soldiers on the ground, who appear to be oblivious to the danger, which is understandable, as the Apache has a pretty respectable stand-off capability. There is the "ack-ack" of the 30 mm cannon, and the first Iraqi goes down; another crouches to the side of a trailer, he doesn't appear to know exactly what is going on, and he is almost immediately dispatched, as they would say, with extreme prejudice.
And then there is the one last Iraqi. He takes cover behind a truck. He peeks around the corner. There is a burst of cannon-fire, and he goes down. There is some conversation in the cockpit of the Apache regarding further targets, and then the final Iraqi reappears. He is struggling about on the ground. One of the voices in the Apache notes that he is wounded. Another voice instructs the crew to kill him. Less than two seconds later another burst of fire from the 30 mm, and he is quite clearly, quite superlatively, dead.
I was, and am, a supporter of this war. But it gives rise to many emotions to hear one of my countrymen observe a wounded soldier (wounded by probably several 30 mm rounds, with what is more than likely quarts of Iraqi militant covering the pavement, so the poor bastard wasn't likely to be wounded for very much longer, in any event), and then plink him a few more times just to be sure. This is sort of thing that makes many people objectively opposed to any war, for whatever purpose.
It is also the sort of thing which will eventually allow us to prevail. To our enemies, this is almost literally the hand of God reaching down from heaven to smite them. The cover of darkness offers no security; death can come with no warning and with no defense. The only real defense: go to work and stop killing people.
The Iraqis were loading shoulder filed missles. Similar shoulder fired weapons have been a problem. As Tim points out, this isn't indiscriminate killing by a rapacious occupying force. It is the specific targeting of individuals and materiel which are detrimental to the U.S. mission in Iraq.
Here is CNN's list of the U.S. dead in Iraq, with pictures of servicemen and circumstances of their death. Scrolling through, you can generate your own tally of soldiers killed by RPGs and SAMs.
The gunsight video above shows one of the things an occupying army is forced to do. There are other things, though, that they aren't forced to do (see Treaty of Versailles).
But of course we all know that this whole conflict is just a favor from Cheney for his buddies at Haliburton.
| a BEN production by me at 9:56 PM
.:[Saturday, January 17, 2004]:.
WELCOME INTERNET PERVS!
Thanks to the magic of my referrer log, I have discovered that I am one of the top search results for "urethra fucking," right below a page about "Zen Finger Fucking" and right above "Chronic Honeymoon Cystosis."
So I've decided to ditch the law school idea and get into niche porn. Any young ladies in the Austin area who are willing to be videotaped while being urinated upon, drop me a line.
I don't think I really want to know what "urethra fucking" is or what the person was searching for.
| a BEN production by me at 4:45 AM
.:[Thursday, January 15, 2004]:.
MY DAD ALWAYS SAID THAT THE ONLY THING BETTER THAN DEAD HOOKER JOKES ARE CHILD MOLESTATION JOKES
So here's a game featuring everyone's favorite child molesting wierdo.
Hey, Michael, if your best friends are Liz Taylor and Marlon Brando, you are a freak.
| a BEN production by me at 3:38 AM
I've added a link to the right for you, my loyal readers (both of you), to buy God, It Sucks stuff. And don't worry, I will be adding more products and designs, soon, too!
So show the world that you value paranoid delusions of grandeur, irrational hate, and sexual frustration by purchasing today!
| a BEN production by me at 1:40 AM
.:[Wednesday, January 14, 2004]:.
SPEAKING OF MY BEING A JACKASS
Today I was at Southwest Texas or Texas State University or Hytop Generic Brand University, or whatever the fuck it is called now, registering for classes. It was very foggy, and I had to be there at 8 am, so I was justifiably disoriented. I should probably also point out that I don't ever pay attention to things and I'm usually pretty disoriented anyway, so maybe the fog and time of day didn't have that much impact.
Well, let's just assume that it was the fog and leave it at that.
Anwyay, when I was trying to go back home I couldn't find my truck. I don't mean to say that I couldn't remember where I parked; I mean my truck and the parking lot it was in and, for all I know, the whole universe except for the LBJ student center had all decided to pop off to a parallel dimension for some coffee.
Jackass that I am, I wandered in ever-widening circles around the LBJ center for fully 45 minutes. In these situations, instead of resorting to logic to solve my problems, I get paranoid and sulk petulantly and smoke cigarettes and hate things. I became convinced that the parking cop who had told me that I was parked legally had secretly waited until I was gone, had my truck towed, and was even now throwing a wild keg party in which my truck featured prominently as the centerpiece of drunken, hedonistic debauch. So I was sure my truck was having a fine old time while I was wandering around and scowling at trees that looked vaguely familiar.
I kept telling myself, "That looks familiar, maybe my truck is over there." But after you've been walking around in circles for 45 mins., everything looks familiar. After a while, I began to feel somewhat heroic, like Lewis and Clark, if Lewis and Clark had been exploring a small college campus instead of the Louisiana Purchase and encountering savage Elementary Ed. majors instead of damn, dirty Indians. Actually, I encountered Indians, but they were Ghandi Indians and not Tonto Indians.
Finally, I had resigned myself to standing in one spot looking angry and smoking, and someone asked me, "Are you hear for orientation?" I told her that no, I was trying to leave orientation, and all of the sudden I noticed that I was standing about 100 feet from my truck. So there you go, my indefatigable sense of direction wins again.
| a BEN production by me at 11:27 PM
Sometimes something wierd and embarassing happens to me, but usually it's entirely my fault.
The other day I was walking out to my car in the middle of the night to get a pack of cigarettes. Because it was nighttime and I didn't think anyone else would be in the parking lot, I was only wearing my underwear, a jacket, and some boots.
1. There was someone else in the parking lot.
2. He was really big.
3. He asked me if I had change for $100 so that he could pay his cabfare.
4. There wasn't a cab in the parking lot.
I definitely had the feeling I was fixing to get beat up and mugged, and that I was going to have to talk to the cops wearing only my jacket, underwear, and boots. I was suddenly an episode of "Cops" come to life.
Fortunately, I may be very small and cowardly, but I am also very crafty (like a dirty Jew). I proceeded to negotiate with the crackhead, and bought his jacket for what he claimed was the cost of his cab ($30). I returned to my apartment, feeling very street-smart, with my cigarettes and an extra jacket, and with my ass not having been kicked.
Sadly, I am a jackass, and alack and alas, the crackhead was much craftier than I. A closer inspection of the jacket revealed a handwritten Goodwill price tag. To be more specific, said closer inspection revealed a price tag reading $6.50. So the crackhead had sold me the jacket at a 462% markup. However, I will point out once again that at least this story does not include a conversation with the cops that involved me crying while wearing only boots, underwear, and a jacket.
And now I have a genuine crackjacket. Maybe I will start selling my own line of crack clothes on Ebay, each item guaranteed to have been worn and soiled by a certified crackhead. Yes! I have been inspired. The clothing line will be called "Cracketyjack," in honor of my new jacket. Thank you, crackhead!
| a BEN production by me at 10:24 PM
.:[Tuesday, January 06, 2004]:.
I LOVE LYING TO TOWNIES
Okay... so I had a horrible day today. Dealing with UT is always a challenge, but, for some reason, today was exceptional. I won't go into the excruciating details, but I want to highlight a particular incident.
I went to the registrar's office at UT today, the only reason for which trip was to get a transcript for transfer purposes. I paid the appropriate fee. I then proceeded to a room, where I sat for a good long while waiting for my transcript. When I paid for the transcript, the room was empty. After a good period of waiting, the room had at least 5 people in it. I didn't say anything, meaning: I didn't complain to the bitch-asses who weren't handing me the transcript I had just paid them to give to me. I did, at one point, mention to a guy that looked like The Penguin from Batman that they must be using a Nintendo to handle the transcript requests. He asked me how long I had been waiting for my transcript, I looked at my watch and told him I'd been waiting for about 20 minutes. A woman, who was also waiting, overheard me. She was in a hurry, and went and told the "transcript clerk" (who, by the way, looked like one of the band-members from Flock of Seagulls) that I had been waiting for 20 minutes and that she couldn't afford to wait that long.
He told her that I was lying.
This, in and of itself, didn't offend me, exactly. I lie about things, on occasion. But I would never, ever, lie about how long I have been waiting for my transcript. Because I have a sense of honor, except when it comes to townies or crashing parties.
Townies are those people that live in resort towns, like, for instance, Durango. They hate the people who come to vacation in resort towns, but they are utterly dependent upon we vacationers for income. They are, therefore, loathe to contradict you if you tell them ridiculous stories about who you are or what you do for a living. Similarly, people hosting parties will seldom throw you out if you have a reasonably outlandish story which justifies your being in their house and drinking their booze. Lies to tell townies are the same lies that can be told when crashing a party. Here are my favorites (by the way, these are also great lies to use at strip clubs):
1. You are a novelist. They will ask you if you have ever written anything they may have read. My favorite response is to look at them with a scowl and say, "God, I hope not." They will then, invariably, ask for your name. If you're like me, you want fame in whatever diminished doses you can get it, and you will then tell them your real name. I promise you, God as my witness, the person you are talking to will then say, "I think I've heard of you." If I keep lying to enough townies and crashing enough parties, I may be the first best-selling author to never actually write, sell, or publish a book (okay, Hillary Clinton is actually the first, but you know what I mean).
2. You are a doctor. This is easy for me; my father's a doctor (of sorts) and I have scrub shirts with my last name on them. The first person who asks you what kind of doctor you are, tell them that you're a pediatrician. Then start asking if they know where to score some coke. This also works for any other professional occupation for which the Average Joe routinely has contact. So tell them that you're a lawyer, and when they start asking for legal advice, tell them you'd be glad to answer their questions if they can score you 5 tabs of X.
| a BEN production by me at 10:49 PM
.:[Monday, January 05, 2004]:.
IN KEEPING WITH THE HOLIDAY SPIRIT...
My charming and beautiful sister-in-law has updated her site with more slanderous nonsense about my "psychotic" tendencies. Hey, Bethany, that isn't psychosis, it's "charm" and "verve!"
| a BEN production by me at 1:20 AM
ALBUQUERQUE, NEW MEXICO SUCKS ASS
Hey, Benjy's back and he still hates things! I've been in Colorado since 12/27. I like Colorado. I hate New Mexico.
I have never had very much exposure to New Mexico, aside from relatively pleasant trips to Ruidoso (which had sullen Indians staffing the casino and ski shops at the resort where we stayed, who seemed to be actively praying to Tree Up Ass, their heathen god of comical injuries, for our deaths), Taos, and Red River. To be honest, because all of my time in New Mexico up to the present has been spent on ski resorts, the only thing I knew about New Mexico is that they sell liquor in the convenience stores, which is not only pretty cool but extremely handy if you ever find yourself in the position of needing a $10 fifth of Drunken Injun whiskey and some gas so you can go desecrate some ancient burial grounds (and, be honest, who hasn't?). I have now discovered that, cool as liquor-peddlin' gas stations might be, New Mexico is second only to a Madonna movie in its sheer craptitude.
I stayed overnight in Albuquerque on the way to Durango, Colorado, and I planned to have a few drinkys and sample the wild and crazy Albuquerque nightlife. Problem the first: I had forgotten my ID in Fort Worth. Problem the second: every bar in downtown Albuquerque had some assclown bouncer checking ID's at the door. So, even though I look about 857 years old, they wouldn't let me in. "Sorry, sir, if we can't verify your age, you can't come in. Could you please move your wheelchair and oxygen tank out of the doorway? You're blocking traffic."
On the way back to the hotel, I tried to purchase some beer, and discovered that though all the convenience stores sell liquor, hardly any sell beer. I asked one of the clerks why this was, and she told me that it was because of "limited cooler space." That doesn't make a whole lot of sense, though, since the whole state is so cold I was pissing ice cubes. I asked another clerk and she told me to "fuck off," so I guess that answered that. Then, when I finally found a store that sold beer, they carded me again. I finally had to ask a fellow Austinite, who was in Albuquerque visiting his folks, to buy the beer for me. So that pissed me off. And, incidentally, this fellow Austinite looks like "This Month's Teen Dream" from Tiger Beat magazine, so it was like having your grandson score weed for you.
So I went back to the hotel to savor my Budweiser while I hated Albuquerque only to discover that the only movie on TV was "Mad Max: Beyond Thunderdome." Thanks, Albuquerque! I hope the drunken Indians revolt and burn the whole city down.
| a BEN production by me at 12:32 AM