Woman goes through airport security and nipple rings set off metal detector. She offers to let an officer look at them to make sure she's not wearing a "bra bomb" but TSA officers insist she remove them. She is sent behind a curtain with a pair of pliers to de-jewel her nipples while several TSA officers stand nearby laughing about it.
I fully expected the TSA to single out the offending officers as abusive assholes and distance themselves from the incident. Imagine my surprise to read that forced removal of body jewelry is an action approved by the TSA, and that the agency "...supports the thoroughness of the officers involved as they were acting to protect the passengers and crews of the flights departing Lubbock that day."
Um...SHE OFFERED TO LET SOMEONE LOOK AT THEM. Why was that not good enough? There were female TSA officers present who could've done a quick visual inspection behind the curtain to make sure the offending boobs weren't going to explode on the plane. To my mind, this is a case of a bunch of inbred redneck dickhole bullies with badges amusing themselves at this woman's expense, playing a little game of Fuck With the Freak.
The bejeweled passenger is demanding an apology from the TSA, which I think they should serve to her on a red satin pillow with mints on it. The TSA also acknowledges that its policy will now direct officers to perform a visual inspection in cases like this one. I just don't understand why this wasn't the directive in the first place. From my own experience, I know that removing body jewelry can, in some cases, result in the piercing hole closing, resulting in either painful reinsertion of the jewelry or the need to re-pierce.
Way to make us respect your authori-tai, fuckheads. Because when a woman can board an airplane with decorative metal in her tits, then the terrorists have already won.
Another way I know I'm getting old: my friend's kids, kids that I've known since they were toddlers, are now old enough for me to engage in a conversation about the logistics of making ice cubes out of jizz. You know, a typical Easter Sunday topic.
You know how some dogs will put their assholes against the carpet and then paddle across the floor? And how the reaction from the people in the house is always "NO! BAD DOG! GET YOUR ANUS OFF THE CARPET!"
Normal reaction, right? Yeah, I think so, too.
Well, tonight I saw a commercial for a carpet cleaning company. The commercial featured a big dog, doing the big ass-paddle across a white carpet.
Ummmm...that means that someone taught this dog to rub its ass on the carpet. On command.
Does this disturb anyone besides me? Is there such a demand in show business for this Disgusting Pet Trick that trainers anticipate its use and teach it to the pooches in between "beg" and "roll over"? Upon whose carpet do they practice? And what spoken command, do you suppose, is used to trigger the butt drag?
Oh, yeah, it's the quintessential Mick's holiday today, and I've got plenty of the Mick running through my veins. But you'll not find me swilling tinted brew in a shamrock-laden pub tonight. For one thing, even if you came to my house and offered me a non-green beer of my choice, I feel too crappy to take you up on it. And even if I was feeling at the top of my game, I consider this an amateur's drinking night, much like New Year's Eve. I prefer to imbibe with professional drunks, thank you very much.
Also, green beer? Gag me with a shillelagh! Sure, you can tell me all night that it's just green food coloring. But how do I know it's not really ale that's permeated with the essence of Wicked Witch? Ha! I rest my case.
So, what does a pasty-skinned potato eater do to celebrate St. Patrick's Day with no beer and no pub crawling? For one, I celebrated by eating the first good food I've eaten in almost a week, thanks to the awesomeness of my just-as-Irish sister. We ate sandwiches the size of our faces while catching up on last week's General Hospital. Sadly, we were too pressed for time to start any brawls with Protestants, but we did dress Friday up like a leprechaun, and he sang us a lovely rendition of his favorite song from the old country, Oh Tranny Boy. Seriously, that cat has a beautiful tenor.
Tonight, I'm celebrating by watching a History Channel documentary on the secret tunnels underneath Chicago (if I see Geraldo with a sledgehammer, though, I'm changing the station). Later on, I'll take out my Pogues albums and...look at them, since I don't currently own a turnntable. But it's the thought that counts, right? I believe I have a recording of Tom Waits singing The Piano Has Been Drinking that was recorded live in Ireland. Close enough? Perhaps later I'll polish up my Uilleann pipes. Um, okay, that joke only works if I actually have a schlong, huh? Dang.
I'm not big on toasts, but I suppose the occasion calls that I leave you with one. Hmmmm, let's see. What would be appropriate for this readership? Oh, I know!
May your ass cheeks clench that butt plug like it was the Blarney Stone, and may your Lucky Charms find their way into some hot bitch's bloomers. Slainte!
Lucky, lucky me. I seem to have found a strain of the flu that wasn't included in my flu shot this season. Now, why can't I have the same kind of odds-beating ability with the lottery?
So...I've been pretty much in bed since Wednesday night. I haven't felt as horrible as I did last night since I had the chicken pox about 21 years ago. If I didn't know better, I'd suspect that I was on the losing end of a drunken brawl. A drunken brawl with Bigfoot. And Bigfoot carries a baseball bat. While wearing cleats.
All in all, I'm mighty grumpy right now. Just grumpy enough to make a grand declaration. So here goes.
If you're going to appear on television while willingly wearing a fauxhawk, then I'm going to have to tell you that it makes you look like a douchebag with a fin on your head. What, are you trying to fuck Nemo?
There, I've exhausted my supply of Bitch for the night. I'm going to take a big dose of Nyquil and try to find a show with bald dudes in it.
Pink, paisley, ridiculous...miraculous With your swing-sweet lows And your bee-sting highs Your visual confetti thrown on the walls Whenever I turn this way and that How you stayed in tune, clever motherfucker When every other guitar on the stage was Begging for a turn of the pegs You held steady and smirked a little But we all still loved you anyway.
Every man I knew Wanted you in his arms But you always came home Because you were my girl You saw me through my first gig That night I turned 30 and They liked me, they really liked me, No small thanks to you.
And there you went on Saturday Stoic in your coffin case But I wonder if you knew, deep down, That I wasn't just lending you out this time That this bearded fellow was your new man That I'd turned you into a house payment And a way to keep my cable on.
Now that Project Runway season 4 is bagged, tagged and wrapped, I'm not sure what I'll do with my life. How, exactly, am I to go on with no weekly infusion of fashion ferocity? What part of my daily routine can compete with regular doses of Tim Gunn? Christian, come back and let me carry you around in my purse! There's room for you and all your little friends in there, I promise. And by "little friends" I mean all those dollars you won, you Fierce Feather Fashionista.
The best thing I can do, I've decided, is to become equally obsessed with another TV show. What would be the next logical step after hanging on every minute of a clothing-design competition show? I pondered this long and hard, like Johnny Wad. And then the obvious answer smacked me upside the head like a slab of uncooked bacon.
The Simpsons, of course. It's the only solution to my woes.
The more I thought about it, the more I realized my long-unrequited love for Homer, Marge, and the brats. My thoughts drifted, as they will, to a guest-starring role on the show, and I smiled dreamily as I thought of how glamorous my entry to Springfield would, indeed, be. In fact, I think I would be so excited that I might just...lose control.
Note the blatant Burger King advertising; I think I should get some revenue from that, for all the tens of visits I get here daily.
I can't save crazy chicks. No matter how shiny my white-knight armor is, I can't heroically extract a whacked-out girl from a metaphorical burning building, because even as she's screaming "Help me, Obi-Wan Katy, you're my only hope!" she's got her arms wrapped around the banister as tight as they can be and the bitch ain't budging. I'm so fucking tired of mixed signals and schoolgirl-mentality games, and most of all, being thrown over for men because it's just easier for the crazy girl to get by that way.
Bring your own lubrication when entering a pawn shop with merchandise to sell; it won't make the ass fucking any less painful, but it will prevent spontaneous combustion and excess blistering.
Potential employers, apparently, are allowed to demand anything they want of job seekers, and it's perfectly acceptable since so many people are scrambling for scraps these days. Case in point: I applied online for a job last weekend - a secretarial job for a company whose business involves making people's yards pretty - and was sent an application to complete and return. They not only wanted me to sign off on urine, blood, and hair samples (a different rant all in itself), but they wanted access to any and all medical records from every doctor I've ever visited. Call me a big ol' liberal queer, but I find that highly invasive, insulting, and frightening. I fully expected the next check box to demand possession of my first-born child. A line has been crossed, and people are too cowed to bitch about it.
Grey pubes are not cute. At least, they aren't cute on me. I don't know why that disturbs me more than the grey hair that sprouts more and more liberally from my scalp each day, but it just does.
I never realized how good the writing was on soap operas until the writers went on strike. Squirl and I could've written better dialogue for General Hospital during the strike than the replacement dudes did. (And BOO! to them for resurrecting a dead man to be the Text Message Killer...I was really convinced it was the cop, Harper. Come ooooooon...Diego would not have killed Georgie, especially in such a brutal manner; she was the only person who was ever nice to him.)
No one wants to see my ass crack in Wal-Mart. I understand that now. So here's the deal: Wal-Mart, you stop putting your store-brand club soda on the bottom shelf, and I'll stop bending over and half-mooning everyone in the liquor aisle.