The Crusade Of The Knight

“Well,” she sighed, “I just don’t think it’s fair for you to poke fun at Islam.”

“But that’s what I don’t get,” he replied, “You’re saying it’s not fair to poke fun at Islam, so basically you’ve just made a value judgment about a single religion. You’ve decreed that Islam is off-limits to criticism. That’s a value judgment. And according to you, I should alter my current value judgment to fit your value judgment. Let me ask you--is that fair? I thought you didn’t believe in objective truth. So why are you trying to impose your opinion onto mine if everything is truly subjective? Can’t I have the choice of wanting to make fun of Islam or do I have to accept your understanding of Islam as something that can’t be ridiculed?”

“I just don’t think you know enough about it.”

“Have you read the Koran?”

“No. But I would argue that there’s probably just as much bad stuff in the Bible.”

“Have you read the Bible?”

“No. But I would argue--”

“By the way, if you haven’t read the Koran, how do you know there’s bad stuff in there?”

“I was. . .conditioned?”

“Oh that’s right,” he smiled, “I forgot. You’re a lump of clay.”

She stood upright for a brief second, “Hey! My mother was a lump of clay!”

“I’m sorry," he stroked her tear-stained cheek, "You see, the reason I do what I do is simple. Ever since I was a little child, I’ve always loved European culture, European history, European art, European music. In particular, I was obsessed with Britain--it’s literary--especially satiric--tradition: Alexander Pope, P.G. Wodehouse, Monty Python. I used to fantasize that one day I’d be allowed to become a subject of Her Majesty’s queendom and, who knows, perhaps be knighted for some unspecified heroic deed. To this day, I get chills when I hear a Winston Churchill speech or the Royal Scots Dragoon Guards' bagpipes playing “Amazing Grace” or side two of Abbey Road. I went to London for the first time this last February and attended a Sunday morning C of E service at the Church of the Royal Air Force at St. Clement-Danes and was surrounded on all sides by those very same men that Churchill spoke of when he said “never in the field of human conflict was so much owed by so many to so few”. And the following Monday evening at Westminster Abbey, before the glorious Evensong began, the vicar offered up a prayer to 'all the victims of terrorism worldwide'. . ."

He paused to light a cigar and take a sip of brandy.

Then he continued, “. . .And with that prayer, there it was. I heard it loud and clear in the Abbey: It was the sound of moral clarity. Because, you see, I know what a terrorist is. A terrorist is somebody who gets angry because they don’t get their way and they blow up beautiful shit--like statues of the Buddha in Afghanistan. . .”

“Well,” she sneered, “Radical Buddhism is just as bad as radical Islam.”

“Why in God’s name are we never allowed to focus on any one thing anymore? What’s with all the qualifiers? You never offered qualifications when I used to complain about America and Jesus.”

“Because I’m scared Islam’s going to hear me.”

“All right,” he patted the bed, “get under the covers.”

She did as she was told.

“You see, my dear,” he said as he adjusted his RAF-issued cufflinks “I was born and raised in Missouri. But I dreamed about Britain. And now that I live in San Francisco, I dream of Missouri--because at least there I was allowed to dream about Britain. Here, I have to feel guilty for dreaming about Britain, dreaming about preserving Britain, dreaming about preserving Britain’s identity as a nation, as a place in history, as a mover and shaker in the building of Western Civilization. Because when religious bigot assholes arrive in droves across the English Channel from shitty third-world countries and start to preach to thousands in Hyde Park about uniting the grand 'ummah' to 're-establish the Islamic caliphate across Europe' by 'beheading those who insult Islam' all the while receiving state assistance as culturally-suicidal MPs and space-cadets like London Mayor Ken Livingstone mouth empty platitudes about a 'new, multicultural Britain' and 'the beauty of a diverse and ever-changing UK'--I want to fucking vomit. I mean, Britain’s another culture different from mine. Why can’t I celebrate and strive to preserve British culture? Why do you get to pick which cultures get ridiculed and which cultures get special hands-off treatment? Why can’t I raise awareness about the ongoing compromise of British national identity under the handshake of global economics and global utopianism? Why can’t that be MY good deed?”

He adjusted his epaulets and clicked his Wellingtons.

“Unfortunately, my dear, YOUR good deed and MY good deed can’t co-exist ideologically. So I ask you once again. . .will you join me in the trenches and fight the good fight? Will you join in the fight for the liberation of speech, press, and religion once more? Will you stand with the Cambridge students now in hiding for reprinting the Mohammed cartoons? Will you stand with Denmark? Will you stand with Salman Rushdie? Will you stand in remembrance of murdered film director Theo Van Gogh? Will you truly stand in solidarity with the victims of Darfur by acknowledging the hideous religious ideology behind the genocide? Will you fight for freedom from--and not for--theocracy? Will you speak out for the jailed political dissidents in Iran and Syria? Will you join in the cause of worldwide literacy and speak out against those who would impose the Koran as the only fount of wisdom? Will you fight for the good of womanhood worldwide? Will you stand with truly brave women, outspoken critics of Islamic sharia law like Wafa Sultan and Aayan Hirsi Ali? Will you speak out for the rape victim who must produce four male witnesses to testify on her behalf or risk being stoned? Will you fight for gay rights (including the basic one of survival) globally or only locally here in the Bay Area? Will you fight against illegal guns and a culture that would supply AK-47s to 12-year olds for propaganda photo-ops? Will you fight against the barbarity of beheading and bombing? Will you fight against the sociopathology of using civilians as shields and using suicide explosions to maximize civilian casualties? Most importantly, will you stand against the idea of an Islamic regime like Iran obtaining access to a nuclear weapon given their celebratory attitude towards something as grisly as suicide bombings? Or will you continue to classify it all as ‘desperate acts caused by economic and educational deficiencies. . .'?”

He knelt and kissed her hand.

“Listen to me, honey. I’m from Missouri. I know what it’s like to be poor. I know what it’s like to go without. I know what it’s like to want more. I know what it’s like to feel less than. I’ve been up and I’ve been down. I’ve had good times and I’ve had bad times. But I ain’t never--and I mean never--had no inkling to strap no explosives to myself and walk into a pizza parlor. Now, goddamnit, honey--use your brain.”

And she did. And there it was. Suddenly, a flash of moral clarity. They had a connection.

They made love all night long. . .

And love reigned o'er all again. And there was faith and courage once more. And the past and the present were no longer shamed and reviled and a beautiful future. . .a new Renaissance. . .a rebirth of basic freedoms. . .an awareness of the stars in the heavens and not on the screens. . .was erected in place of a rotted urbanity strewn with body parts and devalued standards, a hypothetical future devoid of beauty, romance and chivalrous love built on the crumbling utopian foundation of good intentions. There was knighthood once more. King Arthur would have been proud.

And so would Winston.

Let her sun never set.

San Francisco Encounters

52-year old male vicar of the Church Of England looking for attractive female, 18-35 years of age, believer in objective truth and universal artistic and moral standards for outdoors fun and periodic cultural elevation from relativistic multicultural morass into reverance for a bygone era where faith and courage still mean something.

18-year old boy/girl/trans Chomsky reader looking for transfat/girl-boy/boyboy Ward Churchill reader for mutual masturbation session where everything equals everything else.

22-year old female keffiyah-wearing Mission district hipster looking for 20-30 year old male Palestinian suicide bomber for harsh dose of reality.

PRELUDE:

"Why do we have to have borders to be a nation?"
"I don't know. . .let's get a fucking dictionary. I mean, why do we have to have three sides to make a triangle?"

THE UNIDIRECTIONAL FOCUS OF POSTMODERN RELATIVISM AT PLAY IN OUR WORLD:

EXHIBIT 1: RELATIVISM

"Man, did you hear about these assholes in Iraq that stoned this little 17-year old girl to death because she married outside of her religion?"

The relativistic answer:

"Well, you have to ask yourself how much of that America had a hand in."

EXHIBIT 2: HYPOCRISY

"Man, I hate this fucking country--we cause so much bad shit to happen!"

The non-relativistic answer:

"Fucking A. Nice keffiyah, Carol."

THE UNIDIRECTIONAL FOCUS OF "LARGER CONTEXT" AT PLAY IN OUR WORLD:

"You see, the reason that there are terrorists is because America is creating them by their presence in the Middle East."

One direction, you see. Now try it the other way around--

"You see, the reason for the American presence in the Middle East is because there are all these terrorists."

Not quite.

I've given up on trying to convince people that right and wrong are objective moral truths. Why bother in a world where it doesn't matter anymore that Winston Churchill saved Western Civilization from Jew-murdering fascists? All that matters anymore is that Winston Churchill was an imperialist. You see, minorities will always be historical victims and therefore have NO CHOICE WHATSOEVER ABOUT ANYTHING. And although Churchill was a product of his time as well--born into the Victorian age where Queen and Country were revered above all else--there is no absolution in this regard. Churchill cannot be forgiven. Cannot be forgiven primarily because he succeeded. And even more so because he did not apologize for succeeding. Churchill would have stood a better chance at surviving into popular culture had he flagellated himself upon achieving victory in WWII.

I can imagine the rewrites: "This is your victory," says morally-relativistic Churchill, "it's important to remember that this might not have been entirely just and we may have inflicted just as much damage on the Nazis in a lot of ways and so this day isn't really a day of celebration, but a day of sadness, because whenever one life is lost--that's just a sad day. You see, I was going to raise my fingers in a "V" for victory, but now I realize that's just my own white privilege telling me to do that and I think what we need most of all right now as a nation that's just been through a horrible war is a day of healing. . ."

The sexiest picture ever? VJ day, Times Square. The vet and the nurse.

The babies in their diapers want the balls of the heroes on a platter. That way they don't have to aspire to anything. That way, they don't have to feel conflicted as they groove to their iPod and rail against the "corporate machine". That way, they don't have to feel bad about not knowing a fucking thing about historical fact because facts hurt. Feelings, not facts. History is one big feeling. . .one big emotion. . .whining. . .mewing. . .

"Cut your balls off and throw them in the dumpster. . ."

Right and Wrong are gone. Good and Bad are defunct.

Perhaps we still have a chance to save Better and Worse.

There is a cancer in the ideology.

Objective truth? Relativism needs to be phased out. We need a pulse again.

Things That Make People Not Dogs

THE ILLUSION

Mutts like me
and mutts like you
belong locked up in the city zoo.
We are feared
by the status quo
and every decent human being you and I know.
Cause we're a threat
to their liberties,
from the freedom of expression to the freedom to be free.
Yes, mutts like you
and mutts like me
are the single greatest threat to humanity.

THE REALITY

I was told
long ago
that learning from your feelings can really get old
when mother would cry
from morning till night
and father wouldn't hug her cause it didn't seem right.
At first I cried,
but then I lied
about all the pain I had brewing inside.
Now here I am,
away from my home,
learning from the feeling of being alone.

The Lion Sleeps Tonight

This is the picture that adorns the cover of the hardback version of the second volume of William Manchester's biography of Winston Churchill--The Last Lion.

This volume is subtitled "Alone: 1932-1940".

The 'Alone' portion of that subtitle means a good deal to me at this particular point in my life. I picked this book up again a few days ago after a long hiatus. When last I had left it, Churchill was about to make what many consider his gravest political blunder by standing with Edward VIII during the abdication crisis of 1936.

Earlier this year, I had finished the first volume, "Visions Of Glory: 1874-1932" and plunged straightaway into the second with no less enthusiasm. It's very revealing that the second volume is nearly as long as the first yet encompasses only eight years. But what an eight years they were. . .

Eight years which saw Churchill--in the beginning at least--truly by himself, cut off from party affiliation, cast out into his political wilderness. Eight years where he was often the lone voice in Parliament, the lone voice in England, even the lone voice in Continental Europe. Eight years where he wrote articles, gave speeches, issued broadcasts and urged a nation to rearm against the man with the Charlie Chaplin mustache who wanted more land to bury more Jews.

Churchill was one of the greatest men that ever lived.

Until now, apparently.

I was waiting for a bus in the upper Haight this afternoon, reading (and feeling) "Alone", when a man walked past the bench where I was sitting and, out of the corner of my eye, I saw him stop and cock his head sideways to get a look at the cover. At the time, I wasn't really in the mood to be disturbed. I've been a little emotionally fragile lately. Not quite Churchillian to be "emotionally fragile", I suppose, but then again, I am in California. Soon I notice him leave and I look up to follow his departure.

Then he turns around. One of those graying baby boomers that the Chronicle is celebrating in their "Summer of Love: 40 Years Later" series this week. The guy strolls up: "Hey, who wrote that Churchill book you're reading?"

"William Manchester."

The guy smiles. He's got on an orange fleece and khakis, clothes that people who smile a lot wear. You know, the kind of people who believe in rainbows. So he says, "Manchester. Didn't he write a book on the Kennedys?"

So now I'm not sure if he's a Winston Churchill fan like myself or if he just likes William Manchester because he wrote a book on the Kennedys. In other words, is his only connection to Winston Churchill knowing that an author of a book on the Kennedys also wrote a book on Churchill? Not much in the way of exciting conversation to be had in that case.

But I humor him anyway. I flip to the "Books by William Manchester" page at the beginning. "Well, let's see," The guy sits down, still smiling. "Yeah, it looks like he did one called 'Portrait of a President: John F. Kennedy in Profile'".

Then he says, "You know, Churchill was a reactionary."

I didn't react to this. Reactionary could mean a lot of things, I reasoned. Yes, Churchill "reacted" against the news that Nazis were building concentration camps and he "reacted" against the government of his own country who had no desire to do anything about it. So yes, he was a reactionary.

I offer this instead, "Well, he thrived in opposition. That's when his star shone the brightest. He was known for being in the opposition."

I'm interrupted, "He wasn't ALWAYS in the opposition." Things are getting creepy now. At this point, I'm starting to get that postmodern San Francisco vibe. He continues, "Yeah, he was in the opposition with World War II, sure--"

Well, at least he's aware of that important fact. But then, right before I breathe a sigh of relief knowing that he's at least heard of World War II, he drops the mask and lets me have it.

"You know," he says conspiratorily, "Churchill was a right-winger."

My heart pounds, my blood boils.

He continues, "It's true. He was into that whole colonialism thing."

That's it. "Listen, you asshole," I begin, "this man singlehandedly saved Western Civilization, which, despite all the slander, is still something far, far superior to you or I. Now get the fuck out of my face."

He does. He no longer has anything to fight for. He's said his piece. And I've said mine. I am not in the mood for bullshit anymore. Three years ago, I was naive. I would have tried reasoning with him. But I am exhausted. And the bullshit today is the thickest it's ever been. I can no longer take it.

When a stranger comes up and harrasses you for what's on the cover of a book you're reading and plays a little game of "look how quickly I can emasculate a real-life historical hero into a neutered tidbit of morally relativistic small talk", there just simply isn't room for kindness anymore.

He does get the last word in, however, as he's rounding the corner: "Fascist!"

Meet the new stormtroopers.

REASONS AGAINST PACIFISM, Volume 1: Reason

This summary is not available. Please click here to view the post.

I ENJOY INTERROGATION

I've always enjoyed interrogation. I know interrogation isn't something that's generally considered enjoyable and that some people complain that we live in a police state and all. . .but, I don't know. . .I've always found interrogation to be kind of fun.

First, they put a big white light on you and then everybody smokes. Which is kind of cool. Living in the Bay Area, it's neat to be in a place that allows smoking. And then comes my favorite part of interrogation--the questions!

"What's your name?"

"Florence fucking Nightingale, now give me a cigarette."

And so they give you a cigarette because, despite their job, they're really nice people. I usually take my time lighting it and pretend that I'm a combination of Mickey Rourke and Emma Thompson--half-American, half-British, half-male, half-female, half-80s, half-90s. Always keep 'em guessing, that's my motto.

"Now, dickhead, let's try it again. What's your name?"

"Mickey Thompson."

"All right, Mickey--"

"I mean, it's Emma Rourke." If they go for this, I know I can have a lot of fun with them, because they're obviously pretty stupid.

"All right, Emma, where you from. . ."

"London, New York."

"And when were you born?"

"September 16th, 1956 and April 15th, 1959." I know a LOT of movie trivia.

"Is there something you're not telling us?"

"Yeah--fuck you. I should have been telling you that all along." And then I get all excited about my Miranda rights or some other bullshit. Maybe I start complaining about the weather, who knows. . .? But I stand up regardless and slam my palms down on the table and scream with the pride of Braveheart: "I know I get one phone call!"

"You already had it."

"Can I have another?" The answer is no, because that's actually specified somewhere in my rights. At least that's what they tell me. You know, the "only one" phone call rule. You know why they have that rule? Cause they're scared, man. They're scared they're going to lose their precious suspect with that one extra phone call. And who would that extra phone call be to if I did have it, I always wonder? Well, let's say I call one friend and he doesn't want to come bail me out. With an extra phone call, I could call another friend to bail me out. I tell him that the other friend didn't want to bail me out so the current friend has a greater impetus to be the "good" friend as opposed to the "bad" friend. I've established a polarity at this point and the polarity proves to work in my benefit. The "good" friend comes down to bail me out and we talk shit about the "bad" friend as we're on our way to commit another crime against the police state. Fucking police state.

It's also a faith thing as well. Let me explain what I mean by faith. When I say to Chad, for example, "I only get one phone call, Chad, so could you be sure to tell Jonah to look up the number of that lawyer Steve set me up with in LA--I think it was Mike somebody--and then have Jonah tell Mike to call Steve and tell Steve to relay the information to my parents, because I'm pretty sure they'll get visitation rights just in case they don't let me bail out of here tonight", this is an act of faith.

Because after this litany, you hang up. And start to worry. Worries that only true devoted faith in some sort of higher power can calm. Did I communicate my needs to Chad clearly and succinctly? Was there any excess narrative that could have been avoided? I start thinking back to my creative writing classes at community college and how I always had a problem with "telling and not showing".

But on the phone, you have to tell things. There's not much you can show over the phone. You can't "emote" that you need Jonah to get a number for Michael; you can't use "body language" to convey that Steve needs to talk to your parents; there's no "inner voice" that needs to "send out feelers" concerning bail or any of that stuff. Sometimes in life you do have to tell and not show. Your one phone call is one of those times.

You also have to tell and not show during interrogation. At least that's what the police prefer.

They snarl, "Look, fucko, stop interpretive dancing and just tell us--why'd you do it?"

And that's a really hard question to answer, and I'll tell you why. Let's say you did do it. You don't want them to think you did it. So you say, "I didn't!" It just naturally falls out off your mouth.

Now let's say you didn't do it. That's when you pause and start to think about how to say "I didn't!" in such a way that convinces them that you really didn't do it. As you can see, flat-out lying is mentally the easier of two choices. That's why it's always important to just go ahead and do it. I mean, you'll probably spend more time in jail if you did do it whether or not you said you did it or didn't do it. But if you want to fully enjoy the interrogation experience without worrying; if you're going to have to convince the police that you really didn't do it, my advice is to just do it, have your stock response handy, lean back and have another cigarette. Seriously, I've committed a lot of crimes and I've been arrested for every one of them--as soon as I say "I didn't", I'm done.

"I didn't."

"Bullshit, you lying fucko!" They never make it easy. Anybody else--a priest, a rabbi, an imam--you say you didn't blow up a pizza parlor, that's it. What can they say? He said he didn't do it, he didn't do it. That's enough for me.

But the police. . .they're what I call real Doubting Thomases. Eternal skeptics. Something out of a Montaigne essay. There's a certain lack of faith in human nature that seems to accompany police work. And that's the price of living in a police state--nobody believes in sincerity anymore.

"Now what reason do you have to doubt me? Isn't 'I didn't' enough?"

And this is one of the definite highlights of being interrogated for a crime that you actually did commit: Every subsequent statement of protest from your end actually becomes easier instead of more difficult to make. Most of you would think the sheer exhaustion of having to feign innocence over and over again would wear you down after awhile. Not so, not so. You see, the key to freedom is inside you all along. If you're able to convince YOURSELF with each subsequent statement of protest that you really didn't do it--well, my friend, you can move mountains. Who cares if you're innocent as long as you believe you're innocent? You don't need approval from others. Although it is nice to get it from the cops when it counts. And if you keep on believing your own falsehoods, you might even get home in time to watch Jeopardy. Persistence, persistence, persistence.

"Listen," I say, taking a meaningful slow drag off my INDOORS :) cigarette, "we need to talk. . .I mean, you expect me to open up and tell you how I feel about this horrible mess with the bodies and blood and brains everywhere. This is very painful to me, too. And you start off with--I don't even want to call it a question, it's more like, well, an accusation--'why did you do it'? I mean, first off, that hurts. And I know you're mad and I know you're probably trying to steel yourself up and make yourself strong just so you can avoid being hurt yourself. So I'm not blaming you. It is sad when women and children are murdered and there's a lot that you and I both need to process right now so we can work our way out of this and hopefully emerge as better people. It may not seem like it now, I grant you. It may seem like you're never going to find the guy who actually committed this horrible crime. So I understand that for you I represent a means to an end. Some sort of closure. But I'll tell you something guys, honestly and openly, I need closure, too. But it has to be the right closure. And if you guys book me on this charge, you're not going to get closure. It may seem like closure, but if you look hard, there's still some openure around that closure. So my question to you is--and I want you to answer this as yourselves, not as policemen--this doesn't always have to be about YOUR career, you know--but you say you want to find the RIGHT guy. Well. . ." (If I'm really into it, I might start to choke up here)." . .what if I'm not Mr. Right?"

Their heart is broken. I'm breaking up with them. They know it. I don't want to hurt them, but I need my personal space. A big personal space far away from this jail, back home, watching Jeopardy.

Oh, no, they're weeping. Those aren't the strong men that slammed me down in this chair a few minutes ago and called me a long-haired murdering faggot, are they? They quiver like jelly. Emotionally, they're wrecked. They desparately need somebody to talk to--

And guess what? That would be me.

And that, my friends, is absolutely the best part of interrogation, bar none!

The grand coup! The tables have turned!

I'm the interrogator now.

". . .I mean, why would you think I did it in the first place. . .?"

Sob, sob

I WIN THE GAME!

". . .do you think the relationship ended because of issues of growth and personal change. . .?"

Cry, cry

FREE AS A BIRD!

". . .what are you afraid you'll find if you look inside at the person that you'll become if you allow yourself to grow and change and develop as an individual who has their own likes and dislikes. . ."

Discussion, discussion

HOME FOR DINNER!

Interrogation: The World Series Of Persuasive Rhetoric

I hope you'll try it. I won't feel so alone. Nobody else seems to like it. I try to change and. . .I'm still the same.

This Is What The World Sounds Like Without Bullshit

From the Australian prime minister, John Howard

"Immigrants, not Australians, must adapt. Take it or leave it. I am tired of this nation worrying about whether we are offending some individual or their culture. Since the terrorist attacks on Bali, we have experienced a surge in patriotism by the majority of Australians. . .however, the dust from the attacks had barely settled when the 'politically correct' crowd began complaining about the possibility that our patriotism was offending others. I am not against immigration, nor do I hold a grudge against anyone who is seeking a better life by coming to Australia. . .

"However, there are a few things that those who have recently come to our country, and apparently some born here, need to understand. . .this idea of Australia being a multi-cultural community has served only to dilute our sovereignty and our national identity. And as Australians, we have our own culture, our own society, our own language and our own lifestyle. . .

"This culture has been developed over two centuries of struggles, trials and victories by millions of men and women who have sought freedom. . .

"We speak mainly English, not Spanish, Lebanese, Arabic, Chinese, Japanese, Russian, or any other language. Therefore, if you wish to become part of our society, learn the language. . .

"Most Australians believe in God. This is not some Christian, right wing, political push, but a fact, because Christian men and women, on Christian principles, founded this nation, and this is clearly documented. It is certainly appropriate to display it on the walls of our schools. If God offends you, then I suggest you consider another part of the world as your new home, because God is part of our culture. . .

"We will accept your beliefs, and will not question why. All we ask is that you accept ours, and live in harmony and peaceful enjoyment with us. . .

"If the Southern Cross offends you, or you don't like 'A Fair Go', then you should seriously consider a move to another part of this planet. We are happy with our culture and have no desire to change, and we really don't care how you did things where you came from. By all means, keep your culture, but do not force it on others.

"This is our country, our land, and our lifestyle, and we will allow you every opportunity to enjoy all of this. But once you are done complaining, whining, and griping about our flag, our pledge, our Christian beliefs, or our way of life, I highly encourage you to take advantage of one other great Australian freedom, 'the right to leave'. . .

"If you aren't happy here, then leave. We didn't force you to come here. You asked to be here. So accept the country you accepted."

All I can say in return is--

AUSTRALIA!
AUSTRALIA!
AUSTRALIA!

Torah Amos

A long time ago, back when I still lived in Missouri, my younger sister was getting very heavily involved in the parables and sermons of a young female minister by the name of Tori Amos.

Periodically, emanating from her room I used to hear something along the lines of--

"Crucify. . .blah, blah, blah. . .crucify. . .silent all these years. . .blah, blah, blah. . .crucify. . .Jesus. . .rape. . .blah, blah, blah"--(I'm not sure if those are the actual lyrics or not, but I think it pretty much sums up the overall thematic content of Ms. Amos' ouvre).

So I used to jest with my sister that Ms. Amos was going to start a new fad wherein teenage girls couldn't wait to be the first ones on their block to get raped. That way they could really understand the lyrics firsthand. I envisioned new cliques forming which saw the more popular teen girls sneaking cigarettes between classes and whispering elitist barbs to each other like "Heather's such a poseur. You can tell she hasn't been raped."

I myself felt the cultural reverberations of Amosmania in my early dating years. I'd end up at a girl's house, have a congenial introduction and friendly chat with her parents (parents have always loved me, god knows why), and end up in the girl's bedroom, sitting on the corner of a heavily-quilted poster bed, flanked at its headboard by a forbidding phalanx of Care Bears and Cabbage Patch kids. After a brief interchange of "I like that sparkly thing hanging from the light" and "oh, I got that at Six Flags on my 4-H trip", she pops the question.

It's a question all of us in this situation have had to answer at some point. It's not an easy question to answer. There are many different ways one could tackle this question. Physiologically, your throat gets dry and you break into a cold sweat; psychologically, your first reaction is to run far, far away.

The question is: "Do you want to see my photo album?"

The answer is always: "No."

But, like most of us who depart from the Kantian ethical notion of 'honesty for honesty's sake' in favor of social appeasement or, at the very least, a potential goodnight kiss, the answer that is spoken out loud, in direct contradiction of that which is instinctually thought and regarded as true, is always: "Sure."

The hole has been dug. You jump in. She produces the photo album. And it's filled with all sorts of photos. Photos of men, photos of women, photos of children, and photos of bland and androgynous babies. She rests for awhile on a page containing four photos of one such baby and goes to great lengths in her narration.

"This is my sister's baby, Barbasol--(names have been changed for dramatic purposes)--Oh, my god, he's such an amazing baby! He's 9 months old, but he already knows how to gargle. He's so smart, too. He can move all ten of his fingers without using his hands!"

Babies are always the hardest photos to feign interest in, especially if you have a pair of eyes. Because empirically, that photo is always going to be a photo of a baby--a bald, fleshy, pink-toned (I've never dated interracially. . .[yet!]) drooling glob of human potential--with the emphasis on "potential". Regardless, she continues to assign epithets of intelligence and brilliance to what appears to be an ordinary and interchangeable human baby. If you allowed yourself to truly entertain her praise of this infant as entirely legitimate--(which you will, given that the goodnight kiss still seems highly likely at this point)--you might be swayed into thinking this unobtrusive drooling babbler was only masquerading as a harmless child still ignorant of the fact that he had opposable thumbs and was in reality hard at work discovering a new radioactive isotope or designing a monorail.

So then, in a statement ironically stupider than anything this baby might have to say, you decide it's time to interject something compassionate and caring like, "Well, he certainly does look like an exceptionally smart baby."

Luckily, at this stage, the girl is so engrossed in her description of the baby that any insincerity in your tone is overlooked. She simply nods excitedly, "Yes! He is! He really is!"

So oblivious is she to your latent disinterest, in fact, that if you weren't that hung up on some sort of physical affection to validate your existence, it might be fun to see how far you could push the sarcasm. "Yes, I really like his little spectacles and pipe. And is that a copy of Ulysses he's reading? No, that's a rattle. But still, I'm sure James Joyce has experienced what this kid has gone through. And did you know that even William Blake was a baby at one point in his life? In fact, all the great artists started out the same. . .as babies!"

But you choke this back and save it for a future date; like this blog.

Anyway, it's not the photo of the baby that's relative to our current topic. It's the photo on the following page, which she flips to once she starts to gauge that her encomium of Barbasol the Brilliant Baby has neared its peak.

This new page reveals a photo of a man sitting on the deck of a double-wide trailer, wearing a flannel shirt and clutching a can of Old Milwaukee. He is smiling a toothy smile, or doing the best he can since most of his teeth appear to be missing.

Here, the girl pauses. Up to this point, she has prefaced every single page with an introductory "this is. . .this is. . .this is. . ." But there is no "this is" here. She sighs deeply and looks off to one side.

You take her behavior as an indication it's time to offer in an apathetic voice colored on both edges with the brush of feigned interest: "Who's that?"

Another sigh as she turns her eyes sheepishly back to the photo, "This is my uncle Steve."

Uncles are usually a little bit easier to deal with than babies. They often come with ideas and concepts and know their basic shapes and colors and may even have an occupation. "What does he do for a living?"

Then she pops another question. One even more difficult than the photo album question. Difficult, that is, if you have any remnant of artistic standards in this postmodern world of soulless, computer-generated noise montages collectively known as techno--convenience at the expense of music, if you prefer--of which many straight girls and gay males unfortunately are, if not enthusiastically fond of, at least apathetic enough about to indirectly help elevate Moby and Fatboy Slim to the status of multi-millionaire recording "artists".

The question, of course, is: "Should I put on some music?"

Having already performed a furtive mental assessment of the concert posters and various cassette cases scattered hither and thither throughout her room, the answer, if her intent is to to put on some music from her own personal collection, is always: "No."

Yet, as with the photo album before, the spoken response is slightly different: "Sure."

If you're really crafty, however, you'll try to cut your losses. It might make tolerating the photo parade a little bit easier to offer the following: "You don't have any Beatles, do you?" After all, fifteen years ago, young Americans were still at least socially obligated to give lip-service to John, Paul, George and Ringo. And no one ever leaves a loser with the Beatles. She gets to prattle on about the picaresque and esoteric adventures of her family and you get to hear side two of Abbey Road once again.

Right about now is when you start setting little timelines for your departure. For example, if we're still looking at this photo album after Paul sings 'her majesty's a pretty nice girl, some day I'm gonna make her mine', then I have to get up early tomorrow and go to work. If she finishes before then, fine. You've lost a half hour from your life, but that's okay. You'll move on. There'll always be more half-hours in the day.

But there are no Beatles in her collection. You see, she's a very forward-thinking young lady with an eye on the future. Already, in 1991, she knows in less than ten years Beethoven will be The Chemical Brothers, John Coltraine will be Snoop Dogg, and the Beatles will be. . .

"Do you like Tori Amos?" she says sweetly. So sweetly in fact that you do not hit her at the mere suggestion that you would have anything at all to do with Tori Amos.

If she was fat, if she had an eyepatch, if she had a wooden leg, if she was a man. . .if one or all of these contingencies were true, how quickly honesty would spill from your mouth like so much unwanted vomit. But this delicate daisy of a dame is too dainty and docile to inflict something as dreaded as an actual opinion upon, so through clenched teeth you mutter: "Yeah, she's all right."

At this point, she leaves you holding the photo album, gazing at bucktoothed uncle Steve and his can of beer as she goes fishing for the perfect CD. After a beat, you hear the trademark voice of the freshly empowered:

"Rape. . .rape. . .silent all these years. . .blah, blah, blah. . .crucify. . .rape. . .rape. . .blah, blah, blah. . .suburban Christian hypocrisy. . .rape. . .blah, blah, blah. . .crucify. . ."

Wincing your expression and withholding your opinion, she takes command of the photo album once more. Is it time for you to say something, you wonder? Better safe than sorry, you assume. "So that's your Uncle Steve, huh?"

"Yes," she says softly, more softly than you have ever heard her speak before. No longer the proud stump speaker for babies and their brilliance. Something is troubling her. Something shames her about this particular photograph. Oh no. . .could it be. . .?

Another sigh, another wistful look. "Uncle Steve used to. . .do things."

Oy vey! you think, despite not being Jewish. Rape? Incest? Your mind flashes back to after-school specials, Dateline exposes, psychology courses, and Lifetime movies of the week. In a matter of mere nanoseconds, you've got to come up with an award-winning response that radiates nothing but absolute and total sincerity and compassion. The onus is upon you to convey the most appropriate and touching indication that you're the long-sought after good listener who will always instinctually know what to say in any situation. In short, what will you say about her incest experience that will get you laid tonight?

It comes upon you like a flash of white lightning, "What sort of things did he do?"

That's good. Get her to do all the talking. All you have to do for the next ten or fifteen minutes is nod your head and say, "Jesus Christ" and "My God" alternately during pauses and--voila!--you're in the sack! Humpy-humpy time!

Or at least a goodnight kiss. . .

She takes the reigns on the gilded hansom cab of her memory. "Well, when I was a little girl, he used to. . ."

"Jesus Christ," you whisper with no small modicum of dramatic indignation.

". . .he used to set me on his lap. . ."

"My God," you say with slightly more volume and conviction.

". . .and he used to. . ."

Having already used up one "Jesus Christ" and one "My God" and not wanting to dip right away into the "Our Fathers" and "Hail Marys", you decide a somber nod of the head and some pre-existing room noise is best here. At this point, the music fully sinks in as you and she remain. . .

"Silent all these years. . .blah, blah, blah. . .rape, rape. . .crucify, rape. . .blah, blah. . .American Christians rape. . .blah, blah, blah. . .hypocrisy. . .men are bad. . .blah, blah, blah. . .rape. . ."

Oh, that's right. Tori Amos is playing the theme to the opening credits. Maybe you're not even really here. Maybe THIS is the after-school special. And those things that you used to watch after school were your life.

But this is no time to be cynical. You're on the verge of a very important breakthrough in your relationship--about time, since you've been going out with this girl for almost five hours now.

She exhales loudly, "He used to. . .smile at me."

"Hail Mary full of grace--" you say instinctually before doing a double-take, "--he used to what?"

"You know. . .smile."

Maybe she doesn't know what smiling means. "With what?"

"Well. . .his mouth."

Oh, she does know.

"I've never told anybody this before. So I really, really want you to understand what I'm going through right now."

You don't understand at all. "I understand," you say.

"He used to smile at me. Whenever our family would have a barbecue or something, he'd always be over at the house and whenever I came in the room, he'd smile at me and say things like 'are you being a good girl in school?' or 'I heard you got an 'A' on your paper'--real creepy things like that. And every birthday and every Christmas, he always used to buy me presents."

The coal of interest that was fueling the engine of your desire is now putting a hole in the ozone layer of your politeness. "So that's all he did?" you yawn.

"Is that all he did?" she shrieks and then--woosh!--here they come, the tears.

You're kicking yourself pretty hard right at this moment. Oh, you asshole. Oh, you fucked up now, you inconsiderate prick.

"Is that all he did? Do you know what that was like for a little girl? Your own uncle? A man? A little girl? An uncle? A little girl? A little uncle? Your own girl? A man-girl? An uncle-man? A girl-uncle?" You flinch as she punches the bed beside you for effect, "And the worst part of all this is my parents knew all about it! And they didn't even care! Anything we can do to preserve the hypocritical facade of the American Christian family!" And with that sociological proclamation, she collapses in sobs. . .nice, shiny, patent-leather crocodile sobs.

Or is she sincere? It's hard to tell when the iWord (INCEST) makes an appearance in a teenage girl's bedroom following a first date. After all, logic would seem to dictate that no girl in her right mind would ever actually WANT to have been incestually raped. However, logic would also seem to dictate that if she was incestually raped, no teenage girl in her right mind would ever bring this up in her own bedroom following a first date. You decide to investigate a little further, smoothing things over, playing it cool until all the facts are in.

"But he didn't fuck you or anything?"

Sometimes in life, being inarticulate can be a severe handicap. This is one such time.

"Get out of here."

"What did I do?"

"Go, before I get my dad."

"I was just trying to be polite!"

"That's exactly what Uncle Steve was trying to be!"

Slam. Door shut. Girl gone. And yes, no goodnight kiss.

Thanks, Tori!

PS: Tori Amos herself hasn't exactly been silent all these years. Check out Tori Amos' latest album, American Doll Posse. I love the art. She's bleeding down her leg and she's standing in front of an average suburban house and she's holding a copy of the Bible! It's brilliant! It's like she's trying to say--"See that house that you think everything is okay in because the people in there are American Christians? Well, they're all hypocrites because they raped their virgin daughter and made her bleed down her leg!" I wish more people had the guts of Tori Amos to just get out there and say, "hey, Christians will rape and kill you." Because Christians aren't saying this and that makes Tori Amos more of a Christian than most Christians because at least Tori is a real Christian because real Christians don't go raping their daughters with Bibles like some Christians do! Go Tori! Yea! :) lol! Tori! Tori! Tori! Tora! Tora! Tora! Torah! Torah! Torah!

Tori's gonna take on the Jews next! (oops. . .I mean Israel)

Yes, Tori Amos is definitely the next Lenny Bruce/Winston Churchill/Beatles

I'm sorry. Forgot about the vagina.

She's not the NEXT Lenny Bruce/Winston Churchill/Beatles.

She's the FEMALE Lenny Bruce/Winston Churchill/Beatles.

I'm A Bad San Franciscan

I want you to imagine with me that you're in a place not too far from here; a little neighborhood called the Upper Haight. The Upper Haight in San Francisco is home to many immigrants that made the long trek westward from their parents' suburban cul-de-sac in Ohio because they were told of the great expanse of concrete that awaited them in San Francisco. They were told of vast acres of public sidewalk available for squatting and begging. And so they left the couch in Mom and Dad's basement for the rugged and pioneering, Woody Guthrie-soundtracked, life of sitting Indian-style in front of a liquor store asking for spare change.

Often times, the women of these nomadic peoples will take the sundry pennies and nickels and even dimes and arrange a beautiful copper mosaic, glistening in the midday sun, that tells the stories of their travels and their learning. It is the word "PEACE".

Actually, it's usually the PEACE SYMBOL, because many of them are illiterate.

They can often be seen with a sickly dog on a rope leash who, if given the choice, would prefer euthanasia over spending one more day in the company of his present caregivers.

So you know the scene. . .

You're standing outside a club, or a cafe, or a smoke shop and you're having a cigarette.

Down the sidewalk strolls a young heterosexual coupling of these Middle American immigrants. The male of the species asks, "Hey, man, you got a cigarette?"

"Sorry," you respond.

They stroll on and then the female intones in sotto voce, "People in San Francisco are real assholes."

You do a double-take. "What's that, little missy?"

They stop and turn around. She points to herself, "Who, me? I just said people in San Francisco are real assholes."

Now, if you were a good San Franciscan--that is, one who is not an asshole--you would do the following in this situation:






Exactly! Nothing! "Just let it slide. . .it's okay. . .I haven't walked a mile in their shoes. . .it must be hard to be out here, so cold and so hungry. . .don't upset them. . .peace at any price. . ."

But if, like me, you're a bad San Franciscan, you will say the following at maximum volume:

"All San Franciscans, or do you have anybody specific in mind? So I'm an asshole cause I wouldn't give you a fucking cigarette? Is that right? What else you cranky about, little baby? You need your ba-ba? You want me to change your fucking diaper? I'm not here to raise you, bitch!"

"Is there any good reason why we cannot extend our multi-cultural generosity to include another dimension? That of time. The past, too, is another country. . ."

--Martin Amis

I love this little gem by Welsh author and anecdotalist Martin Amis. You see, I live in the past. Always have. And always will. And so I fully grasp in more ways than one the significance of bestowing a geographical perimeter to the past. I'm from there. I know the land well. And if we don't protect its borders, some relativistic fuckheads are going to rewrite it out of existence.

For me, anything current usually has to age a few years like a really fine wine before I'll even make an attempt to decide whether or not I can appreciate something. That's why I've never really appreciated the entire "retro" movement. . .bell bottoms, afro wigs, so bad its good. . .It's all still too NEW for me. And I think it always will be.

Sure these hipsters go back twenty years and all. . .but they've been going back twenty years for at least ten years now. And for some reason, despite the huge expanse of past to draw upon, this retro movement still keeps ending up in only place: the 1970s.

Why there? The 1970s--with the exclusion of the 1980s, the 1990s, and our present age--was possibly the nadir of all creativity, passion, and originality in the arts, education, politics. . .even fashion! Back then and unlike now, it was considered "so good, it's good" to be good. A noble pursuit. And I applaud them. Unfortunately, the citizens of the 1970s had no concept of what good entailed. Just consider the bulk of the music of the "Me" generation. True, they weren't quite in the thick of hip-hop and techno yet, but disco was well on its way to taking care of all of that.

This isn't to deny that there weren't a few anomalies: Lou Reed, David Bowie, Johnny Rotten, the cinematic anti-heros of Martin Scorsese, Francis Ford Coppola, and Sidney Lumet, the very first season of Saturday Night Live, et al. . .

But these all beg the question--why does the postmodern retro movement only seem to have the 1970s in its sights? Of all the eras for this retro movement to move into, why there? Why not 1770? Or 1666? Why couldn't the retro movement take us back to the late 1400s or early 1500s and usher in something more worthwhile than another switchblade biker-mamma movie from Tarantino's private vault?

Something like. . .oh, I don't know. . .a Renaissance, maybe?

Or better yet, a Reformation?

There is, of course, a simple reason for the unidirectional focus of the postmodern retro movement: the slimy coke-snorting emaciated whores who prostitute themselves out in our present age as "writers" and "artists" all grew up in the 1970s. So that which is played out before us under the veneer of hipness and irony is nothing more than a movement of narcissistic thirtysomethings jacking off to their own childhood.

My, how artistic.

So that is America's retro movement. Yet ours is not the only one. Outside of these shores, one of the biggest retro movements in our world today is radical Islam.

Not having experienced the glitz and glamour of the Western 1970s, radical Islam opts to move its particular brand of retro a little further back into the far nether-reaches of the past--namely, the 700s.

So bad it's good? Well, in the 700s things were really BAD. . .so that must mean they're really GOOD now. Sawing a head off, for example--sure, I mean it's a little cheesy, but it's still kind of funny, you know? And remember when we used to stone women to death for being raped? Well, we're just being ironic when we do it now.

Then comes the big finger pointed across the oceans of the past in the direction of the present: "What do you expect from us, America? You taught us to be hip and ironic!"

"Oh," says America, "so we're to blame for sharia law now? What are we, a fucking refrigerator door for you to post all your complaints on with a Koran-shaped magnet?"

And then there's a little catfight. And it usually ends up with a war or something like that.

By the way, did you see the latest statistics? This makes me sick--

1. 42 percent of Marines believe that kissing on a first date with an enemy combatant is inappropriate for a nice young soldier.
2. Only 18 percent of soldiers said that if they got an enemy combatant pregnant, would they stick around to support the child
3. Almost 78 percent of Marines said that they have no problem with spanking their enemy combatant in a busy shopping mall or other such public place.

but worst of all--

4. An astonishing 99 percent of soldiers said that they would DEFINITELY SUPPORT TORTURE*

*. . .if it helped save the lives of fellow soldiers, Americans, Iraqi schoolchildren, old men and women, mothers and fathers, Christians, Jews, Buddhists, Hindus, atheists, seculars, homosexuals, non-Muslims and moderate Muslims, and the rest of the free world as we know it.

But still. . .I mean, come on!

So I don't like this particular retro movement either. Because, like the young American retro movement, it seeks to take us back to a particular dark age.

But there will be no disco balls, platform shoes, and dewdrop sunglasses in the 700s. Instead, there will be. . .nothing. . .

And a whole lot of it. . .

As for me, I'm for a retro movement that pushes the idea of "so good, it's the best." A retro-metro with stops scheduled for Bonn, Germany in 1770 to witness the birth of Beethoven, the London Fire of 1666, the VE and VJ days of 1945. A little more variety, you see. And a lot more cultural and intellectual excellence.

The past is my Linus-From-Peanuts security blanket. And no, I don't mean, "security blanket." I am a post-Peanuts child. I grew up observing adult angst, depression and the psychosocial confusion connected to postmodern therapy compressed into the words and actions of cartoon children with oversized heads. So, "Linus-From-Peanuts security blanket" holds a little extra weight with me. Charles Schultz really had his finger on the pulse of something profound.

But in the end, does any of that really matter? No. What's most important is how many black children Charles Schultz drew.

There was only one. Franklin, I think his name was.

Nancy Pelosi

From She-Ipedia, the free online encyclopedia about women

(Redirected from Nanny Pelosi)

Nanceford Patrciaonello D'Alesandro Pelosi (1940-1940 [partial birth fragment]; 1940-[remainder]) is the 60th and current Speaker of the United States House of Representatives. She is the first woman, first Californian, and first Italian-American to be the first Female Californian Italian-American Speaker of the United States House of Representatives.

Pelosi ranks second in the Presidential Line of Succession following Vice President Dick Cheney (a male). She is currently the first Female Californian Italian-American to be second in the Presidential Line of Succession.

Contents (hide)

1. Female
1.1 XX Chromosomal Structure
1.2 Estrogen
1.3 Vagina
1.4 Breasts
1.5 Feminine Pronouns

2. Famous Firsts
2.1 First Female
2.2 First Californian
2.3 First Italian-American

3. Notable Political Triumphs
3.1 Smoking Ban In Speakers Lobby
3.2 Brought Little Kids Up To The Podium
3.3 Hit The Gavel On The Wooden Thing And Said "Congress Is In Session"
3.4 Said the Word "Bipartisan" A Lot

4. Speaker Of The House
4.1 First Female Californian Italian-American Speaker Of The House

5. See Also

6. References

7. External Links

FEMALE

XX CHROMOSOMAL STRUCTURE

Pelosi was born with an XX Chromosomal Structure. Since males have an XY Chromosomal Structure, this means that Pelosi is a woman. This did not prevent her from becoming the First Female Speaker of the United States House of Representatives, however. During her first days as the First Female Speaker of the United States House of Representatives, Pelosi has used the women's bathrooms in the buildings of our nation's capitol.

Though the current women's restroom symbol is a stick figure of a woman wearing a dress, one of Pelosi's first acts in Congress will be to pass Resolution 5.1789.81 which will call on Congress to create an additional symbol to be placed alongside the original symbol to accommodate women who may be wearing pantsuits, trousers, or jeans.

"As a woman," says Pelosi, "I know what it's like to feel excluded. I don't want women to exclude themselves from themselves because of differences in apparel." (5-6)

ESTROGEN

Pelosi has a hormone running throughout her body called estrogen. Males have a predominance of testosterone. Since Pelosi has a predominance of estrogen and not testosterone, this is further evidence that she is a woman. Estrogen has been a big factor in making Pelosi the first Female Speaker of the House of Representatives.

Pelosi sits down when she urinates.

VAGINA

Pelosi does not have a penis. In the place of where a penis would be found on a male, Pelosi has a Vagina. Instead of being able to put a penis in a Vagina, Pelosi can have a penis put inside her Vagina.

Some critics have argued that putting a penis in Pelosi's Vagina would be bad for the country and for themselves.

When Pelosi was younger, she menstruated. She has since stopped menstruating and is currently going through menopause; making her the first speaker of the house who has experienced menstruation and the first speaker of the house who has experienced menopause.

BREASTS

Pelosi currently has two breasts on her female body. There is a left breast and a right breast. Collectively, this is known as a pair of breasts. The breasts are located in the area between Pelosi's neck and her Vagina.

Though Pelosi is a feminist, she does use a bra, or brassiere. When she was a girl, (a younger version of a woman), Pelosi used a training bra. Once her training was complete, she became eligible to wear a regular bra.

Throughout her years as a politician, Pelosi has continued to wear a bra in all activities aside from sleeping and showering. Periodically, she is known to take it off while eating when she forgets what her mouth is for. Pelosi's support from both her constituents and her brassiere make her the first Speaker of the House to wear a bra and not feel like they are going to go to hell for doing so.

One of Pelosi's first acts in Congress will be to pass Resolution 99.5.143 which will call on Congress to reclassify every type of cancer as breast cancer so that more support will go towards vital women's issues that affect women and target women.

FEMININE PRONOUNS

As the First Female Speaker of the House of Representatives, one of Pelosi's first acts in Congress will be to pass Resolution 214.189.09 which calls upon the nation to use a special language when talking about or with Pelosi and others of her biological gender.

The language, known as WomanSpeak, will place an "S" in front of the traditional masculine pronoun "HE" to create a "SHE". In addition, it will also introduce the terms "HER", "HERS", "MS.", "MADAM", and "LITTLE MISSY" into the once male-dominated language of politics.

FAMOUS FIRSTS

FIRST FEMALE

(See above) Pelosi is the First Female Speaker of the House of Representatives. This makes Pelosi the First Speaker of the House of Representatives Who Is a Female.

Pelosi's example has encouraged other women to succeed and also become the First Female Speaker of the House of Representatives. "I hope there will come a time," says Pelosi, "when I can look out from this podium and see 435 First Female Speakers of the House of Representatives(7-8).

FIRST CALIFORNIAN

There are 50 states which make up the United States of America. Pelosi comes from a state called California that has never had a resident become a Speaker of the House of Representatives, much less the First Female Speaker of the House of Representatives. This makes Pelosi the First Female Speaker of the House of Representatives Who Also Comes From California.

FIRST ITALIAN-AMERICAN

Pelosi's name has a lot of vowels. Without any effort on her part, Pelosi came into existence as an Italian-American American. This was of little concern to Pelosi until she realized that it was an extra prong on the fork of her firsts; making her the First Female Speaker of the House of Representatives Who Also Comes From California and On Top of Everything Else Is Even an Italian-American.

NOTABLE POLITICAL TRIUMPHS

SMOKING BAN IN SPEAKERS LOBBY

Pelosi cares deeply about everybody in the entire world, which is why on January 10, 2007, she used her powers as the First Female Speaker of the House of Representatives to pass a ban on smoking in the Speakers Lobby on Capitol Hill.

Being a Californian and a female, Pelosi believes that Freedom of Choice is important when it comes to abortion but problematic when it comes to other things that freethinking adults may wish to do with their bodies such as smoking and eating foods with transfats.

"Now, I can take my grandchildren to Speakers Lobby," says Pelosi, who is the First Grandmother Speaker of the House of Representatives (9-10).

BROUGHT LITTLE KIDS UP TO THE PODIUM

Pelosi cares deeply about children, which is why she chose to open the 110th Congress by bringing up a bunch of little children to the podium. "For these children, for all America's children," said Pelosi, "The House will come to order." (11-12)

One of Pelosi's first acts in Congress will be to pass Resolution 65.141.899 which will extend the age of childhood in America from 0 to 65, so that as the First Grandmother Speaker of the House of Representatives, she may have even more grandchildren to raise.

HIT THE GAVEL ON THE WOODEN THING AND SAID "CONGRESS IS IN SESSION"

After bringing up a bunch of little children to the podium, Pelosi hit the gavel on the wooden thing and said "Congress is now in session",marking the first occasion that those words were said in a higher-pitched female voice. It also marked the first occasion that a woman's hand had used the gavel before saying those words in a Congressional setting.

SAID THE WORD "BIPARTISAN" A LOT

Pelosi currently holds the world record for the most consecutive mentions of the word "bipartisan".

Many Pelosi supporters believe this is the reason why she is now the First Female Speaker of the House of Representatives.

Many Pelosi critics believe this is the reason why she is now the First Female Speaker of the House of Representatives.

SPEAKER OF THE HOUSE

FIRST FEMALE CALIFORNIAN ITALIAN-AMERICAN SPEAKER OF THE HOUSE OF REPRESENTATIVES

Because of her biological sex, her state of residence, and her ancestry, Nancy Pelosi is the First Female Californian Italian-American Speaker of the House of Representatives. This is a first for females, Californians, Italian-Americans, female Californians, Californian Italian-Americans, female Italian-Americans, and most of all female Californian Italian-Americans.

SEE ALSO:

Joan of Arc
Beanie Babies
Mother Teresa
Barbie
Elizabeth the First
Strawberry Shortcake
Ivan the Terrible

REFERENCES:

Bridget Jones's Diary by Helen Fielding
The Art of War by Sun Tzu
The Vagina Monologues by Eve Ensler
Palestine: Peace Not Apartheid by Jenny Carter
The Holy Koran by Adolf Hitler
Mein Kampf by Mahmoud Ahmadinejad

EXTERNAL LINKS

Beaches at the Internet Movie Database
John Wayne at the Internet Movie Database
Beautiful pearl necklaces on sale at Overstock.com

APOLOGY NOT ENOUGH, SAYS KRAMER’S VICTIMS

(AP) Weeks later the nation is still reeling from the Michael Richards’
racist rant at the Laugh Factory in Hollywood. In a post-Kramer’s
Racist Tirade world, many Americans feel isolated.

“I don’t know what to do,” says Mandy Iffit, a senior in junior high.
“I feel like my whole world has been turned upside down and all the
goodness has been shaken out of it into the hand of a big outer space
giant so he can sprinkle it on some other planet.”

Richards recently apologized on national television, but victims Kyle
Doss and Frank McBride don't feel the apology is enough and are
calling on Richards to apologize for what they feel was not a very
good apology.

“How can you just apologize?” asks Doss, “That’s like saying, ‘yeah, I
did something wrong and now I’m apologizing for it.’”

During a performance at the Laugh Factory, Richards called Doss and
McBride the N-Word (Nigger), leaving McBride permanently blinded and
Doss paralyzed from the waist down.

“The N-Word (Nigger) is a very destructive word,” said McBride, “Over
1,500 blacks are killed each year by white people who improperly handle
the term. We’re lucky that we’re still alive, but unlucky in that we
haven’t quite gotten everything we want from the situation yet.”

Doss and McBride’s lawyer, Ebony Inkjet, believes that an agreement
can be reached only if Richards is willing to provide Doss and McBride
with the pin number to his ATM account, undergo surgery
to remove the racial lobe from his brain, and apologize once more--in
Ebonics.

“How you gonna be apologizing as a white man if what you say when you
is white is what be the problem?” asks Inkjet.

Earlier this week, members of the National Association For The
Advancement Of Opportunists were pleased to learn they had something
to complain about in the light of a growing tolerance in America.

“I’m very happy to still have a job,” said Elijah Wasteland, chairman
of the NAAO. “The passage of the Civil Rights bill in the mid-sixties
along with the end of segregation and a general awareness of not being
in shackles for almost 150 years has greatly crippled our business.”

The Reverends Al Sharpton and Jesse Jackson nodded their heads to
Wasteland's comments and said “Amen” and “as-Salaam Alaikum” out of
both sides of their mouths.

Four-time Grammy award winner Nigga-Z spoke from his home in the
ghettos of Beverly Hills Wednesday night regarding the Laugh Factory
incident.

“Fuck that cracker.”

When asked about the predominant use of the N-Word (Nigger) in rap
lyrics, Mr. Z reminded reporters that many current rap labels such as
the one that released his albums “Nigga Kill-A Whitey” and “Suck On My
Nigga-Gun” are “run by Jews.”

“Anyway, this wasn’t any N-Word (Nigger),” said Mr. Z. “This was an
N-Word (Nigger) used by a cracker.”

Comedians Chris Rock and Dave Chappelle have announced that proceeds
from their new joint album “Funny Stupid Uptight White People Who Are
All Racists” will be donated to build a new recreation center in
Harlem where members of the community can come together and talk about
how much they hate Michael Richards. The proposed 2,000 square foot
facility will also feature a high-definition plasma TV so community
members can watch Richards’ racist tirade over and over again in
slow-motion from the moment his tongue goes to the back of his front
teeth to form the “N” to the instant where his lips jut out slightly
to emphasize the “R.”