Category Archives: Celebrities

Just Like Seein’ Bigfoot

You know how whenever anyone sees Bigfoot or the Loch Ness Monster or Ogopogo, they’re so freaked out that they can’t snap a decent picture of what’s obviously, definitely, not horseshit and is instead really right in front of them? So what you get is something that looks like a large, blurry man in a Bigfoot suit:

Bigfoot Classic

Or a snorkeler with a Monster-Shaped Sock Puppet:

Loch Ness Monster

Or I guess sometimes yes, they do get a decent picture of Ogopogo. Watch out, kids!


Well that’s how I feel when I see a Women For Romney bumper sticker. Let me tell you something – they are OUT there. You just have to keep your eyes open. My friend Spang and I call each other when we see them – ohmygod, ohmygod, OHMYGOD! TOM! I SAW ONE!

Then we get cosmos. Other than that, we’re pretty manly.

But not the bumper sticker. I’ve never been able to get a clear picture of one, but here’s an artist’s rendition straight from my own personal Google Image files:

Women For Romney

See? It’s pink – that means chicks dig it. And some of the letters are all fancy, like a girl wrote it on her notebook, a girl who doesn’t just “like” Romney, but who “‘like’ likes” him. Sometimes they don’t even get bumper stickers, they just spray paint their whole Romney-ending name all over their car, as if they’ve already married him and his First Wife. Stephanie Meredith Romney! In a big heart, you know.

But anyway, today I saw this cryptozoological wonder cross my path:


Holy shit! Christians For Obama!

At first, I didn’t even comprehend it. Why would Christians ever vote for a guy who is not only a Muslim, but also a Satanist AND an Atheist? FROM KENYA?

I don’t know, but this guy not only did it, but he’s permanently bragging about it on his car! Who’s driving it, Mothman??

I’ll tell you, it was a spiritual experience, like looking the Abominable Snowman right in the eye across a card table, thinking, “He’s got the jack. He doesn’t have the jack. HE’S GOT THE JACK!”

Surely you can relate. Anyway, someone needs to fly me to Loch Ness or to Bigfoot Town (Canada? Seattle? I don’t know where Bigfoot lives) cause do you see how I calmly stopped texting while I was driving, and snapped a picture of the Sasquatchmobile? I’m like motherscratching Steve McQueen, baby.

Cool, now I have to go run this by some network execs, make some scratch. Don’t show anybody, blogosphere, because it’s not worth any money that way.

Bigfoot SuitNow, I know a lot of you are like, Tom, that could just be a Jesus Fish Eating A Darwin Fish bumper sticker wearing a Christians For Obama bumper sticker suit. Like when those knuckleheads said they had Bigfoot in a freezer and instantly, pre-Tom-On-Facebook, someone came to my desk to show me their Facebook page and asked me what I thought of it.

I said, “Well, shit, I’d say that’s either Bigfoot in a freezer, or it’s a Bigfoot Suit in a freezer. And since we already know there are Bigfoot suits, and since we don’t know if there’s Bigfoot, etc., etc. etc.”

Well – we’ll just have to let Science decide, and Science can tell History, and someone from Television can give me a check, is how I think this works. I’m going to get a new suit and a steak dinner, you guys stay here in case my studio check shows up.


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Huffpost Blogger Blogs About Non-Issue, Local Blogger Blogs About It

Right off the bat, let’s just say McDonald’s is a disgusting company which sells disgusting food and even as a guy who doesn’t mind eating disgusting food, McDonald’s is dead to me. It turns my stomach to even look at the sign, and every six months or so when I start to forget that, I buy an awful, soul-crushing breakfast sandwich and it makes me whimper. Although, yes, their chemical-riffic fries are tasty and I can’t stay mad at them.

But I guess I’m equally disgusted with our media, disgusted every time a horrible story breaks like the one coming out of Cleveland now, in which three women, kidnapped as teenagers, appear to have been held captive for ten years before escaping. I can’t imagine I need to recap it for you, but here’s CNN’s latest, and all you need to do is point your face practically anywhere to learn about Charles Ramsey, the man who helped them escape.

We don’t know very much about the story except that the women are alive, that one of them has a child born six years ago, and that they’d really like some privacy now to be with their families. And we of course know that the media would not like their privacy quite so much. Here’s everybody respecting the shit out of the three women’s privacy now:

respecting privacy

Yes, and since they’re focusing more on the health and well-being of the women and the child rescued, the investigation hasn’t yet revealed very much about the details of the awful crime, so we’re back to reporting any rumor or tidbit anyone will cough up. It’s a lot like the story is a deer, and the reporters are simply ripping it apart like jackals. Well, it’s their job, right?

Anyone who will offer the slightest crumb gets an interview. Umm, seems to me the guy had a cat a few years ago, but not anymore. CLEVELAND KIDNAPPER MAY HAVE HAD CAT, POSSIBLY EATEN IT, screams the news.

I was just getting over the general nausea, though, when I saw this blog post: Did McDonald’s Cross The Line In Tweet About Ohio Kidnapping Case?

It’s from the Associate Blog Editor at The Huffington Post, which is the sort of thing that makes me glad I have an actual job. Take a look at the tweet which Mr. Seamus McKiernan believes may have crossed “the line”:

McDonalds Tweet

What’s the problem here? What line did they cross? Well, McKiernan takes the scenic route to that point, presumably because there’s no straight line to it. It’s like watching Doctor Frankenstein maniacally try to animate a lifeless corpse, but instead of a lifeless corpse, it’s a complete and utter non-issue, and instead of maniacally, he does it in an unconvincing, long-winded manner.

Right from the article:

“Nothing much to look at here, right? Just a company recognizing the courage of the kidnap victims, and praising a local hero who also happens to be its customer. Actually, on first read, the tweet comes across as well-intentioned.”

FletchHuh. Well, we’d better dig deep into this two-sentence tweet then, right? Rather than settle for a cursory, First Read? Because no, sir, that doesn’t look like much to look at. These first two sentences strike me as a pretty thorough analysis of the two-sentence tweet. But I guess that’s why I’m not the Associate Blog Editor at The Huffington Post, because we’re about to roll up our sleeves and dig through this thing like a shark autopsy.

Not that Mr. McKiernan doesn’t seem to have a vague feeling that this is a non-issue. “Maybe we should leave the story about McDonald’s here,” he muses, and yes, dude. Maybe we should, since it’s a two-sentence story.

Naw, he decides, and he’s going to walk us through the tweet, since it’s not easy for non-Huffpost Associate Blog Editors to understand this stuff:

“Let’s look at the tweet. The first sentence is, “We salute the courage of Ohio kidnap victims & respect their privacy.” This doesn’t raise any flags. For better or worse, it’s become common for corporations to comment on news stories, particularly tragedies, via their social media accounts. McDonald’s in this regard is no different from other organizations and people who tweeted about the story. But what caught my eye was the second part of the tweet: “Way to go Charles Ramsey- we’ll be in touch.” Suddenly, I wondered how much the first part of the tweet existed to usher in the second.”

Well, my goodness. The more he rereads the tweet, the more sinister it becomes. Although, if one sits around rereading the same two sentences over and over, one is very likely to start to feel a little funny about them.

But what cracks me up is, THE FIRST SENTENCE IS OKAY WITH HIM!

So he’s got an issue with “Way to go Charles Ramsey – we’ll be in touch.”

Because it’s a mini-commercial, he decides in an incredibly convoluted manner. And he’s shocked and outraged by it.

Sure. I mean technically, every McDonald’s tweet is a commercial. They didn’t start a Twitter account so you could keep up with their post-graduate trip to Europe. They tweet for PR, and they tweet because you’re crazy not to, if you’re a business in 2013. Can anyone think of any PR issues surrounding the Cleveland case that might make McDonald’s want to say a few words?

Ah, yes, it’s the fact that their name is all over the story. Charles Ramsey mentioned McDonald’s. Ramsey was coming back from McDonald’s, the kidnapper was arrested at McDonald’s, the kidnapper frequently brought way more McDonald’s back to his house than a single man ought to require. All of these are things floating around the news, and I don’t even know which ones are true. But McDonald’s became associated with this horrific story, and I’m sure they weren’t crazy about it.

So, do you think McDonald’s, with perhaps one of the most gargantuan, globe-spanning marketing juggernauts in the history of the planet at its disposal, figured this tweet would drum up some much-needed business? Do you think from a marketing standpoint, this will generate a fart in a hurricane’s worth of cheeseburger sales? Or do you think they were deflecting bad publicity they didn’t ask for, and that they were deflecting it in an uncharacteristically positive way?

Charles RamseySay, they must have thought. You know one thing about the story everybody loves? Charles Ramsey. And you know what Charles Ramsey loves? McDonald’s. Maybe we ought to associate ourselves with him, congratulate his heroism, and imply that maybe we’ll be sending him a load of McDonald’s cards, since it’s the least we can do.

Yes, that’s real, sinister X-FIles shit, there, Scoop. In particular, I love McKiernan’s appropriately low confidence level. “Maybe I’m misreading this,” he admits in his conclusion, but then insists “we should acknowledge that the McDonald’s tweet is inappropriate at best and, at worst, it capitalizes on the sensation of a tragic story.”

Actually, at best it’s McDonald’s deflecting some horrific PR by genuinely, sincerely praising a hero. That would be “at best.” I mean, can you think of anyone besides McDonald’s who might be capitalizing on the sensation of a tragic story? The entire media, perhaps? You, Mr. Seamus McKiernan?

Here’s what I think – you couldn’t think of anything to blog about, so you obsessed over a McDonald’s tweet. Me? I don’t have to think of anything to blog about – I got you, buddy.


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Can Captain Kirk Save Us From Accidental Racism?

Well why not? Saving us all from things is what Captain Kirk does – even us back here in the past, like whatever was going on in that episode with Teri Garr in it and Agent Gary Seven, and that freaky lady who could turn into a cat.

And he has taken on racism in the past too. Do you remember a world where hot white people and hot black people were not allowed to make out on our televisions? If not, you can go ahead and thank Captain Kirk for that. He didn’t care if you were white, or black, or blue, or a space cavegirl, Captain Kirk was as Down With The Swirl as one can possibly be.

Star TrekRemember when they found that planet where the people were all exactly one half white and one half black, and those who were white on one half were crazy racists toward those who were white on the other half? See, it wasn’t just making out with chicks – Captain Kirk could roll up his sleeves and help folks understand each other and get along as a society. Hide your chicks, though, seriously.

The only reason I was thinking about Captain Kirk was that my youngest daughter has an iPhone now, and so when I’m driving or even just sitting around on my can, I talk to her like I’m Captain Kirk. Hey, text your sister the following message, or locate the nearest bowling alley, or call my lawyer very quickly and tell him to engage the Alpha Protocol. She’s so pleased to do something with the most fabulous object in the universe that she does it quickly and without question, whatever it is.

And then once I had Captain Kirk on the brain, I realized he might be able to save us from the horrifying attempt at racial harmony created by Brad Paisley and Recent Mental Patient L. L. Cool J, both of whom seemed to me before this point like reasonable men, so maybe they’ve simply surrounded themselves with poor advisors. Entourages of folks who don’t know how to say to them at any of sixteen or twenty obvious points, “Hold on, this is some awful, crazy, offensive, dumbass bullshit here, we have to stop. We have to stop for God and Country and Humanity Itself. This is wrong, we can’t do this.”

Brad PaisleyNo one stopped them. I heard about the song for days before I finally, reluctantly sat down to listen to it, and I don’t even really want to talk about it. Paisley doesn’t seem to know the meaning not only of the word “racist” but even of the word “accidental.” And L.L. Cool J, well – let’s just say he seems to have mistaken himself for the Black Ambassador To Country Music, and not only is he mistaken about his title, he is clearly underqualified as a negotiator.

I would think for instance that one could expect not to be judged based on one’s fashion accessories from the get-go. No need to concede the centuries-of-enslavement-and-oppression angle. If we think racism is over, then surely Judging One By One’s Doo Rag Or Any Type Of Headware Really, had to be part of the deal. And if we don’t think it’s over, then find another way to express your deep and admirable love for Lynyrd Skynyrd.

But, who cares. You know, I really think they both meant well, and so it’s a nice gesture. It’s not like satire. At least they didn’t hire a different county music star who was white and put him in blackface and have him do a silly dance as he forgave the South for racism in exchange for being allowed to wear his favorite hat.

I mean, let’s fill out the whole scorecard, right? No blackface or silly dances? We’ll count that for ten points, like some sort of Attendance Award. Good try, fellas, let’s talk about something else.

Of course, wherever each of us was on our inner battles against racism, we now have a new problem, having heard the awful song, having cringed while listening to it like we’re at the meeting in Jaws where the shark hunter gets everyone’s attention, having listened to it several times hoping we heard it wrong, hoping to find some trace of an ironic joke. Now we have a new problem – how to get the song out of our heads.

And I have the answer for you – it’s Captain James Tiberius Kirk.


See, this isn’t the first duet Brad Paisley threw together. He also contributed to Bill Shatner’s album Has Been, singing a duet with Captain Kirk Himself about what it’s like to be Captain Kirk.

Get over there and listen to it, because it’s exactly like getting the inside of your skull power-washed clean of any trace of “The Accidental Racist.” You’ll be instead sitting on your back porch with an icy cold beer, looking into the sunset and reflecting deeply on how much Captain Kirk has really done for you in your life, and you’ll suddenly realize, damn – it’s been a lot.

The first hero I ever had, the square-jawed ideal every man should aspire to be, the bareknuckled savior of us all dozens of times over. The only Starfleet cadet to ever defeat the Kobayashi Maru.

Khan’s Bane. KHAN’S BANE, DAMN IT!

Kirk Vs GornTake your hat off and think back to lying on the floor of your living room, watching Kirk with a ripped shirt shoot a homemade cannon at the Gorn. Remember that you learned about courage from this man, just as much as anyone real. Then thank whatever God you pray to that Bill Shatner was ever born, and thank Bill Shatner, for retroactively redeeming Brad Paisley – who in all honesty doesn’t sound too bright, and seems to have simply made a hilarious, gargantuan philosophical mistake, and then found a wacky partner who made the exact same comical error. Think of them as Richard Pryor and Gene Wilder, if that helps.

Then go listen to the whole Shatner album. Henry Rollins from Black Flag is on there! Ben Folds!  Joe Jackson! And Actual Spoken Word Poetry By Shatner Himself!

See? Now you forgot all about that other thing, cause you’re an Accidental Trekkie now. Feels good, doesn’t it?


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There’s a Pencil Storm Coming, Mr. Wayne

When Colin asked me to submit the occasional post to his new blog Pencil Storm, I knew exactly what he was talking about. He probably wanted me to come in there like Alec Baldwin in Glengarry Glen Ross with a Type A Blogging Presentation, really whip the other bloggers in to shape.

Or better yet, a Gordon Ramsay kind of thing – Tommy C’s Blogging Nightmares! He’d probably have them all in a big, open blogging chamber, give them something to blog about, and then I’d go around yelling at them and calling them names, trying to make them cry. Some Tough Love – sure, Colin, I could serve some of that up.

Gordon Ramsay“No,” Colin explained. “That’s not it at all. Are you drunk?”

Well, I don’t think it’s a fair question and it’s an ambiguous term anyway. He probably meant, let’s play it a little lower key than that, so the guys don’t get frustrated and productivity doesn’t halt. Got to think about the shareholders, roger that. I got you, Colin.

“Again,” Colin said patiently – he’s a very patient man, you just want to reach out and squeeze him like a patient, hard-rocking teddy bear. “Again, no. I’m just talking about a slice of wiseassery, maybe once a week. Since you’re sitting around being a wiseass anyway, and since we’ve known each other for twenty-five years, and since that’s how the blogosphere is. Kumbaya, you dig?”

A long paragraph, I’m afraid I didn’t catch the middle, just got startled out of a little mini-trance by the word “Kumbaya.”

I said, “Yeah, I’ll come by and crack some skulls for you, pal. No problem. Send over a car.”

Not how blogging works, and Colin seemed all-too-aware that I could log on to Pencil Storm from my own computer. Plus, I was standing right in front of him – no need for a car at all. Well, he’d certainly done his homework.

“Listen, Colin, if you don’t need my asskicking services then why did you call me in the first place? That’s my question.” Really leaned back and gave him the Russian Chess Player stare, too. Kind of like, Riddle Me This, Hotshot.

So Colin – again, very patiently, he’s just an absolute peach – tried explaining, “No, no. I didn’t call you, remember? This is my coffee shop and you just walked in and nobody said anything about you kicking any ass.”

I took a nice, tasty drink of steaming hot coffee, wondering why I would have just walked into Colin’s Coffee out of the clear blue sky and then imagined Colin hiring me to be a jerk to his bloggers. Mmmmmmmmm, it was good coffee.

So I left and sprang very slowly into action over the next few weeks. I did a little research on Pencil Storm by putting on a cool hat and going to Pencil Storm and reading what was posted there. It turned out everybody over there was better and smarter and more popular than me, and I felt a little bit like Jan Brady. One of the guys – Johnny DiLoretto – I remember from The Other Paper, where he used to write movie reviews which generated John Petric volumes of letters to the editor.

“I don’t know what movie you were watching, and I don’t like your tone, Johnny, and yip, yip yip.” That sort of thing.

That’s some hip, local stuff there, Rest of the Blogosphere, so just skip it or pretend like you got it so you look hip. There you go.

One of the other guy’s on the radio. He’s like the guy who goes and buys vinyl abums and then makes you listen to them even if you’re a tone deaf blogger who’s driving to Newark on Sunday morning. Sounds like he knows what he’s talking about, but he’s going to make me crash my car one of these days.

Editor 2And there’s an editor – that freaked me out. The cool thing about not having an editor is you can post whatever you want and no one can stop you. The downside being of course that someone should frequently stop me, and I don’t talk too good and I spell less gooder, and also if you have undiagnosed mental disorders and no editor, then everyone is going to know about them.

Still I started walking around bitching about “my editor” for the better part of the week because it made me feel very writery. Damn, my editor is all over my ass about this unspecified assignment that Colin offered me on a whim because I ordered coffee and then just stood there looking at him instead of leaving.

As a result, the piece I’ve got up there now – you heard me, I called it a piece, because that’s what my editor calls them and he’s the boss, apple sauce – took about four weeks to write. I had also known the editor – Mr. Jeff Hassler – for decades and I remember that he was very, very scary. One time he snapped and beat an entire hackey sack circle to death with a tree branch on The Oval during the Turbulent Nineties. And everything I knew about editors in general, I had learned from comic books and their movie adaptations.

What do you do when you’re not Spiderman, Tommy C?

Well, what I did was hide for a while and now I’ve got a post up there. You can go see it by clicking right here.


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Behold The Mighty Clothing Printer

It’s exactly what it sounds like. It’s a wall-mounted unit no more cumbersome than a washing machine, looks kind of like a really big paper towel dispenser with Wifi access. Here’s the design web site by Serious Super Genius Joshua Harris, which tells you everything you need to know. I’ll just go ahead and recap it here, in case you don’t feel like clicking a link (I’m not going to steal his pictures though, so you should) and so it will count as a daily post.

Harris spends a really short, efficient amount of space explaining that by 2050, most people will live in cities, and as such, we’re not going to have much space per person. The middle class might be sinking, but so will our apartments it seems – Harris cites 220 square foot micro-apartments already being built and utilized in several major cities.

Then he points out that on average, Americans throw away 68 pounds of clothing per year. We have it made by cheap labor overseas, we wear it for a bit, and then we get rid of it, and that’s horribly inefficient.

So instead we’ll buy the templates, the designs just as easily as we buy files on iTunes. And we’ll buy cartridges with the various materials – blue cotton, red linen, etc.

Then we load up the program for Blue Sweatshirt, and hit print. Out pops a blue sweatshirt. I don’t know what the hell they’re going to do in the Third World, a buck a day stinks but it probably beats the hell out of zero.

Hold on, I changed my mind, I think I AM going to steal one of his pictures. I’ll just act dumb if he shows up and hollers at me.

Clothing Printer

Ah there it is. All of this, he claims, can be done with existing technology, so it’s not like we have to wait til 2050. And he did it for some kind of project, while the rest of us watched Breaking Bad and Facebooked and wiped out noses on our sleeves and then discarded the clothing at the park in a drunken stupor. Seriously, go click the link, I think I just stole that. He’s going to be mad.

But then, just listen. Because you might be thinking, Well hell, if we can all print clothes out as simply as yanking a paper towel off the roll, then won’t we just throw away more clothes?

And the answer is no, because instead you’ll recycle the clothing back into the printer, and make different clothing out of it. The clothes can be easily reverted to the base substance from the cartridges. When you are finished with your blue sweatshirt, you can feed it back in so that it’s recycled for the next Blue Thing you need.

You don’t keep your clothes in a closet anymore, you keep them on your laptop! They’ll think of closets like 8 Track Tapes!


ashIt’s like we’re cavemen and Joshua Harris just pulled out a shotgun. All Hail The Big Brained Man With The Boom Stick!

Why isn’t this man in charge of everything? Does he think anything else? We should listen to this man. Does he have a North Korea Reverse Printer? It can’t hurt to ask.

I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to freak out, but that’s basically a primitive replicator from Star Trek Mr. Harris is talking about, nice and casual. That’s what 3-D printers are, too. They’re teleporting and replicating stuff, more and more complicated stuff all the time.

I knew they’d get around to teleporting things, but I always thought of it like The Fly. Someone figures it out, and bam, that’s it, now we teleport. Get yourself some new jobs, truck drivers, cargo ship crews, and dirigible pilots. But no, it’s just like bandwidth or the speed of microprocessors or any other technology. They get it working so poorly that it’s barely useful, then improve it every year til pretty soon Professor Moriarty escapes from the Holodeck and you have to outwit him for realsies.

Not all fun and games though. Here’s a guy in this NPR article who can print you an assault rifle with a 3-D printer. Not joking. Go ahead and take away the guns, 3D Printed Gunit’ll be like taking your kids’ cassette tapes away. How else are they going to get their hands on music? The Internet?

That guy’s a licensed gun manufacturer now, by the way. Why are we having a gun debate again? The gun guys won, dudes. If you take away their guns, they’re going to print out new guns except they’ll still be all mad about the last set of guns you took away. Maybe we can get the clothing printer to print us all out some bullet proof vests, yes?

So something tells me that if we’re talking about clothing and guns, well – those aren’t the only things that can be 3D printed.

Here’s a guy trying to print out a house. Hell yes, he is, go look at him: Dutch Architect To Build House With 3D Printer. Not a shack, either, a 12,000 square foot house. The printer doesn’t print out the whole house, it’s like Super Legos or something.

The FlyThis is all happening. It’s apparently been happening a while. You can print objects now, and we’ve decided not to call it teleportation so nobody freaks out about alien-human hybrids who barf on your boyfriend’s foot and eat it.

Food? You buy nutrient packs like ink cartridges, then stick them in there and out comes crackers and beef jerky and quiche? Go ahead and tell me they can print out clothing and guns but not quiche. I assume the Super Deluxe model will be able to take my shirt after I eat ribs, and then separate the food from the clothing, stick them back into the right cartridges. You dry cleaners can go ahead and get new jobs, too.

Okay then. I’m good and freaked out. You guys have a lovely Sunday.


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Kirk Cameron and the Art of Asshattery

Mike SeaverLike most people, when I think of Kirk Cameron, I think “What an asshat.”

But it’s not because he’s a Christian, or even because he’s a Super Christian. It’s not because of the movie Fireproof, either, which I’m told was excellent as long as you already firmly believed everything it was getting at. Mmmmmm, that’s a nice, steaming crock of Reassuring, Christian Validation – just like church would taste if you let it simmer on the stove all day.

Actually, if you want to be a Super Christian, I’ve got a lot more respect for you than the average Christian. Average Christian just kind of checks the box – yep, I’m Christian all right, Go Jesus – and then he shows up on Sunday, drops a little scratch in the bowl for the Almighty, and then goes about his normal business getting into other people’s business and judging things he doesn’t understand and sinning like there are bombs dropping.

Nope, I say in for a penny, in for a pound, and so does reformed Atheist Kirk Cameron.

Take a look at the first post I snatched randomly off his blog – Dinosaurs on the Ark!

Yes, and it’s a solid, appropriate title just like my post today – it’s all about how the Lord clearly said he made land animals on Day Six, dinosaurs are land animals (all of them, apparently) and therefore, dinosaurs must have been on the Ark. Otherwise, well the Ark story wouldn’t make much sense would it? Duh.

BabyThe comment section of that one is priceless. A couple of alert readers helpfully point out that they didn’t have to be full-grown dinosaurs. Makes you want to smack yourself in the forehead, doesn’t it? Of course! Baby dinosaurs. All the pieces fit!

“Or maybe just eggs,” says one cautious man of logic and science, and yes. Let’s keep this party polite, it could have been just big funny eggs.

Anyway, again – I applaud Christians who don’t think carbon dating is accurate and who think there really was an Ark. Who are you going to believe – a bunch of scientists who keep changing their minds about how old the universe is, and whether or not we should eat eggs? Or are you going to believe the Word of the Almighty God? Huh? All right then.

Then you’ve got the big phonies – like this group of Christians here, telling Fox News that they can prove that what they found on a Turkish mountaintop is truly Noah’s Ark because of – you guessed it – carbon dating. Yay! It’s proof when we do it!

Okay, so I think I keep trying to assure you that it’s not Kirk Cameron’s Super Christianity that makes him an asshat and it feels like I’m always losing focus on that. Trust me, I have lots of Christian friends, in the same way that Kirk Cameron has lots of gay friends. I don’t think my Christian friends are asshats (especially not you, you’re awesome) and he doesn’t think his gay friends are all abominations in the eyes of the Almighty, just the ones who are honest with themselves about their sexual orientations and who expect us all to respect that. See? It’s like the Pagans and the Christians are sittin’ together at the table isn’t it?

No, it’s not that Kirk Cameron IS an asshat. It’s that he works passionately and tirelessly at his asshattery, like a master craftsman or a psychotic blogger who still gets Growing Pains checks. Check out his Easter blog post – You Killed The Author of Life – in which he uses the term “scheming Jews.” Cause you know, I don’t think the Jews get enough shit about that, they probably forgot there was an issue. Thanks, asshat.

the wolfThen there was when he came to the defense of Todd “legitamite rape” Akin. He probably sat straight up in bed and said, “There’s another asshat in distress!” And I’m sure Todd Akin was thinking, Yes, thank God Kirk Cameron’s here, The Wolf Himself. He’ll straighten this out. That’s all you had to say, umm, sir.

I would suggest that the pinnacle of Kirk Cameron’s asshattery comes in the form of his feud with Stephen Hawking. It seems to me, if you are having a fight with Stephen Hawking, and it’s not about physics, then you’re an asshat and fifteen other unpleasant things. Recently, Cameron told E! News – by far the most respected and appropriate forum to address Professor Stephen Hawking – the following:

“To say anything negative about Stephen Hawking is like bullying a blind man. He has an unfair disadvantage, and that gives him a free  pass on some of his absurd ideas. Professor Hawking is heralded as ‘the genius  of Britain,’ yet he believes in the scientific impossibility that nothing  created everything and that life sprang from non-life.”

Hmmm. I’m not sure why we need the “blind man” analogy. Stephen Hawking’s eyes and a couple of cheek muscles are about the only things on his body that work at all. It’s more like bullying a senior citizen who is almost entirely immobilized and needs round-the-clock medical care. Except you’re not bullying him, Kirk, to do that you would have to be dominating him, and the other thing about Stephen Hawking that works just fine is his brain.

And that bit at the end – of course. Because far more plausible than the scientific impossibility of nothing creating everything and that life sprang from non-life, is that nothing somehow created an infinite, Dude-Shaped God, who then created everything and caused life to spring from non-life. What are you, stupid, Stephen Hawking?

I’m not going to take a side on this one, let’s just agree that giant magic people and entire universes are both equally hard to imagine springing from nothing, all right? Try not to get cocky about your boat full of dinosaurs over there, you’re talking to one of the smartest men to ever live, whether God made him or not. And you’re talking to him on E! News, because peer review is a little above your intellectual pay grade.

Homer and HawkingAm I the only one who saw Inherit the Wind? Can’t we just say the Ark was plate tectonics and that the days were billions of years long? Grab a pint, quit snapping each other’s underpants? I think you need to settle down, Kirk Cameron, before Stephen Hawking loses his patience and breaks you off a slice, like he did on Homer Simpson that one time. You don’t hear him telling you what the Bible says, do you? So how about you stay out of the physics lab, that’s Hawking’s territory, and he would eat you for lunch.

You got that? Asshat?

Wel, all right then.


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Mr. Peanut, A Little Girl Needs Your Help

Dear Mr. Peanut –

It is with a heavy heart that I write this blog post, for I fear I am the bearer of troubling news, and since we’ve been Facebook friends for months now, I feel that I know your character – and I’m sadly confident that you are not going to like what I must tell you.

As you know, a small percentage of the population has a severe allergic reaction to your absolutely delicious and healthy products, and of course it’s nothing that you or your fine company have done to cause this health hazard, but I’m sure you would agree that people who cannot eat your salty treats have enough problems.  There’s no reason for us to pile any more worries upon them – I frankly can’t imagine how they sleep at night.

Sometimes, when I’m drinking an icy cold beer – I truly believe that I would die without peanuts.  Yes, and sometimes I weep for my allergy-stricken brothers and sisters, who must struggle through this harsh and bitter world without them.

But Mr. Peanut.  Sir.  I beg you to turn your mighty peanut-shell head to the situation in Edgewater, Florida right now, at the Edgewater Elementary School, where a little girl is so allergic to peanuts that even sitting next to someone who is eating them could cause an allergic reaction.

Now, I’m concerned that the lunatic headline to the article I’m about to link is going to enrage you so much that your shell is going to crack open, clunking one of your tasty brains onto the keyboard in front of you – and I couldn’t have that on my conscious, sir.  You are too important at this point in our nation’s history.  So for the sake of us all – brace yourself. 

It’s called Parents Protest Over Girl’s Peanut Allergy, and yes, you read that correctly.  Other parents are banding together and waving signs, and it’s not over unions or the middle class or taxation or even whales.

No, they’re protesting because their kids are having to make allowances to keep from killing their classmate with peanut particles.   

That’s the sort of allergy that the little girl has, you see.  I’ll just quote her mom from the same article:

“We’re not talking about she will break out in a rash. We are talking about she will die, stop breathing.”

And while it is true that the allowances are quite severe – the students are having to rinse their mouths out before entering the girl’s classroom, they’re not allowed to bring peanut products to school at all, they have to wash their hands a lot – I think you and me and anyone except the Grinch and this one batch of serious, peanut-loving parents would agree that they are not nearly as severe as death.

Death, Mr. Peanut.  I’m talking about parents who know that peanut particles could kill this girl, and yet they’re protesting because – and damn it, I’m serious – their children are missing out on iconic American childhood memories.  Like peanut butter and jelly sandwiches for lunch, and bringing in cookies with peanut products in them, on birthdays.

Also, the precautions are taking up valuable classtime.  Just ask one concerned parent, who reckoned that the students spend “probably a half an hour” washing hands and rinsing.  And so she thinks that rather than sharpening her own child’s clearly-not-very-impressive hand-washing skills, everybody ought to instead just lighten up about Possible Death.

I really hadn’t realized how integral peanut products were to elementary education until I saw the little throng of parents, confident and steadfast in their conviction that the little girl’s life was worth risking in the name of Not Washing Your Hands and Fond Peanut Memories For Everybody.

“I’m really sorry about the girl’s medical condition,” none of them were quoted as saying.  “But I don’t inconvenience myself or exercise compassion or consideration or even good manners.  Not toward you, not toward Mr. Peanut, and certainly not toward an innocent little girl who would like to go to school with the rest of the kids, pursuant to federal law and the Americans With Disablities Act.”

But I’m pretty sure that’s what they meant, aren’t you, Mr. Peanut?

Notice also that they are bringing in “peanut-sniffing dogs.”  Now I know that such a concept must alarm you sir, though I’ve seen you sword fight, and I am confident no dog on Earth is any match for you, but you and I must take a moment to reflect on what would make such a move necessary – and I think we can arrive at only one conclusion.

These nasty, awful, self-centered parents who have been politely informed (in this letter from last August) of the deadly risks, have been sending their kids to school with peanut products anyway.  So they’re having to bring in dogs to figure out who’s doing it.

Let’s teach that little girl a lesson, yes?  We’ll show her how we handle people with involuntary medical conditions!

Mr. Peanut – these people are so blinded by their love of peanuts, that I fear only you can reason with them.  Only you can convince them that as tasty and healthy as peanuts are to most of us, they are not worth the life of a beautiful little girl.

Perhaps a visit to her school would be in order.  Or on second thought, maybe a video conference would be a better idea, to lessen the confusion and again, you gotta figure, she’s allergic to you, too.  Probably your footprints and farts and the sounds you make when you tapdance – everything.  Let’s try and stay focused here.

Because the fact is, here are human beings who appear to respect peanuts more than their own little sister, and if anyone can help them find their own humanity again, it’s you.  An anthropomorphic peanut.  The pinnacle of evolution here on Earth.  You have to talk to them, Mr. Peanut.  And if talking doesn’t work, then you might have to get rough.

It’s your sacred duty.  It’s the Way of the Peanut.  This little girl matters, sir, or nothing matters.  She matters – or what’s the point of peanuts at all?

Let’s show them – you and I – that eating peanuts is about togetherness and protein and yumminess and sure, if you’re 21 and acting responsibly, icy cold beers.  But it’s not about stupefying, inconsiderate bullshit, and it’s not about killing innocent little girls or even making them feel like crap about themselves, for their allergies.

I guess some folks have never seen Star Trek III: The Search For Spock, and so they haven’t learned, like Spock did, that sometimes the good of the one outweighs the good of the many.

And Captain Kirk’s not here, Mr. Peanut.  So it’s up to you and me to teach them.  Let’s saddle up, my friend – there are old-fashioned bullies afoot.  Peanut bullies, and I don’t think we can turn a blind eye.


Future Tom


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