Political Correctness is Retarded

You know what sucks old, diseased, flaccid warthog dicks? Stupid, fucking, immature humans who enslave other people, or who abuse the vulnerable, or who degrade the meek, or who revel in the misery of others, or who rejoice at the downfall of the powerful (unless the powerful are evil), or who get any satisfaction out of the humiliation of ANYONE who has ever made a mistake (unless said someone is an idiot celebrity who chooses to fuck up and brag about it and whose name rhymes with Barley Bean).

Yes. It SUCKS, goddammit, when someone who isn’t Caucasian or who isn’t heterosexual is harassed or bullied or shamed or even murdered for being NOTwhite or NOTstraight. It bites when someone handicapped is singled out and ridiculed for being crippled or deaf or mentally ill or whatever. Who the fuck says it is okay for anyone to consider themselves superior in the first place?

A few years ago, I worked as a one-on-one aide for an autistic middle-schooler whose supposed “best friend” was a rich little shit with an entitlement syndrome probably brought on by his genital deficiency. The utter meanness that son-of-a-bitch unleashed on my fragile student still roils my blood. And the fact that the instigator intentionally embarrassed his “friend” for being different and strange just to make other kids laugh makes me want to track down the prick and beat the shit out of him with a crowbar to this day. I don’t get what is in a person’s DNA that signals a thumbs-up when the choice to destroy another person becomes available. And the fact that I am a hearing impaired girl who has an autistic child causes me to be ultra-sensitive to personal attacks on individuals or groups who are considered anything less than “perfect.”

But Jesus, Mary and fucking Joseph. It is just the most retarded thing I’ve ever heard that people get so bent out of shape when someone utters the word retarded. Or gay. What’s next? The cripples of the world are going to come after me with their canes because I said that the arguments of the politically correct are lame? The Policitical Correctness Police have twisted the use of these words to mean something that was never intended. The PCP has actually MADE the terms offensive, so fucking thank you PCP for ruining practically everything funny in the world. And I am in NO way referring to ANY ethnic slurs here because those terms and phrases ARE intended to mean that a particular race is inferior. There’s no other way to interpret those.

But we all know that when we say something is retarded, we mean that it is stupid or shallow or goofy or ridiculous. It can’t possibly mean that it is mentally challenged for fuck’s sake. And anyone with half a brain knows that nobody means that an idea is homosexual when they say it’s gay. It means that it is LAME, and you all know exactly what that means!

Remember when that pseudo-celebrity dumbass Omarosa got pissed off and threatened a fricking lawsuit because one of her teammates on The Apprentice said she was "the pot calling the kettle black"? The opponent did not mean anything negative about being black, but that didn’t stop that idiot bitch from immediately jumping on it. SHE was the one who assigned the negative connotation to the word black. And that is just what the PCP love to do. They turn our words inside out just looking for some way to milk ‘em for a lawsuit. God forbid anyone refer to God in this country anymore. We might offend someone who doesn’t believe in God. Well fuck them. We live in a free country where it is guaranteed that we have freedom of speech. If we regulate what might offend every single soul, God help us. Lighten up people. And quit being so fucking retarded.

Photo credit: Vaquer, A. (Photo). Armand’s Ranch Del Cielo. Retrieved from http://armandsrancho.blogspot.com/2010/08/politically-incorrect-warning-sign.html

Boobs. Just boobs.

Damn. Put those torpedoes away before someone loses an eye.

You know that television show, Mad Men, starring Jon Hamm and Christina Hendricks’s boobs? Even if you don’t watch the paean to the heyday of 60’s cool advertising execs on Madison Avenue, you’ve no doubt still seen Christina Hendricks’s boobs. Jesus, but they are everywhere. And there’s so much of them. I am starting to think somebody manufactured Christina after one too many viewings of Who Framed Roger Rabbit? Am I the only one who sees the eerie resemblance between the cartoon bombshell and Ms. Hendricks? But. Don’t get me wrong. I never said there was anything positive about the overabundance of mammaralia or the shameless display of said glands.

Since approximately 1971, I’ve had cumbersome bosoms. I used to tug them over to the sides when I was lying down so that I could see what it was like to be flat like my best friend, Donna. She was dying for a training bra, and I would’ve killed to get rid of the excess flesh that I had to wrangle into a tight undergarment every morning. Stupid, idiot, asshole sixth-grade boys thought it was all the rage to reach up the back of my shirt and snap my bra strap. Those mother fuckers have no idea how lucky they are that they didn’t grow up a couple of decades later when I’d have been suing their sorry asses for sexual harassment.

In my senior year of high school, I had a slight change of tune about my honkers, hooters, headlights, paw patties, ta-tas, whatever you want to call ‘em. I was in a variety show that required quick costume changes, so I didn’t have time to go to a dressing room. I had to change just off stage, and I remember the furtive, feral glances from the boys in the orchestra pit, their glimmery eyes half-lit by the music-stand lamps. I specifically selected insanely gorgeous and sexy lingerie just for the occasions. I had discovered the might of the melons. 

And as I aged (not fucking gracefully, I might add), I grew to enjoy a well-placed neckline and super-push-up cups. It is kind of funny to conduct scientific experiments in the field to see how many people cannot make one second of eye contact when there are cupcakes on the counter. But, damn. There is a time and place for everything. And apparently Christina Hendricks has never been told.

That woman—whose warheads are actually natural—cannot attend a single event without displaying her goddamned Pointer-Sisters on a shelf. At one of the recent premiers for the soon-to-be-released Sarah Jessica Parker film, I Don’t Know How She Does It, Ms. Hendricks pink-satin-encased funbags were clearly vying for top billing. We get it, okay? You’ve got humongous hood ornaments. But you do not have to wear every single neckline at the tippy top of your nipples. It’s actually unappealing to see all that smushed flesh with its criss-cross of blue veins spurting out under your chin like two exploded cans of Hungry Jacks. Sometimes it’s okay for the girls to stay inside.

Photo credit: Jessica Rabbit. (Cartoon image.) Retrieved from http://www.empireonline.com/100-greatest-movie-characters/default.asp?c=88