The Most Brilliant #@! Genius in the Entire #!@ Universe.

This is clearly NOT Charles Worley.

Every so often, mankind is graciously blessed with the presence of unadulterated genius so brilliant that the lives of all are forever and irrevocably enlightened, enhanced, elevated. You’ve got your Euclid and geometry, your Galileo and astronomy, your Newton and gravity, your Einstein and relativity. You’ve got your Alex Trebek and everything. And now you’ve got your Worley and anti-gaytivity.

What? Who’s Worley, you say? Where have you been lately? Ass diving? Charles Worley is the North Carolina preacher in the recent news for his blindingly clever remarks about gay people. In case you missed it—and I again have to wonder what the hell you’ve been up to–Worley told his congregation that the best way to rid the Earth of the evil homosexuals is to “fence them in” so that they will “die out.”

Awesome!

He actually said that SOMEONE should build a “great, big, large fence 50 or a hundred mile long” and take all of the lesbians and fence them in one area and drop some food in—because God knows we gotta keep this humane—and then take all the “homosexuals and queers” (those two very different species) and fence them in somewhere else and let them have some food. But we got to electrify that fence “so they can’t get out.” And THEN—here’s my favorite part—“In a few years they will die out. You know why? They can’t reproduce.”

Dear God, this man is a fucking Mensa star! I mean, first, look at his keen grasp of the English language: Great. Big. Large. Have you ever seen adjectives so astute, so cutting-edge, so not redundant?!

And leaving off that pesky “s” at the end of “mile” shows what a Rhodes scholar we are dealing with here.

And, of course, the incredible logic in his “get[ting] rid of the all the lesbians and queers” plan is almost too profound for my average intelligence to process: If we sequester all the gay men away from all the gay women, NO MORE GAYS WILL BE BORN! Because that’s how gay people are born now: gay men and gay women are screwing each other like rabbits and just creating more and more little gaylets each and every moment. Right?

Right?

Last time I checked, there had to be a woman and a man involved to produce a baby, even one who may turn out to be homosexual. That means that if we REALLY want to get rid of all the gay folks, we are going to have to fence in all the straight men in one area and all the straight women in another until everybody dies out. Voilà! No more gay people.

I have a much better idea. Let’s just build a big fence around alllllll the bigots and NOT drop in any food and leave them in there until they die out. Doesn’t that sound like a better solution for our world?

After a shitstorm of protest followed Worley's erudite profferings of Christian love, he uttered, “I’ve got a King James Bible. I’ve been a preacher for 53 years. Do you think I’m going to bail out on this?”

No. No, I’m quite sure you won’t bail out on your vomitous vitriol. People with a track record of stupidity this deep don’t generally embrace change. Or common sense.

You say you have a Bible? Well, Worley, I’m thinking that you might need to crack it open and read a little bit of the New Testament. Perhaps in your half-century of blustering bullshit you’ve forgotten what it says there. Love thy neighbor? Remember that? Oh, and while you’re reading, why don’t you shut the fuck up?

To read more of the original article:

http://usnews.msnbc.msn.com/_news/2012/05/27/11908278-standing-ovation-greets-pastor-charles-worley-who-made-anti-gay-statements?lite

Why Can't Bieber Fever be Fatal? Why? Why?

Yes, this shit-eating grin is worth $112 million. Where's acne when you need it?!

Do you know why 10-year-olds cannot drive a car or vote for president? No. It is not because they cannot see over the steering wheel or reach the gas pedal and brake or understand the complex issues required to select the best person to run the United States of America. Wait. That last one applies to many adults I know, so scrap that.

The reason that we cannot entrust preteens with the answers to any important decisions is because they suck at pinpointing quality. Just look at the latest American Idol runner-up if you don’t believe me. So because Jessica Sanchez reminds them of themselves and sounds like every other screeching vocal acrobat on their iPods, she made it to the top two? WTF? 

I cannot even bear to listen to that caterwauling crap that emanates from most popular artists today. I am deaf, but I am NOT one of those tone-deaf idiots who judge the value of singing by how loud it is and how many notes the “singer” can milk out of what was supposed to be ONE. Jeez. What happened to pure voices and lyrics not slimy with graphic sex? There is a difference between sensuality and humping everything in sight. But if you consider the music videos inflicted on our youth, how could we expect any youngster to know the difference?

And then there is Justin Bieber. J Biebs. The Biebster. Barrrrrrrf. Yes, I am aware that young girls have been swooning over musicians and vocalists since the first dude in a short toga plucked a lyre string. And I was the most ardent Osmond brothers fan ever born. “Cute” is appealing. And there is almost no arguing that JB is “cute.” And, yes, he is clearly musically talented. But there is a difference between popularity and saturation. 

Did you know that he made #3 on the Forbes list of most powerful celebrities in the world in 2012? Powerful. Not cute. Not talented. Powerful. You see who is driving the freaking universal minivan to the drive-up teller at the bank, don’t you? Teenagers. And they are giggling through their food-caked braces with the little neon rubber bands all the way. God, shoot me now.

Did we honestly need that haircut? And “Boyfriend??” Please, Jesus, make it stopppp. And the dolls? Barbies worldwide vomited in tandem. And that MOVIE, for God’s sake? The ONLY good news about Justin Bieber: Never Say Never is that Just Go with It, one of the biggest piece-of-shit-Jennifer-Aniston-projects (which is admittedly kind of redundant) ever created, beat it at the box office. So yay. I’ll take that tiny bit of justice. And his “Baby” video is the most despised YouTube video of all time. So apparently I’m not the only one hatin.’

It’s just terribly frightening that Bieber got such a young start because that means we are going to be stuck with him for decades. Technically, he could still be charting in 2100. That’s fucking scary. I just read the other day that scientists believe that they will be able to double our life spans pretty soon. Shit! Biebs could live 142 more years. 

UNLESS… scientists can figure out a way to make Bieber Fever into a biological weapon. A majority of shrieking teenagers gone in a poof! And since we all know Biebs suffers from his own fever, voilà! No more bowl-cut, bullshit-singing, Selena-Gomez-banging, Canadian menace. You know, I think this could actually work. Or I could just cut his tiny man-balls off, and he could bleed to death right now. It’s not like it would change his voice or anything. Yep. I like that much better.

Dickwad in Aisle 7.

All they have is the one pail and the one saw, so you better hurry before someone else nabs those, and then you can’t cut down that neighbor’s tree while he’s away on vaca or throw a bucket of acid on his new car in the driveway.

So, the other evening, my hubby and I procured lumber to construct a deck in the backyard. I love betterfication projects. I love starting with something as ugly as an infected dog anus and making it look not like an infected dog anus. I love the smell of Home Depot and all the aisles of possibilities there. I can’t curb my urge to fondle the sample backsplash tiles, and it’s nearly impossible to reign in my desire to writhe around in some fresh Martha Stewart paint or Sackrete or potting soil.

And, don’t even let me go to a craft store. At one point the other night, I ran over to Michael's with my daughter to pick up a very large canvas for a painting she's doing and some Sculpey clay for a cute, little project someone has commissioned her to create; well, it's practically orgasmic in that store. Beads and colored pencils and glitter! Oh, my! Hell, I went to Hobby Lobby earlier this week to get one of my 30-year-old paintings framed, and I had to rush in and out without looking at a single thing lest I run up some debt and cause a scene like Meg Ryan in When Harry Met Sally. I've got a serious DIY addiction.

Anyway, my trip to Home Depot ended up sucking balls because this dude in there agreed with me when I said I was fat. Dumbass! He apparently hasn't been whopped upside the fucking head enough. At first he was kind of being creepy and saying inappropriate things in front of my husband (who is totally oblivious to any flattery directed at me from outside sources). The guy—a HD employee—made remarks about my looking like my daughter's sister instead of her mother, blah,blah,blah. Gack. Then, I had to go back later to the aisle where he was stocking some shit, and he said, "You must have been a baby when you had your daughter."

"Ummmm," I said. "No, no. I'm going to be 50 in a year."

"Well, you're well preserved," he said, and I was kind of impressed he knew the word "preserved." Then I stupidly offered the well-known-among-women fact that if one is overweight, one tends not to age as quickly because of the plumpness in the face. Skeletor women look 100. So, he said, "You're just fluffy." WHAT?! I didn't know they hire pretards at Home Depot. What a dick. I mean, what does one respond to that? I just mumbled some concurring crap and waddled off.

Note to dickwads: You don’t tell a woman she’s fat for any fucking reason unless you would like to be ball-less and have a peanut-sized dick—yours—rammed up your ass. I once had a minutes-long crush on this complete pothead friend of my brother’s in high school. NO idea why. But he found out about the crush and said to me, “If you lost about 30 pounds, I’d date you.” Was that supposed to be romantic? Foreplay? What? That dude knocked up another friend of my brother’s before they ever graduated, and she was…wait for it…HEAVY before he planted his crotchberry in there. How was her fat more attractive than my fat?

And this other time during my senior year in high school, I went on a dinner date with a guy who took me to an all-you-can-eat fish fry because—he said— “I know how you like to eat.” And then the asshole made me pay for my half. Class-say.

I guess the point is that I look like a fullback and need to shed some serious poundage. But still. There is no justifiable reason ever that anyone should have the ass-faced dicklessness to mention a woman’s girth. Even if she is sitting on his head, smothering the son-of-a-bitch to death.

Tornados Suck Ass.

Yeah. Yeah. It would be lovely if the house lifted by the twister remained INTACT.

I love my father. I really do. He is without a doubt the best father in the known universe for many reasons, not the least of which is that he still rocks at 80 years old. But I have to say that Daddy did a number on me in my childhood. The truth is He. Fucked. Me. Up. He scared the bejeezus out of me and caused me a life-long phobia because he recounted a twisted tale of tornado: The famous F4 tornado of April 30, 1953, which slammed into Warner Robins, Georgia, my home town, just about quitting time for the workers at Robins Air Force Base.

Daddy has always been fond of telling stories that involved his near death, I assume in an effort to Fuck. Me. Up. He often spun a scary yarn about how that fateful April day, he was supposed to pick up a work buddy at the Base’s front gate as usual; but this day, his co-worker went home ill, so Daddy was already way down Watson Boulevard by the time the sky turned a sickly greenish-gray. The front gate of the Base took a direct hit, so  thank God for stomach viruses or whatever sacked that guy Dad was supposed to pick up.

As they traveled down Watson, one of the fellows with whom he carpooled hollered out, “Twister!” and the three of them got out and stood by the car to watch the dervish pop pecan trees out of the ground like dandelions. Someone said, “It’s standing still,” to which some other informed voice replied, “That means it’s coming straight at us.” And they hauled ass out of the way. Good thing, too, or Daddy could have died, which would have prevented my birth ten years later. You just never know how many random choices could have stopped you from starting. But I digress. Back to tornados.

Daddy likes to call tornados “tornations,” which does not make them one iota more delightful to me. Every freaking time a little wind stirred up in my childhood, I bolted to the nearest southwest window to see if a funnel cloud might be heading my way. At night, when the darkness shrouded any clear vision, I simply could not sleep during a storm. I kept imagining the freight train sound and flying cars and appliances and livestock and houses. That damned Wizard of Oz crap sure as hell didn’t help, and I never, ever should have watched that movie at the impressionable age of fucking EVER.

And then my brother and his family barely survived a twister in Florida right after his little girl was born. In fact, my niece had just arrived home from a serious surgery just days after her birth when my brother sat in his music studio talking to our dad on the phone. (The studio is a separate house behind the main house.) So to make a long story short—too LATE!—my brother says to my father, “Hey, Dad, it’s lightning something awful, so I better head on over to the main house,” or something close to that. Well. As he stepped out the door, he looked behind the studio just in time to see a flash of lighting afford a terrifying view of a big, ol’, son-of-bitching twister bearing down on him and his loved ones. He and his wife managed to shelter the baby and drag a mattress over their heads in the hallway seconds before mayhem. What’s killer is that the house directly across the street was simply not there any longer. Only its foundation remained. But my brother’s house had nary a scratch. Only his backyard garden shed ended up in the front yard. Sweet.

It’s not hard to understand why I hate stupid tornations, now, is it? Recently one destroyed a town nearby, and the horror stories of families killed while lying prone, reciting Bible verses in their hallways just adds all kinds of nasty fuel to my crazy distaste for anything funnelear. And now I live in a tornado alley. I’ve lost count of the times I’ve gathered what’s dear to me (computer, purse, dog, husband, phone) and huddled in the master bathroom, listening with my stellar sense of hearing for any sign of freight train. Tonight we were on the freaking bathroom floor for 45 minutes. It gets old, sure. And if the house get sucked up by a spinning column of evil wind, I’m going with it, I know. Lordy. It’s this time of year that keeps me deeply invested in the manufacturers of Pepto Bismol. Dammit. There are just some things one should not share with one’s offspring. Cold sores. The flu. Details about parental sex. And stories of killer tornados. So. Yeah. Thanks a lot, Dad.