For Shame and For Shame!

You know what? Every single body out there has done shit of which he or she is ashamed. Some of it illegal. Some of it just embarrassing. God knows I have. But in a concerted effort to help me be less narcissistic, let’s not dwell on me.

If you’re one of those high falutin,’ holier-than-thou, Puritanical fuckers who claim to have no skeletons in your closet, then you are lying through your freaking teeth right now, and you should be ashamed of yourself. 

So there. That takes care of everyone. 

The differences do not lie in degree of shame. It’s not that any so-called “sin” is any worse than another. Lying. Cheating. Murdering. Torturing of puppies. Faking orgasm. Wrong is wrong. The only reason some people are all cozy in their smug self-righteousness is because their wrongs aren’t public.

Celebrities—especially reality television personalities and Charlie Sheen—are a special group of “people” who do not get to whine when their dirty laundry goes up on the line. When you sign up for a life of adoration by the masses, then you can damned well expect that some crayfucks are going to go through your trash, or take pictures of your naked boobies if you display them. And if you take a picture of your weenie with your fucking cell phone, then you deserve to have said dick-pic universally tweeted. Come on! If you are THAT freaking proud of your penis, have an oil portrait commissioned and save our retinas.

So what about regular folks who do things that they’d rather keep under wraps such as, say, procuring the services of a prostitute? Should the public be privy to the identities of hooker-humpers? It seems that recently up Maine-way, lots of hollering and groaning is going on because the newspapers want to print a list of alllllll the fuckbunny-fillers who visited Zumba instructor Alexis Wright, who was really selling way more than some swiveling hips and sweatin’ to the oldies. Now, presumably, there was probably some sweatin’ and swiveling and hollering and groaning going on otherwise, at least if that girl was worth the money her ho-handlers were paying her. But we’re talking about the whining here. The Maine Supreme Judicial Court is having to weigh in because some pay-to-fuck folks have their panties all in a wad over the possible “schoolyard teasing” and “public shaming” that might occur if everyone knows that Daddy has been placing his hotdog outsida Mommy’s bun.  One hapless Zumba patron droned on and on about how exposing him was going to do nothing but hurt his wife and family. Awwwww. Ittin that sweeeet? Thinking of his family’s feelings. Finally. Prick.

See? That’s the problem. We all do stupid shit without thinking through the consequences. You know you speed on those long, straight, deserted backroads, so don’t deny it. And you’ve sampled the grapes before purchasing “to see if they were sweet.” And you may have even slipped someone a twenty to play lollipop with your joystick. And you KNOW all of those things are bad. Frowned upon. Illegal, actually. What if you hit and killed a young family while you were speeding? What if you got caught shoplifting the produce and lost your job? What if you picked up an oozy STD from that Zumba bitch and passed it along to your wife? THAT’S way worse than having your name printed in the paper for solicitation, you selfish bastard.

Here’s the rub. When people break the law—moral or penal—exposure is fair game. Beyond the actual awful consequences that our actions sometimes have on others, when we make a bad choice, we stand the chance of suffering embarrassment if everyone knows. My hometown newspaper, for example, prints up its “arrest record” each week so that we can all see who was driving drunk or beating his girlfriend last Saturday night. Right now, the argument in Maine is whether the johns should have their names printed before they are charged and convicted of a crime. Before they are even arrested.

If the court allows it, eventually, someone will figure out that it isn’t fair to publish SOME misdeeds. If society is going to require scarlet letters, then everything illegal has to be outed. And then, if all transgressions are made public, the shaming will act as a deterrent…for a while. But pretty soon, every single person on the planet will be on a list for some dastardly deed, and who would care anymore?

Ooooo, Michael stole a Snickers from the local convenience store. Ooooooo, Elizabeth crashed into the front of the drycleaners after too many Martinis. Oooooo, Somebody-bin-Something suicide bombed a marketplace. Who would be shocked?

We’d go from a society that still has some standards to a society of finger-pointers to a society of “everyone does it, so why not?” The only way those fellows in Maine are going to learn any kind of lesson is if they are charged individually and punished for their illegal actions. Their families are going to be hurt either way. Public shaming is just a ruse to make closet-fucker-uppers feel better. Unfortunately for all of us, it looks like the Maine Supreme Judicial Court may be about to open our closet doors.

Stripping = NOT a Tribute to Girl Power

Madonna. Madonna. Madonna. Please, please stop trying to help. Some of your music belongs on my list of best songs EVAH, and I love your performance in Desperately Seeking Susan. Plus, you were robbed of an Academy Award nomination for Evita. Damn, you were extraordinary in that role. But when it comes to “role model for girls,” you have managed to be the antithesis for thirty freaking years. Before you, parents who let their five-year-olds out of the house in sexy lingerie would have been jailed. Middle-schoolers in revealing outfits with cross-necklace accents would’ve been sent home to change. Cone bras would not have made a comeback. And it would most definitely not be okay for a woman of any age to flash a nipple in a public arena or to charge $745 for a fourth-row ticket to see her strip.

Last week in a stop in L.A. on the MDNA Tour, Madonna told her audience that she’d been moved to tears by the story of Malala Yousafzai, a young Pakastani blogger who had been shot by Taliban asshats after she wrote in support of education for girls. I can understand Madonna’s anguish. Only asshats still hold the mistaken belief that females don’t deserve schooling and opportunities for a better life and freedom from burqas.

So, logically, to show her support for Malala, Madonna did what allllllllll of us want to do. She mowed down those Taliban mother fuckers with an Uzi. What? She what? Oh. That’s right.

Never heralded for her logic, Madonna did not, in fact, remove the scourge of the earth with weaponry after all. She stripped. In public. In front of thousands and thousands of people. Because showing your tits is the absolute best way to say, “No more objectifying and oppressing women, you dickless Taliban freaks!” Madonna thought performing a strip tease that revealed “Malala” painted on her bare back…ah, hell. I have no freaking idea what Madonna was thinking.

How is parading your nakedness going to affect any change, Ms. Ciccone, especially in the minds of Taliban followers?  We’re all happy for you that you still look amazing at your age. You can stop rubbing that in now. I’m sure Guy Ritchie feels like a putz that he no longer gets to tap that sculpted ass of yours and feel your veiny arms around his neck and stick his tongue in that gap between your front teeth through which a semi could easily pass.

Look, Madonna. If you protest burqas by going over to the Middle East, stripping bare, and flipping twin birds in a bustling open-air market, maybe I can get behind that. Generations would worship your bravery and bullet-ridden corpse. But stripping in L.A. to support the idea of education for oppressed women smacks of exhibitionism and narcissism and desperation. Thanks for setting back the progress yet again.

Suicide: The OTHER Pro-Choice

Are you fucking kidding me? If you need a sports-themed coffin, then you have some serious issues, which maybe need to be resolved BEFORE you die.

I know I’m going to piss some people off. But, here goes.

Okay, I admit I’ve tried to commit suicide a few times. So shoot me. No, really. My insurance will pay, like, double if I don’t do it myself and it’s accidental.

Oh, God. Now some cray fucker who sees this post is going to take me literally and pull a stalk-n-kill on my ass. And just my luck, too, craytard will catch me on a day when I’m not particularly suicidal. But it’s not like YOU’RE getting any of the above mentioned financial benefits, so save your ammo, asshole.

The thing is that I question life expectancy v. what-good-a-body-is-doing-still-kicking.  Right this very second, I’m not hankering to die, but I often experience an overwhelming realization that I’m just killing time. I’m taking up space—a LOT more of it lately, too—and not making much of a contribution to anything other than denting the couch. Because I MUST (so that I don’t appear to be a freaking loser), I get enough accomplished to function at bare-minimum mode because the amount of spiritual, physical, and emotional energy required for BMM turns out to be monolithic. I’m like a cat constantly working in a sandbox, expending enormous toil to cover up one little piece of shit.

Now, I expect that only a handful of folks will understand this line of thinking. Most people believe in the sanctity of life—and I don’t take that lightly either. (Unless we’re talking about the life of a roach or this mosquito that has been dive-bombing me all evening. The first good chance I get, that biting sumbitch is going to be nothing but a blood-smear. Sorry, Dalai Lama.) I hold OTHER people’s lives dear. But who’s to say when one has reached the expiration date of usefulness? Who’s to say that it isn’t time to go when one has met his or her highest potential? Look. When there is no other direction to go but farther down, why stick around to feel nothing but low?

Yes, yes. I know. Think of the survivors and how awful they will feel! But death and survivorship are inescapable. It’s all a matter of choosing the “when.” It may make my survivors feel a bit better if I wait to shuffle off this mortal coil when I’m a 110-year-old relic who doesn’t remember who the hell they are. Death would be a nice relief for the survivors at that point. But I will have grown way tired of applesauce and adult-diaper-rash by then.

Oh. I remember the BIG argument. Eternal flames. Yeah, yeah. I’m not being cavalier. Just realistic. I think God loves us. I don’t think He causes any of the turmoil we endure, and I don’t think He means to torture us for eternity. Consider a case of protracted and heinous child abuse. Some poor kid suffers unthinkable shit for so long that she can’t take another second. So she takes a permanent dirt nap escape. Are you honestly going to argue that our loving God would then subject that ruined child of His to even more agony? Forever? I just don’t buy that. Our Lord did not put us here and gift us with beauty and laughter and music so that we could choose to suffer by avoiding the bounty. This life is not some cruel game of keep-away.

But sometimes our own limitations and choices make it impossible for us to enjoy the heaven we have right here on earth.

So. How can I reconcile the idea of a power greater than myself and the preciousness of creation with the belief that it’s okay to throw in the towel when one is ready? Mercy-killing and assisted suicide get folks all in a dither. It’s easier to stomach the ideas when the “victim’s” death is imminent. But aren’t ALL of our deaths imminent? Ain’t no immortality last I heard, no matter what that Twilight shit says.

Now, listen. I am NOT advocating that angsty teenagers should knock themselves off at the first whiff of feeling a little depressed.  YOUNG folks should NEVER commit suicide because they have no possible way of knowing whether the best is yet to come. And odds are, it IS.

And I’m not saying that ALL sad people ought to pack it in. Sad is normal sometimes. What isn’t normal is when one bad situation after another piles up on a fellow, and there is no legitimate end in sight. What isn’t normal is the bottom-of-the-barrel feeling that one’s ship of dreams has passed on by, and it ain’t coming back. When there is nothing but shit on the horizon, WHY should one stick around to greet it?

What I’m saying is that when an ADULT human specimen has had enough mediocrity or worse; when a person recognizes that he or she has achieved all he/she is going to do this time around, and that there IS NOT going to be something better over the next hill; when a fellow decides that his quality of life—whether it’s physical, emotional or spiritual life we’re talking about here—is so diminished as to make existence unbearable, then WHY shouldn’t the enlightened one get to opt out of the misery?