Seriously. I think Fenbert is doing great things in the secular/pagan sphere, not too mention she pumps out a well written column despite the fact that it is occasionally assailed by sarcastic morons.
Frankly though I stopped paying attention to the nay-sayers after my head almost imploded when I read various bearded feminists lambasting Quateman for calling whores…well whores, in her column about a whorehouse. Some of the stuff these comment-trolls manage to write is like a verbal lobotomy-abortion of my brain stem. I’m tempted to suggest that they’re better than that, but I kind’ve doubt it.
Here’s what I like most about Fenbert’s column: the fact that it lures NYC’s pagans out of their candlelit enclaves and into the light of the internet, producing such gems as “T’Chris” and “silvrwlf”. Not only is the wolf silver, it is SO SILVER it has no use for the vowels normally used by christian fundamentalist conformists or numb hetero-normative zombies who tranquilize themselves with regular doses of football, coors-light and the blood of Iraqi children. (Kidding, you guys actually left constructive, well-written comments. I wasn’t sure the response board was capable to actually handling those).
Seriously though, I do think its cool that we get to hear a very different (independent) brand of religiosity. My only question is, where do I sign up? I’ve pretty much filled out all the paper work. My new, pagan name will be Llowoloth the Fatigued, and my main god will actually be Black God, who in addition to having sex with Sarah Silverman can also dunk in your intolerant christian FACE. He also has a way bigger penis than your god. Eat it, Dionysus, you fat half-goat bastard.
I still think that if the knuckleheads in the white house are so concerned with fighting radical Islam they should forget about troops, and let corporate America wage the war on terror. If we had Starbucks and Burger Kings on every corner in Baghdad you could bet your red white and blue ass after six months every “insurgent” would be at home with diabetes watching Pimp My Ride and shopping for burkhas on his Verizon wi-fi. Anyway, in the meantime, props to Playboy for leading the charge.
This is basically a 100% accurate portrayal of my Thursday-Saturday nights. Damn you Kermit, why must you lay bare the tattered, vomit stained rags of my soul for all of Youtube with your insidious muppetry??!?!
On a lighter note, I hope all you school-girl rubes (Yea I’m sniffing up your dress G-Mills) are bringing your a-game friday. And by ‘a-game’ I mean cash dollars. For me to take. After I beat you. Hopefully in poker (be advised that dark alleys also work should my luck be running sour).
Does anybody have any spare Gary Miller hair I could add to my shrine?
I love how people just consistently cannot handle his funk.
A few observations:
- He never actually says anything negative about the homeless. He personally doesn’t care about them, or so he maintains in the article , but he never actually attacks them in any way.
- I wonder if most people who were so offended and flabbergasted at this article were really just upset with the honesty of his reaction: after spending a night without a roof his sentiment was not a romanticized wail for the poor, but a simple acknowledgment of how shitty it is to live outside:
I gave up and went home. I felt beat-down, defeated by the cold world, but that feeling passed as I entered the warm lobby of my apartment building.
Is the fact that he deviates from the knee-jerk sympathies that are ingrained in us really so offensive to everyone?
- This article isn’t satire, but I do believe it is meant to be read ironically.
- To the people who made ad hominem attacks, especially the person who described Gary giving his girlfriend an abortion with a coathanger: (1) I dare you to say that type of stuff to anyone in person. It is exceptionally easy to be so shrill via internet. (2) You are upset (as far as I can gather) because you feel he insulted the homeless, so you assume therefore that by insulting him, instead of analyzing why you felt the article wasn’t constructive, Gary will somehow see the error of his ways and repent. If you are smart enough to operate a computer and access the internet, you should be smart enough to see that that sort of reaction is just unacceptably childish. If the only way you can deal with your own anger and frustration (at a written piece of work, no less) is to attempt to hurt someone verbally, you probably should not be at a university with this little adult supervision.
Sweet creamy christ, has anyone seen this?!
The guys who wrote this are a nerd-dream-team triumvirate whose powers combined threaten to tear apart the jock-o-verse by its muscular, insensitive seams.
Seriously, who would have thought fucking Captain Crunch, Queen’s ex-guitarist and some pasty British Virgin (no, I’m not sure there’s another kind) would have teamed up to explore the universe?!?! If there is a God presiding over our desolate vacuum he sure is one cheeky son of a bitch. Its like they’re doing a dork-version of ‘Rent’ except instead of everyone having AIDS, this rag-tag crew is just really bad at sports and picking up girls.
Sir Patrick Moore, who is presumably their adorably crabby but ultimately good-hearted father figure/wise leader had this to say about their search for life on other planets:
It follows that in the galaxy there are vast numbers of planets that are suitable for life of the kind we can understand – that is to say, carbon-based life. (I do not propose here to discuss truly alien life-forms; that would lead into totally uncharted waters!)
The last place I’d ever get into with Lord Jowls up there is ‘totally uncharted waters!’, let alone a lengthy discussion about whether aliens on other planets have butts on their faces, and if so, from whence do they poop?
I’ve never understood the immature human fascination with life on other planets. Ten bucks if we ever do find ‘intelligent’ life somewhere else it will also be motivated solely by a need to fuck and eat stuff–even if they are translucent blobs that communicate by via an intricate shape changing dance that is as erotic and beautiful as it is mysterious (just sayin’). Besides do we really want other sentient witnesses to our ridiculous bungling? Being on this intergalactic short-bus (aka Earth) is bad enough without an audience gurgling its exotic disdain.
On a side note, I already feel really bad for my future wife.
P.S. Speaking of other life forms I believe there is a way to come to terms with the actions of the College Dems, unfortunately it involves huffing paint from a filthy bag and listening to The Cure on loop in a dark room. Suffice it to say it was a winding and tortuous path that lead me to such a discovery.
I know this is a little old, but there’s something about this clip that always serves to put everything in perspective for me.
That pretty much sums it up I think.
Allow me to preface this post by saying that the only thing that gets me harder than the suffering of others is probably linguistics. Contained in my list of “things I would need to properly conduct a romantic evening with Ludwig Wittgenstein
list” are (in no particular order): scented candles, a pack of ravenous wolverines in heat, a shallow earthen pit and (of course) Hypnotiq.
Anyway, I personally thought Kreiter’s prose was goddamned delectable–I did have some beef with some of the implications in her column today though.
I thought the second half of this article was pretty awesome.
I have a statement: Anybody who gives his life in war is an idiot…“Your life isn’t given,” I remember him saying, “it’s brutally ripped away from you. You’re no good to your buddies dead, and when the bullets start pouring in you don’t give a goddamn about God, country, Yale, your loved ones, the last full measure of devotion or any other of that Legionnaire patriotic crapola. You just want you and your buddies to see at least one more sunrise.”
It’s actually surreal to think of a time when America was populated by brave, tough, freedom-loving people. It’s also surreal to think those same brave, tough, freedom loving people went on to raise such a fuck-up of a generation.
Just so you know, Moskowitz, I fight neither women nor children–Lierley, being a strange hybrid of both is doubly disqualified from traversing the twisting labyrinth of pain that is a hand-to-hand engagement with yours truly.
For the sake of argument, if “he” and I were to fight I would probably spew stale liquor in his pretty boy face and spit in his slick corporate haircut. Following these humiliations, assuming he hadn’t already submitted, I would throw in a devestating rabbit punch–thus leaving him ripe for the reverse suplex, which I would perform until:
I know I should probably be super serious and write something about illegal immigrants or budget deficits or shemales or whatever gives you faux-intellectuals brain-erections in this apocalypse that passes for the present, but today — day of days! — which marks my having spent a quarter of my projected life span on this miserable rock I will do something unprecedented. I will share with you all a small bit of joy. Hark!
I don’t mean to be typhoid Mary here (okay I do a little bit, contagions get me off) but has anybody seen this?
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