Finally, Something That's Really Mom's Fault

Monica Emmerson's Travel Day To-Do List

Sippy cup, sippy cup... Hold toddler, look harried, contact media, get in front of the story before somebody with a Blackberry emails CNN with a tale that you threw a hissy in the airport that required half the U.S. domestic armed forces to address.

Make sure you're not the bad gal from the get-go. Everybody's going to initially buy the Security People Gone Mad angle. Forty-eight hours of publicity, let it slip that you were a Secret Service employee to bolster your credibility, wrangle an ill-deserved apology and free flights for life for you and the kid.

Contact one of those sippy cup manufacturers and hint that when this all blows over you'd be willing to do one of those ironic wink-and-a-nod commercials to push their product. Jot down a few notes for how I explain to the tot that I used him as a prop in what became an international sham job. We all hate our parents by the age of 16 anyway. What the hell? He'll have a better excuse than most.

"After Therapy" Goes.....Print

The newspaper picked up a few paragraphs of After Therapy thought and printed them in the OpEd pages today. Needless to say, "tickled" doesn't begin to describe our reaction.

They printed a slightly cleaned-up version of our thoughts on a local issue that got some national play. Kelsey Smith, a murdered Midwest teen, has been the focus of many letters to the editor since her story reached its apex. Most of them were decrying the obvious. A few were seizing the chance to score points for their caucus of choice.

On the same day, one letter was from a pro-death penalty minister seeking to spread the love of Jesus at the end of a noose for the murderer. Another was from a man who cut-and-pasted the When Someone Gets Shot paragraph from the N.R.A. newsletter that excuses the sin while lamenting the sinner.

And I thought we just had a case of crazy kid kills pretty girl.

We fired off this email to the editor:

Some days you’re reminded that common courtesy is neither, to paraphrase someone.

I pray for Kelsey Smith’s family in the face of unimaginable pain. That’s not what Patrick McWilliams (6/12, “Using a gun for defense”) or the Rev. David McKinley (6/12, “Kelsey Smith”) did. No, these letter writers approached the loss of a mother and daddy’s little girl with agendas rolled up in one hand and placards in the other: one to push his pro-death penalty view, the other to shill for the National Rifle Association. This kind of parasitic opportunism is stomach-turning.

If their parents are around, they have reason to disclaim responsibility for having raised someone to use a child’s death to praise their political pets. A pox on both their houses.

If no one else has told you, the rule is, “Shut up and mourn.” This is not your side-show.

The appearance above is slightly edited by the Powers That Be. I called them "boobs", not letter writers. I would never call someone a letter writer if I had the chance to call them a boob. But I guess that's the daily print business for you. The paper's Web site gives ample opportunity for the more weak-livered among us to fire back anonymously. This is the part we liked best.

We got one only slightly veiled invitation to join a racist rant that seems rooted in the belief that missing white girls make better TV than black ones do. And that their families' tireless efforts earn their plight the coverage it gets. Someone actually gave us an "Amen." Same person. One racist "Amen" for the After Therapy train of thought. We might need to retrace our steps.

So... hyped by the sheer exhilaration of having at least one thought on thousands of front lawns and at least one crazy person closely scrutinizing (and agreeing, frightfully enough) we decided to return the favor and post a comment of our own - as a karmic Thank You for adding ink to our inclinations. I picked out a letter from a Vietnam Vet still crying in his oatmeal over the ass-kicking handed to my former congressman, the Olympic runner Jim Ryun (R- KS), by Democrat Nancy Boyda in the 2006 cycle. Of late, the recriminations have focused on Ryun's absence from Vietnam for a "disability" (a 50% hearing loss at age 4 from high fever) - fine fodder for poking fun, given his rise to fame was based on his physical fitness.

So we jotted:

"Our thanks go to (the vet) for finally offering the one sensible explanation for Ryun's congressional service: He simply didn't hear what was going on.

To be so consistently wrong on such a wide variety of issues that you actually glide to the right of your rural Kansas constituents is a colossal achievement. To realize that it was accidental and a result of hearing loss is just... well... sad.

Interestingly, we know a number of hearing-impaired individuals who seem to be right on the issues most of the time. Perhaps attributing Ryun's poor judgement to his poor hearing is unfair to his ears. More often than not, the problem is between the ears, not in them.

Our modest education taught us that when an issue arises about which you have no reason to speak with clarity, reason or sound judgement, one ought to keep one's hand in the pocket when the vote is taken. Mr. Ryun, despite his lamentable hearing loss, was all too giddy to rush to the floor to cast his misguided votes to our collective detriment. His loss in '06 was among the most jaw-droppingly improbable of them all.

His hearing may be the lone, true explanation for how he slithered out of one war-time sacrifice. It does nothing but further our condemnation of him for pushing others down the same road he's never even sniffed. His defeat was too long in coming.

You can't say he didn't earn it. You can't say it wasn't a good idea. And you can't say we haven't already done better for ourselves."

Well... you'd think I'd called someone's grandmother a whore. I was poking sticks at a long-gone Representative from the part of Kansas most people don't know exists. Here's a sampling of the reaction:

"The party of tolerance marches on!!!"
"...irrational moonbats like yourself."
"...miserable partisan diatribe..."

Us! Moi! Your local funny/cranky/quirky/dirty talker! If there was a word to describe the thrill of being called nasty names by people you don't know, I would like it put on a t-shirt, a bumper sticker, and a line of condoms. This must be what love feels like!!

We may never again see ourselves in "real" print, but this time was a hell of a lot of fun! Our boobs may have become letter writers, we may have inadvertently given off a receptive racist vibe, but all in all, we discovered that getting called names in public is a HUGE turn-on.

On a disturbing note, we caught an unwelcome glimpse of understanding for the Ann Coulters of the planet. We don't like that part of the realization, but it apparently comes with Media Whore territory. As the French say,

"Tant pis."

If You Come, They Will Build It... Sort Of

The line was instant movie history when the seminal moment of Field of Dreams flickered across the screen. "If you build it, they will come." The removal of air from the room was palpable as hopes and dreams were distilled into seven syllables. Today, Kansas City teeters between slack-jawed horror and that giddiness that comes with waiting for an explosive to do its thing. The National Right To Life Committee has sanctified the local Hyatt for a few days. Liquor sales are reported to be up 30% over a year ago.

This group of Stop Right There thinkers has converged upon our middle-of-nowhere serenity with their unique brand of half-baked assumptions and half-assed conclusions. And less than half of the Republican candidates for president bothered to book a flight for the event. We call this progress.

The basis of the Know Nothing wing of the party - they are to American Politics what snake parts are to a can of green beans - is the conviction that caring at all the wrong times exempts you from giving a damn at all the right times. In a delightful display of insanity, they contend just the opposite. That's why we haven't gone out of our way to make a big deal over their presence. If the circus wants to set up down the street, who can argue with the convenience of a decent show on the block - elephant shit notwithstanding? We spent long minutes wondering whether the Committee believes itself to be furthering the Nation, Rights or Life. The conclusion? Like most committees, it now simply exists to announce its existence. Committees all go that direction eventually.

To understand these well-dressed lunatics requires a basic knowledge of tactics more than platforms. First, they speak a language that sounds like English but isn't. They take words from the language but use them in a way so that they mean the opposite of what the casual listener might assume. We dated a guy like that. It's where we got familiar with the term "Congenital Liar". They are so convinced in their misuse of the language that they forget just when and where they made the decision to lie in he first place.

The right to life is a sure thing. It's right there in the Declaration of Indepedence next to liberty and the ever-popular pursuit of happiness. But these wing nuts don't mean life like you mean life. They don't mean breathing. They mean the obligation to breed. You think a right to life means a right to be alive. They think the same right means you may get to the starting line, but you're on your own from there. From conception through the frying of the placenta at your family gathering, they insist you finish what you started. Once it cries, their job is done. They have no plans or desire to feed, clothe, care, or otherwise give a good goddamn about that hideous creature until they congratulate it in heaven some years hence.

This Right To Life bunch is anti-abortion and pro-death penalty, pro-war, pro-gun, anti-welfare, and generally anti-bothering them with any of the details of a life they insisted be commenced. They are notoriously opposed to the idea that everyone should have simple health care. Keep your eye on the dashboard Jesus: This is about getting life started, which has nothing to do with keeping it going. Look at their complete abstinence in the last 25 years on AIDS: If you got it domestically, shame on you; if you got it internationally, they'll pray for you. One of our favorite Ann Richards quotes refers to the elder Bush's identical position on all of the above: "Spoken like a true fisherman: Throw 'em back and kill 'em when they're grown." If that doesn't sum it up, we may need to have the Good Lord send Ann back for an encore.

The Right To Life bunch is thrilled to see your fryable ass in an electric chair, your veins popping with poison at your final moment of a death sentence, or your neck snapping from a good hanging. The Right To Life bunch doesn't acknowledge anything between vaginal birth and funeral rites as worthy of their attention. They have one goal and one goal only.

Make sure the sperm takes.

That's it. Nothing else. Once the orgasm hits, you are on the hook, in their book. Better you should aim for a tree than a fertile womb, although when Dr. Joycelyn Elders (nominated by President Clinton as Surgeon General) suggested that masturbation was a pretty good contraceptive measure, these same nut bags went berserk. They subscribe to the Loaded Gun Theory of the penis. You're not supposed to use it except in emergencies. If it's not an emergency, you don't have any business even touching it. Funny people, this bunch. They should get a sitcom. They already have a news network.

Mitt Romney showed up to kiss their ass as did the local yahoo, Sen. Sam Brownback - the only Kansan we could find who makes Bob Dole look chipper. Our favorite crazy person du jour: Rep. Ron Paul of Texas - the Libertarian who can't seem to find the exit door of the Republican Party - also showed up. The delegates had to be told as much after he spoke. They barely noticed. You can imagine the popularity of a Libertarian message ("Hey...what are you doing legislating in my womb?") among this crowd. It is lost on the Know Nothings that Rep. Paul is the only one of the bunch to ever deliver a baby (he's a 70 year-old retired obstetrician). The man who has really delivered (forgive the pun) on their only issue is the one they can't seem to find in the crowd. This, too, gives us hope.

We have a "Fuck 'Em Award" for Rep. Duncan Hunter, with whom our grandmother is running even in early presidential polls. He said he would come and then didn't. We appreciate that sort of a thumb in they eye. We have nothing else nice to say about Duncan Hunter, but would be remiss to let this good deed go unnoticed. The others? Please. This is 2007. The Christian Right has been revealed as neither. Nobody with a serious chance of being President will go near these people. T.B. boy has more high-profile visitors than this bunch can muster.

Giuliani, McCain, Gilmore, The Reverend Governor Huckabee(!), Tommy Thompson and the other nameless, hopeless few Republican candidates had the entire Midwest declared a No Fly Zone just so no one thought they were headed in the direction of this conference. The top two candidates have spent the last few days walking with their backs to Kansas City just to be sure no photo op would show them facing in Missouri's general direction. We hate that they're wising up. But we love seeing loathsome philosophies marginalized in publicly humiliating ways. It makes us all tingly.

In case you were wondering, Brownback was the hit of the show. If that doesn't give you hope for our future, you may just need to go take pills and lie down.

My Space Goes All Dateline NBC On Their Ass

In a republic such as this, it is often difficult to decide which group of miscreants one will side with when the gauntlets get thrown. Usually, your choices are between the cock fighters and the woman who keeps her children locked in the chicken coops during matches. Sometimes, it's even stickier.

We learn today that Texas (that bastion of fair play and good governance - the late Ann Richards notwithstanding) put a number of registered sex offenders in the pokey for having My Space profiles when the terms of their release forbade internet activity. We certainly understand the urge. The policy among After Therapy executives is "No One Under 35 - Preferably Over 40". We have no compassion, sympathy or arguments available to those who do harm to children.

We think NAMBLA is an unnecessary evil, those who pimp their kids for a meal are the lowest of the low, and if you touch a child inappropriately before their 21st birthday, you should get whatever the cosmos - let alone the justice system - has coming for you. We are unequivocal about our distaste for child molesters, pornographers and those who enable the same through their action or ignorance.

However.... And in a constitutionally-established Republic, there is allllways a "however"....

Absent more details, which ought to be forthcoming if Paris stays put, Lindsay stays dry and Britney pulls her dress down, we are hard-pressed to figure out under what theory of law these mishaps of humanity are being detained. One of the group was singled out for failing to register as a sex offender. Fair enough. Lock him up. Hide the key. But today's reports indicate that merely being wired is sufficient to re-incarcerate these heinous creatures. We argue, unpopularly no doubt, that it isn't. It's identical to saying, "Thou shalt not go to Texas. We will now remove your legs to minimize your mobility." It's banning a person from a bar for over-indulging, then arresting them months later for being able to swallow liquids. Sometimes, in the name of common sense, we get frighteningly close to nonsense.

And that's not just our liberal law degree talkin'.

We have a system in this part of the world that says, in essence, we reserve the right to restrict what you do as a result of what you've done. We accept that as part of the social contract. No guns for felons. No voting for cons. No food stamps if you've misused the system. What we don't have is a Pariah Provision in our constitution that makes it illegal for a person to exist in the same space (virtual or otherwise) where they have previously abused the privilege. Granted, we reserve the right, under the law, to tell predators not to live within a prescribed perimeter of a school. We don't tell them they can never go to the grocery store on the off-chance they will run into a kid.

My Space certainly got its corporate legs running with the younger set. Kids dominate the scene - but aren't the only legitimate users of the service. We recently tracked down a music artist from our youth via his My Space page. The man is in his 60's and still recording gospel music. On his friends page were photos and links to the pages of many of today's better-known musicians. We attempted to shoot him an email through the site and got the message, "You Can't Do That" because we haven't created a My Space page of our own. Nice touch. The point is, this is not a sandbox filled with free candy where one expects to be able to walk away with the blonde 6 year-old of his choice. It's a public forum where people of all sorts now gather to exhibit themselves.

God knows we aren't against that.

My Space is simply a designated attraction spot on what we once called the Information Superhighway. All of us here gathered know that you can be everywhere and nowhere simultaneously in cyberspace. It is the realization of everything Star Trek promised us with its particle-beaming from one reality to another. If the computer is on, the Wi-Fi isn't glitching, and we have one eye on the screen, the entire world can welcome itself into the living room and insinuate itself in the 6th inning of a tight ballgame. If My Space is forbidden territory for those who have done others harm, how is the Internet itself any less verboten by virtue of its vast possibilities for impromptu visitation and mere chance meetings?

What is the rule Texas is seeking to articulate? No My Space for convicted sex predators because kids go there? What about just logging on to Google the ethmoid bone? Would receiving a blanket spam email from some enterprising 10 year old in Vegas put you on the hook for another 10-20 of Non-Paris Time? We know that My Space is an attractive nuisance, if you will, where young people are likely to gather. So is the mall. To my knowledge, we don't have any rules of incarceration as it pertains to patronizing Crabtree and Evelyn, though. This pendulum is swinging a bit too far into the civil liberties arena and it's going to take someone unassailable in character - or so vile they fail to register as human - to stop it.

Lock up these bastards and throw away the key - permanently - if our public policy is going to be that they are incapable of rehabilitation and proper societal functioning. If, however, we pursue a policy that allows for and encourages the restoration of these - and others - to their place in society (restricted though it may be), then the My Space Case must be settled once and for all. It is no crime to be in the same universe as those whom once you harmed.

It is a great crime to sit back and watch the majority go mad with malice and unhinge us from our constitutional moorings in the process.

(Staff note: We would like to congratulate our Editor-in-Chief for not overriding our veto when he suggested that parents "Watch those fucking troglodyte kids you're always blathering about everybody else protecting." His trust in our judgement is why we love him.)

Not Dead. Good

Guinea Pig and all... It seems the experimental route turned out to be beneficial for yours truly. We will not be posting from the great golden (or fiery) beyond in the near future - barring any bus mishaps.

After a month of grueling acclimation to the new regimen and a myriad of maladies that had us fairly well convinced we would only just outlast Jerry Falwell in the Dead Pool, the reports are in, the effects are waning, and we are about ready to climb back on the proverbial horse. AIDS will not get us this week.

Fevers pushing 105 degrees, digestive difficulty at both ends of the tract, insides that felt charred, a mind that betrayed us on occasion, malaise well-documented, fatigue indescribable, and even a hint of depression all made our acquaintance here in the "office" over the last few weeks. But thanks to the good judgement of the medical community and a God we have not sufficiently offended (yet), we have emerged on the other side with nothing but good news.

The Virus is once again undetectable in the blood stream. The fevers and aforementioned issues were simple evidence of a body doing unholy battle against invaders new and familiar. Steroids became part of our lexicon as we actually had to apply the brakes to our newly revved immune system. When the latter started to play with our mind, we called a halt to that portion of the handful of pills and began a step-down program that will play out over the next month. The fevers have all but abated, the appetite has returned with a vengeance, energy is rushing back in at the most inopportune times (3 a.m, 4 a.m., etc.) and everyone on the clinical side of the team is thrilled with the results. We considered getting fitted for appropriate burial garments on at least one occasion. The best laid plans, as they say....

The goal of aggressive treatment in people with HIV and AIDS is to see a reduction in the amount of virus to an undetectable (though not non-existent) level within 3-6 months. We crossed that hurdle just shy of the first month. Over-achieving has always been something of a knack for us. Unless, of course, we're talking about anything mechanical or interpersonal - then we defer to those with a much more convincing resume of achievement.

Thanks goes to our beloved physician, for whom we will not shill. He makes his money. But he also knows it's a price well-paid in our opinion. The other medical staff, legion of family, those who brought spaghetti and watermelon and all manner of potato products (the only food that we would eat for days), our "Aidsy Group" in The City who manages to make the most abnormal physical experience seem not that remarkable or frightening, and What's Her Name in NYC for providing much needed distraction and being a lightning rod for nastiness when it was needed all get our public, though anonymous, gratitude.

And not least of all, we thank that faithful handful of blog-readers who nudge occasionally and let us know that whatever the hell we're saying, someone is listening. And that's what life on the Big Blue Ball is really about, isn't it? Just knowing somebody heard you.

The bounce back is in full swing. Who knows? By the time we turn the page on another age in a couple of weeks, we may be stronger than ever and more sharp-tongued than one would wish. But we'll be here. Plans are in the works for an international edition of After Therapy. We're researching with our crack staff the logistics of lodging in Greece for part of the winter. We would look forward to posting from the Aegean paradise for a number of weeks. It's been something we've long thought to do and never got around to realizing.

So on we go. The future is unknowable, but at least we can plan to be flapping our gums in the midst of the most immediate part of it. And that's enough for today.

Tom

She Could Have Chuckled

We took our own advice and phoned our Senator from the Senate HELP Commitee (Pat Roberts, R-Kansas) to voice our toned-down opinion about the nomination of one Surgeon General nominee previously excoriated herein.

This is the rough draft of our conversation:

(Pleasant, slightly conservative hold music...)

Her: Senator Roberts' office! This is Wilma (name changed because we forgot to write it down).

Me: Hi! I'm a reluctant constituent of Senator Roberts and I'm calling to oppose the nomination of James "Scissors" Holsinger as Surgeon General.

Her: OK. (We think the rustling we heard sounded like a Bible, but it could have been a phone book.)

Me: Despite every indication the Senator has given of his intentions - since birth, really - we want to go on record as being vociferously opposed to this nomination. We also want to say that we don't know anybody who didn't laugh out loud when we read portions of Mr. Holsinger's White Paper from the Methodist Church as it pertained to gay people. This is not the kind of leadership we need at the top of the Health Care System in our country at this critical juncture. Amen.

Her: So you're opposed to the nomination?

Me: Yes. Should I repeat the rest?

Her: No. I got the rest.

Me: If you got the rest, how did you end up undecided as to whether I supported the nomination? (I'm on Prednisone. I'm testy by nature nowadays.)

Her: I was distracted. I'm sorry. You were saying? (More rustling.)

Me: I was done saying, actually, but since you opened the door: Holsinger suggests that we run around with scissors up our butts and I want to be the Kansas Gay Person who goes on record as saying that is NOT true. I don't know anybody who can manage anything faster than a saunter when doing the Scissor Squinch.

Her: Are you serious?

Me: No. But you stopped listening when I said I opposed the nomination. I figured I had carte blanche from there.

Her: So the scissor thing happens?

Me: NO, the scissor thing does not happen. Do you remember the whole Richard Gere/gerbil thing from the 80's?

Her: I'm not that old.

Me: Of course you're not. How did you get this jaded so early? Normally, working for a Republican is the urge that hits you right after the Violet Rinse Syndrome.

Her: Huh?

Me: Never mind. We don't put scissors or gerbils up our butts, but Holsinger wrote down that he thinks we do! Furthermore, he thinks AIDS comes from bad plumbing.

Her: Like the sewer?

Me: No, like how it's a parts problem, not a disease problem. He thinks people get sick because they put their parts in the wrong places. And the scissors. That's just over-the-top. This nomination is the height of lunacy and I want to be documented as having nothing to do with it when people find out my Senator voted for it.

Her: What's your name, again?

Me: Oy. Do you know any gay people?

Her: We're not allowed to say.

Me: You work in Topeka, I can see by the phone number. There are a couple of gay bars there. Before you go to another staff meeting, I would like you to send someone over and physically check for scissors in buttholes. If you find one, I'll fly to Washington and cast the Senator's vote for him - however he likes.

Her: I don't think we have anybody assigned to do that sort of thing.

Me: Neither do we, honey. Neither do we.

(donation of my name, phone and address to the Republican Hit List ensued and call was ended with...)

Her: I'll tell him.

Me: What?

Her: Huh?

Me: What part are you going to tell him?

Her: That you don't care for the nomination.

Me: But that's not the good part! I blog, I wrote it all down a week ago. Can I send it to you?

Her: We're not allowed to do that.

Me: Because I think you're good at remembering things like this, I want you to remember this about gay people and scissors:

We're not allowed to do that, either.

Andrew Sullivan: Pan Fried

You may know the name or the mug of this prolific columnist, editor, author, blogger and all-'round opinion flinger. We hold such outspoken types in high esteem around here. Truth told, if we had our druthers, we'd have his audience and he'd have our Kansas bungalow.

Andrew Sullivan (photo: http://www.roycecarlton.com/) is a self-described "libertarian conservative". He's gay and Catholic. He's pro-gay marriage but Vatican-committed. He's British-born and obsessed with the American cultural and political landscape. He's authored "Virtually Normal", an apologetics manual for homosexuality in an adverse climate. He's also pined about the loss of the Conservative Soul (The Conservative Soul: How We Lost It, How To Get It Back). He's Pan - everything to everyone, thus not enough to anyone. You might say Andrew Sullivan stands as a beacon in the darkness for Gay/Lesbian people everywhere. Or you might say he's the ultimate half-assed excuse for a Gay public figure we've seen since Abraham Lincoln.

Well... we might.

Today, the paper brings word that Sullivan suggests Democrats dump Hillary due to her negative perception ratings (about double those of Barack Obama in a recent poll). He leaps at the opportunity to quote a "critic" (there's a deep well for you) who calls her a liar, rigid, and possessive of a divine sense of electability. Fair enough. We love name calling. We got good at it in grade school and honed the skill in Law School. What we want to know is where Sullivan bought the glass for that rock-launching pad of a mansion he inhabits.

If lying, rigidity, and divine sensibilities aren't hallmarks of the Right Wing that Sullivan has so tirelessly enabled to his own detriment (not least of all from his perch atop The New Republic), then we haven't been watching the same wing flap lo these many years. We don't have to go back to Nixon (Watergate), Reagan (take your pick - let's go with Iran/Contra to mix things up), Bush I ("read my lips"), or even call up Bush II (again...the well is deep) to talk about lying.

We don't have to call up the 6 year history of this administration in refusing to change course until the road was blown out from under them - and even then insisting on using the same dirt, the same asphalt, the same personnel and the same tire tracks to re-lay the same road to the same failure only for new reasons. Rigid, indeed.

We don't have to point out the rise of Pat Robertson, Jerry Falwell (may peace escape his rest), William (Let It Ride) Bennett, Ralph Reed, Don Wildmon, Phyllis Schlafly, James Dobson, Lindsay Graham or the myriad other religious zealots who took the reigns of his beloved Republican Party in the 80's and only now are being forced to loose their grip - by way of amputation.

So our question to Mr. Sullivan is: Was it a compliment or a curse that you were hurling at Senator Clinton, who has done more to serve her country in the public eye than most of the Sullivans in history combined? Is lying now anathema to your cabal on the Right? We'd like the memo for proof. We're assuming it isn't in Scooter Libby's or Karl Rove's briefcase any longer. Is rigidity now a bad thing after 6 years of Stay The Course - regardless of the consequences to people we'll never meet? Is God a registered Republican when it comes to lending divine touch to vain political ambition or genuine service? Do tell. We're protestant over here. We don't have a pointy-hatted man with great shoes to tell us what God thinks.

Perhaps Mr. Sullivan would like to pack in his Prada Pope, his Tiger-By-The-Tail pro-gay, pro-marriage, pro-Right compote and his keyboard and go somewhere to rest a while. What used to look like hopelessly sucking up to assholes in power now just looks inane. We liked having a smart, gay man out there stirring the pot - whether we agreed with him or not.

Now, we'd just as soon he go home and focus on England post-Blair. We're sure his mix is a hoot over there. We'll make up our own mind about Hillary and company without wading through the imported self-loathing, thank you.

Battlefield Promotion: The Gay Bomb

He was right.

I assumed this was a recycled, years-old, urban myth with high entertainment value. It's not. It made the news. They really had a plan. That we were in the front of their minds when they sought how to protect this land brings a tear to the eye, really.

In case you're the person who isn't connected by six-degrees of e-mail to everyone else in the world, here's the snippet:


"I don't know whether to laugh at the stupidity, or cry because a bunch of morons got it in their pea-brains that such a scheme might work. 'A Berkeley watchdog organization that tracks military spending said it uncovered a strange U.S. military proposal to create a hormone bomb that could purportedly turn enemy soldiers into homosexuals and make them more interested in sex than fighting.'"
http://cbs5.com/topstories/local_story_159222541.html (Link worked at time of posting. If not, just figure it out like the rest of us do.)

We went to the Web site of the Berkeley CBS affiliate and confirmed that they ran the report this week. A brief scan of the 'Net shows this is not even necessarily "new" news. The CBS site quotes Edward Hammond, of Berkeley's Sunshine Project, who used the Freedom of Information Act (FOIA) to get a copy of the proposal from the Laboratory at Wright Air Force Base in Dayton Ohio. We will now pause for a moment of reflection while you try to formulate that line trapped at the back of your throat.

As we've said before, it is usually hard to be so outrageous that you surpass the story and become the story. The original story is that Berkeley is weird. It is. We are as liberal as they come and Berkeley made us feel like we were walking around sucking face with our own hidden Nazi while we harbored slave laborers in our modest 2-bedroom suburban apartment where we raised non-free-range chickens to feed third world dictators in exchange for assault weapons we would use to further the crack trade in minority-dominated inner cities. There is nothing more stress-inducing than ordering food in Berkeley. Or considering a cigarette afterward. Or deciding to have sex with someone.

Everything - but everything - is fraught with political drama in Berkeley. Where did the beans for the coffee come from? Were the bean pickers provided coffee breaks, deodorant, and a 401(k) in a currency secure from government tampering? Is the cup biodegradable to a degree that would actually stimulate new growth forestation in an area at least 75 miles from where it is disposed? Are the frocks on the coffee-slingers made in such a manner as to guarantee that no slaves were harmed in the delivery of your cappuccino? Oy. This is how so many of us left The Movement in the 60's and became Bob Dole in the 80's. It wasn't a change of heart. It was sheer exhaustion.

Now, maintain your focus, because you're going to remember that Berkeley is not the story - when they should have been. It was Berkeley - mad, crazy, whacked-out, certifiably abnormal Berkeley - that uncovered a real Pentagon plan to develop a bomb that would Homosexualize an opposing army to a degree that would ensure their defeat. See how the Pentagon trumps Berkeley a thousand times over? No more alpaca, coffee-bean, sweat-shop aspect to the story. Now, it's all just sucking dick 'til death do we part. Taxpayer-funded, government-approved, Rumsfeld-signed, Bush-briefed, Rove-spun, Libby-hidden Induced Gayness.

Don't Ask Don't Tell on this side of the Mosque. But baby, have we got a thrill for you tonight on your side. All American troops are required to be in their bunks - alone and with gas masks mounted - before the You-Know-What goes off on the other side of the Green Zone. Any fondling, groping, or other possible "leakage" effects from the artillery will be investigated by a military tribunal conducted during your stay at Guantanamo. No requests will be processed from 2300 on this evening as top military brass will be watching what we hope to be a swarthy, Middle-Eastern orgy a few blocks from here. Our thanks to those of you who participated in pre-war studies on this weaponry. Your country thanks you for the sacrifice of your rectum, dignity, and three pay grades.

The very notion. A bomb. That makes people gay. Brought to you by the manufacturers of No Fags In My Foxhole - one of the Falwell Companies. Remember what they told us around 1990? Gay folks = unit cohesion problem? I'm guessing when their own study disproved that assertion, they took it one step further. If lack of cohesion doesn't result, then maybe super cohesion could be used to our advantage - assuming we just foist it on the other side, of course.

Somebody call Rummy back. I want to see him triple-speak his way around this one. Just once. For old time's sake.

Look - here's the truth. We who carry The Agenda in our pockets have known this for years and it's time we blew the whistle and put a stop to all the madness. There is no gay bomb. If there were a gay bomb, we would have already purchased an island with our considerable disposable income and moved there en masse - leaving you all to a world of heterosexual hairstylists and actors who really DO have to "play" gay in movies. (Shudder.) We would drop the bomb every day at brunch, tea, dinner and 1 a.m., just to keep the vibe even.

You would know we had it, because we would be a tan, oblivious, sex-obsessed people with lots of money, no interest in war, an interest in politics only when it protruded into our bedrooms....
.........

Well, no matter the similarities, we have no bomb. There is no bomb. There will never be a bomb. You cannot make someone gay with a bomb anymore than you can make them gay with an overbearing mother. You need show tunes.

Write congress and demand they uncover the philosophy and the plan behind this travesty.

And meet us at Tea Dance. You know where.

You Need To Go Home Now

Because we don't have enough people who have an appropriate response to shame, today brings word that Colin Powell would like us to hear his opinion on the next President Of The United States.

We still haven't found all the pieces of our jaw from when we dropped it over his activities with the current one. It's going to be a long, long time before we consider Gen. Powell to be a reliable advisor in the voting booth. In an attempt to be tantalizing and seem relevant, years after his cellular-level integrity meltdown on the floor of the United Nations, The Guy Who Knew Saddam Back When says he isn't entirely sure he'd support a Republican for president.

That puts him in the shocking company of about 65% of the country. This man has not only lost his moral compass, he's lost all sense of irony, any remnant of history, and the inborn instinct we all have that tells us to just shut up and go home.

Gen. Powell lied to the world, either by his own will or by his own failure to verify the words coming out of his mouth. He didn't do it in the bathroom under his breath with the water running. He did it into a microphone on the floor of the United Nations. He did it in furtherance of a perverted plan to bring open-ended war to a country about which George Bush was willing to say anything to get the key to the Bomb Box. Many of us have misspoken in our day. Many of us have realized down life's winding road that something we decided previously was erroneous. Hardly any of us have blood on our hands to this degree as a direct result of our dereliction of duty. From those to whom much is given, much is required. Somebody important said that once. Want a big job? Take the big consequences.

The consequences of being colossally wrong - if not a degenerate liar - when your star is on the rise and you are in all likelihood the heir-apparent to the throne of all 50 states - is that we no longer take your word on anything. Colin Powell could tell us that oil and water don't mix and we would doubt his intentions, let alone his facts. The truly grating part of this media assault today, however, is Powell's overtures to my party - the one that sat on its hands while Bush, Inc. wreaked havoc on the planet.

We have paid dearly on the Left for not speaking up in the months prior to war. We were afraid of being right again - like during the Vietnam years. Being right, however, did not work to our political gain during Vietnam. Being wrong this time hasn't gone so hot, either. We don't learn lessons quickly on the Left. We get bogged down in seeing all sides of issues and would require a 12-point diversified caucus to decide to leave a sinking lifeboat - with appropriate membership weighting in favor of those least able to represent themselves and who, by virtue of history's cruelty, may no longer be around to be in the lifeboat. It's our Big Flaw. It comes with Grand Intentions, like most big flaws do. What we need is a spine, not a General.

So thanks, Gen. Powell. We hear you loud and clear. The dance is coming and you have no date. May we suggest that you vacation in Albania this year? We understand they're huge Bush fans over there - and we don't even care enough to ask why. They can have him. You're sure to be a huge hit there yourself. Take Alma. She's probably ready to get away.

Remember... she told you not to get involved in this stuff in the first place. Sometimes Mama knows best.

Sopranos Finale: Whaddayagonnado?

So-PRA'-nos: (n)(pl)(It) A period of 86 hours spread over 10 years (8 seasons) at the end of which is revealed that there are no fat women who sing.

Eighty-six episodes I committed myself to this hour. Eighty-six. I knew better than to expect ribbons and conclusions and what we used to call Closure. I had heard that HBO wouldn't cut off any future earnings by whacking the absolute core of a possible movie or spin-off. Dis Ting of Ours is nuttin' if not bizness savvy.

But I did have higher expectations for a series that soared above its own story lines for most of its life. Disproved was the notion that after 3 hours of Brando, DeNiro, Pacino, Caan and the other usual suspects mugging and cheap-shottting people, the vehicle would wear out and you'd be left with broken, bloodied, shells of people. It just ain't like that. Tony told us so.

Tony did therapy, for chrissakes! Carmela wallowed in Catholic angst just long enough to get her eyes on the grift from a spec house and off the rosary. Bless her heart. No sense in the one with the ziti getting left out in the cold. Meadow had every synapse firing to lend piercing intelligence, thwarted by her mother's "why bother" ascent to wealth, to the female underground role. Meadow's was THE original Sopranos character - underutilized as it was. And A.J. - the fuck-up from birth. Take away actor Robert Iler's brush with the law over the last couple of years and one wonders why Chase would even try introducing this character to post-adolescence in the final season. If there was an expendable family character - fatherly reflection or not - this was the one.

"Uncle" Paulie "Walnuts" Gualtieri, one of Da Family's senior members, could never quite let his two parts Al Pacino veto his three parts Eva Gabor. Handed the world on a platter in the season finale, his prostate colors his mood on the offer. Perhaps the most annoying character on television - ever - but one of the great David Chase creations left fleshless in the story's unwinding. Tony's sister, Janice, while designed as a caricature and constant memory of their toxic mother, lost her bite when she found her ovaries. Or so we thought. What a deliciously conniving, entitled, self-important piece of work, that one. Alas, she's rendered the other of the great original female characters pushed to the margins in a march toward, evidently, nowhere.

We understand that the new rule is "No Rules" for finales. If you have rules, you lessen expectations, your viewership may suffer (after 86 episodes over 8 years), and the advertising dollar you command for that final hour is knee-capped by predictability. But this ain't TV, as they remind us on the hour. It's HB friggin' O. What advertisers? Tell the freakin' story, already!

We don't have to know that Carmela finds a lump in 2019 or that Meadow marries more times than Liz Taylor. We don't necessarily care whether A.J. had a mob-enabling revelation as he watched his SUV burn, but a peek is nice. Whither Silvio Dante? Dr. Melfi? Once off the schedule, you're literally... off... the schedule? Look, we know Ms. Bracco isn't really a therapist. She's an actress. Melfi is a character. Don't go all literal on us now and call us names for being naive. We're the ones who sat here and watched her fall for him, cross all the boundaries, then pretend like nothing happened. Is Janice's star still on the ascendant? What does Uncle Junior know about the money he may or may not have that Janice may or may not be trying to scrounge? And is he realllly crazy? Does Ginny Sacrimoni get so large in her grief that she literally explodes like a Macy's Thanksgiving Day Parade float or does she re-appear in a couple of seasons in a size 6 looking like Eydie Gorme? Are Chris and Adrianna dead-dead? Or are they TV dead? And if they're TV dead, are they Six Feet Under TV Dead or are they Dallas TV Dead?

I am not so disappointed that I don't know what happened when Meadow hit the diner's front door in the series' finale. I am in deep mourning, however, for both the sublime and the infernal mark The Sopranos will leave on television series-making. This program was among the first to test audience loyalty with the Will They or Won't They proposition of shooting sixteen episodes and seeing who cares next year. Feed them some re-runs. Tease them with a new season beginning at month eight. Let the Internet jabber do its part to keep interest and speculation alive. Then use all of the above to throw damn near anything at the wall the following season. For sixteen weeks. Then let the next 36 weeks be about how worth the wait might have been. Rinse. And repeat.

We see it now on network TV. ABC (Another Bad Comedy) tried its best to bury Lost that way. Episodic drama relies on the pull from one moment to the next to spur our continued investment in the story. The ensemble network TV drama does not have the luxury of jerking around its ever-dwindling audience the way pay-television (HBO) does. Whether another HBO customer watches John From Cincinnati or not, they will make their money. If The Italian Job had been heavier on story - even as a brief movie - you wouldn't remember the Mini Coopers first when you think of it and it would be a better product. Because The Story Is The Thing.

HBO has stories in spades. This network cuts short series that had another good five years in them because no American audience could ever endure the twin tasks of thinking and escaping simultaneously (Carnivale, Rome). It knows how to let audiences down easy with fanfare, good-bye kisses, balloon bouquets and taffeta... lots and lots of taffeta when the story has been told (Sex In The City, Six Feet Under). It knows how to whack a series with as much courtesy as a butcher with a pork chop (Deadwood, anyone?) when it has buggies-full of story left. And it apparently knows how to blow an ending that even non-fans watched out of morbid curiosity.

The complaint is not closure. The cry is not "MORE!" although there is much left on the table. We're not ignorant of artistic device, dangling participles, unopened doors, cliff-hangers or creator's prerogative. We just expected more from the people who turned mob life inside out and proved there are insides. We stand and whistle for these artists who took on caricatures and made them three-dimensional, but not more sympathetic. Our insight into their hearts did nothing to excuse their choices - a novel story-telling device if ever there was one. "If you knew me, you would love me," became, "Hey, babe... even when you know me... I gotta tell ya.... ". Pure character genius.

People with this much creative talent had more within them than thumbing their nose at convention. They had much for which to apologize (what with the 9 month annual hiatus concept and all). They had 8 seasons and God-Only-Knows how many hours of time to think about where this might go. What might the statement be? What's the perfect ending - not for Tony or The Family - but for this artistic gem that will absolutely be among the Top Fifty TV Series of All Time?

Top 50? No Top 10? They told you this when you were nine, bay-bee.... The story's got to have a beginning, a middle, and an end. You can leave out any part you want, as the author, but it will absolutely affect your grade. Any guy will tell you: Buying flowers is cool, buying dinner is fun, the movie is delightful, the dancing is a ball, and the drinks are the best. But at the end of the date if you don't offer up something resembling a kiss, we're going home to think less of you.

And youse can take that to Satriale's.

Hey! No Fair!

TMZ.com informs us via CNN that the Heiress They Call Paris has neither slept (GASP!) nor eaten (SWOON!) since her admission to the crazy folks end of a Los Angeles jail. This does not bother us. We would suggest that normal weekend behavior for the Pantiless Princess includes shaving her noni, spraying on a tan, and avoiding anything resembling a solid calorie.

Again - just speculating here - but isn't it entirely probable that she who put the "Tit" in Entitlement has spent most weekends wide awake? The only difference between those weekends and this one is the thread count of the sheets she's not sleeping on. Poor baby is evidently beyond distraught. This, too, does not bother us.

But we cried an audible "FOUL!" when we learned that she is getting "psychoactive" pills to help her pass the time in the joint. For you newbies - that's the good stuff. That's the stuff that will turn your world on with a smile. It can take a nothing day and suddenly make it all seem worthwhile. You feel like love is all around, why not just take it? No need to fake it! Psychoactive drugs convince you that... well... darn it... You're gonna make it, after all. This development bothers us greatly.

We believe that psychoactive, feel-good remedies should be reserved for those moments where one is expected to be enjoying themselves. We made our list and checked it twice and are convinced that JAIL is not one of those places. This is like getting an open bar in your cell - only better. No need to bang your cup on the bars to get some surly lesbian to bring you ice or olives. Down the hatch - chew or swallow. Ten minutes, tops.... you're on the Riviera banging Fidel Castro and not in the psych ward of a Los Angeles jail.

Mostly, we don't like depleting the supply of psychoactive drugs that should be available for mediocre social encounters. And we detest the notion that this foul-mouthed, classless, poster child for retroactive abortion gets so much as a Tylenol to take the edge off her experience.

What we have here is a conspiracy to keep this child from learning anything ever. In a precious few years, she will be middle-aged, ocularly unbalanced and completely lacking inherent self-control. That, I suppose, would put her in line to be her mother.

Funny how quickly the Bush twins have moved up the Most Likely To Succeed ladder, isn't it?

No Experience Required

Normally, you need a degree in Political Science, Military Mayhem, or something similar to figure these things out. That's why we have politicians. And FOX. They tell us what to think when we couldn't possibly figure things out for ourselves.

Today's headline in the morning paper repeated yesterday's news that Gen. Peter Pace, current chairman of the Joint Chiefs of Staff and highest ranking military officer, would not get another shot at making shit up as he goes in front of Congress. Now, that was just mean.

We should say that he won't get a second chance to repeat the administration's lies with a straight face in front of Congress. We give Pace the benefit of the doubt on this one. Hell, they got Colin Powell to gut his entire future for Gee Dub's Folly. Whose arm wouldn't they twist?

The genius part of the commentary associated with this - and the part that normally requires high-level analysis, lengthy public service, and an alphabet soup of initials after one's name - is what Secretary of Defense, Robert Gates, had to say about the development. You see...until just the other night, Pace was still Gates' guy. If this had happened in our social circle, we would be speculating that somebody walked in on somebody with somebody - but this isn't like that. Well...we don't think it's like that. They won't let us in the military, how would we know? (Official After Therapy Statement Of Clarification: We Don't Want In. Send Your Own Damn Kids If You Like War.)

No, Sec. Gates (aka The Man Who Isn't Rumsfeld Anymore) says that he was notified by Congressional leaders on both sides of the aisle that Pace's confirmation hearing would be overwhelmed by the Iraq War's past and not its future. Chew on that one for a minute.

Apparently, Secretary Gates had high hopes for a Miss Cleo, Sylvia Browne, crystal ball process where Iraq is concerned. Since we have nothing much to talk about in the future tense regarding Iraq, by necessity, we will have to focus on what has gone down (and out..and wrong...and awry...and...and) up to now. That's the past. Those are the things we can analyze. For our Republican friends and loyal readers, we call that "history". It's the things that have really happened that aren't written in the Bible. It's fairly new. But we like it.

There's a theory that's been bandied about over the last couple of centuries that those who do not remember or who fail to understand "history" are doomed to repeat it. It's just a theory. But you gotta admit...it seems to hold some water. Regrettably, Secretary of Defense Gates wants no part of "history" in the discussion about who should lead the military going forward. We get that. They don't have anything good to talk about unless you count dragging Saddam out of a curiously-placed hole, ripping his head off, and the botched photo-op of Our Very Finest rubbing an Amurrican flag in a statue's face before we helped them pull it from its moorings.

So on we move. The next victim/liar/pawn/obfuscator/perpetrator to carry this failed president's water on Iraq should be Navy Admiral Mike Mullen. We're developing a theory at After Therapy that the chairman of the Joint Chiefs is chosen from among those men whose first and last names begin with the same letter. We have a standing offer of $0.50 to anyone who can send us documentation of senior military officials changing their names to avoid the Repeating Initials phenomenon. Our theory makes at least as much sense as any other. Who, in their ever-lovin' right mind, would volunteer to drive this train for the last 1,000 feet of its 50,000 feet plunge off the cliff?

We're convinced beyond all discussion that this is one of those jobs from which you are automatically disqualified by virtue of your willingness to do it. (Like being Paris Hilton's attorney, for example.) But on we will go, with a keen eye to whether Admiral Mullen can navigate the Senate confirmation process and avoid talking about anything that has happened in Iraq up to now. We rather thought this was at the root of the entire Gee Dub Problem: failure to know and understand what the past can teach us. Now we get a primo opportunity to confirm the idea, if not the Admiral.

Meanwhile, back on Capitol Hill, People Who Matter are buzzing about whether Hillary gave her folks a sugar-coated veneer when she autobiographized herself. It's good to know somebody has their eye on the really important things this time around.

Meanwhile, Back At The Hilton...

The Hilton, it appears, is booked.

No, she can't phone it in. No, she can't do a few lines of blow to take the edge off. No, she can't ride in the limo. No, she can't ride in the front seat and play with the siren. And, if there is any logic in the world, her mother cannot come to yell at the Little People this time around.

Having viewed the documents wherein the sentencing judge specifically forbade house arrest, early release, electronic monitoring, city-as-opposed-to-county jail, one wonders which of the Sheriff's Deputies Kathy Hilton, (W-POOP: Worst Parent On Our Planet), spread her canola-oiled thighs for to get her out of jail in the dead of night recently.

CNN holds out the prospect of said Sheriff being held in contempt-of-court for having released Hilton due to her general distaste for prison orange and a dermatological reaction to jail soap. We contend that any Sheriff - even in L.A. - who would take it upon himself to usurp the legal system in this way should not ONLY be held in contempt, but should find himself schlepping Louis Vuitton luggage at one of the lower-scale Hiltons in suburban L.A., forever banned from the Law Enforcement Profession.

This judge, on the other hand, has gone a long, long way toward restoring the integrity of the judicial system after what Judge Ito (O.J.: Not Guilty) perpetrated on the venerable profession. This is not at all about snubbing one's nose at a suspended driver's license citation. This is about privilege. If little Paris ends up anywhere but solitary confinement rotting in her own soiled panties (this presumes a previous lesson learned), minority communities across the West have every reason to re-Rodney King the joint.

Kudos to The Only President We Got for taking advantage of the media frenzy to announce the departure of the latest replacement architect of the Iraqi War. Without doubt, the man is stupid, but no one can accuse him of missing an opportunity when it's presented. Peter Pace will go by September with a healthy amount of blood on his hands and lies on his conscience. His book should hit the shelves by Christmas. He'll lay all blame for all his obfuscation before congress at the feet of Gee Dub, but at the end of the day, as Americans, we must stop using, "He told me to" as an excuse - even in military circles.

It's an invalid excuse for Paris Hilton. It's an invalid excuse for Peter Pace. And while these worlds could not seem further apart, the harmonic convergence of their fates couldn't prove a more valid point. If you did it, you own it.

In the spirit of Jerry Falwell, Don Wildmon and James Dobson, we would be remiss in not noting that all of the above flagrant violators of human decency and wisdom are heterosexual. What's good for the goose, they say....

Merriam Webster Alert: This Is Not House Arrest

Newsflash (as oppposed to pantiless flash): Paris Hilton spends barely over 48 hours in jail, gets credit for 5 days, will spend 40 days on "House Arrest". This is like characterizing the pampered ringers from The Apprentice as "under house arrest" inside Trump Tower's penthouse while filming his cancelled (did we say cancelled?) - we meant CANCELLED ratings toilet. She has a medical issue. She's allergic to jail. She also has flawed genes. The kind you get from your mother.

You should know that before Kathy Hilton spread her cocoa-buttered thighs for the Hilton hotel billions, she came in second place to Eve Plumb for the role of Jan Brady. If that doesn't explain everything, then I just can't help you here.

From Wikipedia: On May 4, 2007, she (Worst Parent On The Planet: W-POOP, Kathy Hilton) accompanied her daughter Paris Hilton to court for sentencing on a probation violation. When the city prosecutor commented that Paris deserved jail time, Kathy laughed. When the judge ruled, she then blurted out: "May I have your autograph?"

From People Magazine: "As the family was about to exit the courtroom, said Edwards, Kathy Hilton declared for all to hear, "[The judge] made up his mind before he even came in today. If it were anyone else, this would've never had happened." She (Mother Kathy) then exclaimed, "And after all the money we spent!"

From a statement read by Barbara Walters on The View: "Kathy Hilton wants young people to learn from her jail-bound daughter Paris..." Apparently, the W-POOP wants young people to learn that 2 days equals 5, that 40 days of House Arrest in a mansion where your 3,000-foot monitoring range barely takes you out of the kitchen, and that having your mother throw a hissy on your behalf - between swigs of Jug O' Wine - can all tilt justice in your favor.

Here is what Hilton House Arrest looks like - New York-style. The poor little girl with the brand new medical condition now has to stay within 3,000 feet of a phone jack in the WALDORF-ASTORIA HOTEL, which her daddy owns and her mommy put out to get. Paris was, in all likelihood, conceived within feet of where she will plug in her ankle bracelet to confirm that she is in one of the poshest hotels on the planet, not jail.

Its Web site calls it an "opulent suite of peerless elegance occupying the 28th-42nd floors of The Waldorf-Astoria" (which means the part regular rich folk can rent). Imagine the part the owners live in:

(HILTON HOUSE ARREST ---->)

This is where Mable, our town drunk, stays when she's on house arrest. See if you can spot the differences:

They say money can't buy you love. But it can buy you a husband, a hotel fortune, one hell of an enabling mommy, and a motherfucker of a house arrest.

Somebody just send these people to Iraq and bring back the people we wouldn't mind meeting on the street.

Surgeon General Nominee Thinks Butt Sex Icky

Thought Rummy was good for War & Peace? Thought Ashcroft covering up Lady Justice's tits was simple decorum? Rove, Libby & Cheney lie, cheat and kill to settle scores around the world - no problem?

Are you one who thinks if it's Amurrican, it's better by nature than if it's "Oriental"? Anyone from another country (you don't have to count any generation in your family, save your own) is a de facto security threat itchin' to blow up a federal building (never mind that whole Tim McVeigh thing)? Do you think your wife will leave you for a tool belt-wearing, Birkenstocked, flat-bottomed lesbian if Gay Marriage is legalized tomorrow? Or that your 9 year-old will be a whore if you vaccinate her against Cervical Cancer between Sunday School and Monday Morning Math class?

"Then, have we got a guy for you!" , reports the White House. James Holsinger, a real-live doctor, (not like the real-live doctor who speculated that masturbation is an alternative to knocking up your 14 year-old girlfriend...sheesh!) has been put forth by "The Worst Administration in History" for Surgeon General. Nota Bene: When Jimmy Carter, who pretty much had a lock on the bottom spot among American Presidents, can call you names and not even get a giggle, you know he's onto something.

A quick primer for the heterosexual reader: The NY Times first reported a gay-related disease we now know as AIDS in 1981. Ronald Reagan wouldn't say the word because Peggy Noonan wouldn't put it in a speech and Nancy Reagan knew her son was a ballerina, until 1987. This is why you will find gay people pissing on the unlikely-to-be-eternal flame on Reagan's grave in the dark of night and the broad of day. We don't hate people on principle - not famous ones, anyway. There's always a reason. Now you know.

By 1973, the American Psychological Association(APA) had removed homosexuality and its related sexual gymnastics from its list of "disordered" behaviors. Jesus ran around with 12 men, lived with his mother until he was 30, and the last thing He asked for before He died was a drink....and nary a word on the topic. (We aren't inferring...we're just reporting.) Judaism stopped the Levitical practice of stoning queers around the same time they realized that shrimp cocktail is a fast and easy hors d'oeuvres, bacon goes with everything, and that it's a bad idea to suggest stoning a man who laid in a bed where a woman had a little monthly leakage problem. In sum, Republicans haven't only been the last ones through the door to the Big Gay Post-Medieval Seminar, many of them still don't realize there is one.

Witness James Holsinger, alleged M.D, and newly-nominated Surgeon General of these here United States. In a "white paper" published in 1991, titled "Pathophysiology of Male Homosexuality", Holsinger wrote for the "Committee to Study Homosexuality in the United Methodist Church" that the paper was solely scientific and not even the teensiest bit related to his dementia theological views. Well, who could think otherwise? Today, Holsinger is president of the United Methodist Judicial Council - the same that voted to de-frock multiple gay or lesbian ministers, usually against their congregants' wishes. If you find a queer who can stand to be in a room of Christians and who will actually fight for the "privilege", we are compelled to call you ungrateful when you've expelled them.

Holsinger personally voted to deny simple church membership to a gay man - not a pastor's job, not a pianist's, not the Sunday School coffee-brewer, he just wanted to be a member (What? The Big Gay Club was closed?). Holsinger had to be over-ruled by his own Methodist Bishops on that one. So even for right-wing loonies, this guy sometimes needs a short leash. Now, Your Only President thinks this is the kind of thinking we need at the top in this era of RU-482, Cervical Cancer Vaccines, and the ham-stringing of AIDS dollars to Africa by abstinence-only education restrictions. He and his wife (you were wondering? puh-lease), lead the cheerily-titled Hope Springs Community Church's gay re-programming effort. This is to psychology what Austrian concentration camps were to medical research. Sure, they're dead on the other end, but nobody can say that at least some of them didn't walk in upright of their own accord. This is how Mr. and Mrs. Holsinger essentially support a methodology rejected by real physicians 25 years ago.

No serious person could read Holsinger's conclusion (we won't call him "Dr." until he calls us "Sister Ganja Of The Eternal Waft") and think he was taking a stab at theology in the middle of his theology assignment. The very insinuation leaves one breathless. Science, people. This is science! Get your mind out of the gutter, already. And clear the room of any children. This is about to get good.

Among Holsinger's scientific, non-theological snippets on the "pathophysiology" of gayness are some 20th century - and not a few 14th century - gems. We admit to only an Education degree, a Law degree and the 2/3 of the MBA program that didn't induce a permanent vegetative state, so we started by confirming our suspicions of the word "Pathophysiology":

"the study of the biological and physical manifestations of disease as they correlate with the underlying abnormalities and physiological disturbances."

Figures. Holsinger jumped back a few millenia for his premise. He did for psychological reasoning what Phil Spector did for hair products. Now for the excerpts that have raised a few eyebrows and given us a new perspective on dating rough-looking men:

- "Gay sex is biologically unnatural and scientifically unhealthy." Interesting premise. I took one deep breath, as a gay man with AIDS before deciding that I could answer this one without calling in a friend with a cleaner resume. If, as is inferred, "scientifically unhealthy" means "will introduce you to AIDS", the only possible conclusion is that the healthiest possible sex on the planet is Lesbian Sex, which has the lowest incidence of STDs, AIDS specifically, of any demographic on the planet - Methodist theologians scientists included.

- "Like male and female pipe fittings, certain male and female body parts are designed for each other..." For example, because you CAN walk around with your thumb up your ass, it must be OK. If, however, you walk around with someone ELSE's thumb up your ass, whether or not it fits, we're going to call that a plumbing issue. P.S. Ladies' thumbs are smaller, go in easier and are 50% less satisfying up the ass. But we don't have any science to back that up. It also begs the question of whether heterosexual, married people have any business thumbing each other's asses, let alone committing the highly enjoyable practice of anal intercourse. Pipe fittings! Science! Not theology. Stay focused.

- "When the complementarity of the sexes is breached, injuries and diseases may occur..." Well, yes, and if you drop a good-sized Bible on a Yorkie, you can break its neck. That doesn't make the Bible bad or the Yorkie a defective dog. I broke my foot playing volleyball in 10th grade. There was no moratorium on volleyball throughout the state based on the injury that may have - and did occur. If we closed public facilities every time diseases occurred in the daily course of events, we'd all sit home and be grateful for no flu, but craving good take-out.

We're speaking scientifically, of course. We're sure not even Holsinger means to infer that there is a God/Retribution factor for breaching the Heavenly Pipe Fitting Factor across the genders. That would make him....what? Stupid? Just wipe that right out of your mind. You'd have to be crazy to think this guy is crazy. Or stupid. Right? Right?

Holsinger went on, in his '91 paper, to spend a small fortune exploring the risks of running with scissors - in your rectum. Really. He examined whether if one man put scissors in another man's asshole - out of love or spite - injury would result. He calls this "pathophysiology". We say it's a very bad way to get off, but if scissors are your deal, who the hell is this Kentucky hick to tell you No Clippers In Your Cooters?

For the record...we have never tried this... but putting scissors up someone's ass is on page 73 of The Handbook. It is clearly intended only as an extreme act of revenge and never as foreplay. A footnote mentions that if you want the scissors back, tying twine to one end is a good preparatory step. And use bleach to clean them thoroughly. It's so rare that you anally assault a freshly-douched person in the rectum with your good scissors.

And call your Congress person. This is the kind of lunacy that, gone unchecked, suddenly has Wolf Blitzer forced to talk about Anal Sex when you know he'd rather be talking about IED's. Kill this nomination in committee with a phone call and you can spare us all having to re-live the whole Gay People Do Not Put Gerbils Up Our Asses thing from 20 years ago.

Your congressperson, if on the Health, Education, Labor and Pensions Committee, is listed below. Make no assumptions. Call the good ones, too.

Democrats/Independents

Kennedy, Edward (MA) , Chairman
(202) 224-4543 kennedy.senate.gov/senator/contact.cfm

Dodd, Christopher (CT)
(202) 224-2823 dodd.senate.gov/index.php?q=node/3130

Harkin, Tom (IA)
(202) 224-3254 harkin.senate.gov/contact/contact.cfm

Mikulski, Barbara (MD)
(202) 224-4654 mikulski.senate.gov/mailform.html

Bingaman, Jeff (NM)
(202) 224-5521 senator_bingaman@bingaman.senate.gov

Murray, Patty (WA)
(202) 224-2621 murray.senate.gov/email/index.cfm

Reed, Jack (RI)
(202) 224-4642 reed.senate.gov/contact/contact-share.cfm

Clinton, Hillary (NY)
(202) 224-4451 clinton.senate.gov/contact

Obama, Barack (IL)
(202) 224-2854 obama.senate.gov/contact/

Sanders, Bernard (Independent - VT)
(202) 224-5141 sanders.senate.gov/comments/

Brown, Sherrod (OH)
(202) 224-2315 brown.senate.gov/contact.cfm

Republicans

Enzi, Michael (WY), Ranking Member
(202) 224-3424 enzi.senate.gov/public/index.cfm?FuseAction=ContactInform...

Gregg, Judd (NH)
(202) 224-3324 gregg.senate.gov/sitepages/contact.cfm

Alexander, Lamar (TN)
(202) 224-4944 alexander.senate.gov/index.cfm?FuseAction=Contact.Home

Burr, Richard (NC)
(202) 224-3154 burr.senate.gov/index.cfm?FuseAction=Contact.Home

Isakson, Johnny (GA)
(202) 224-3643 isakson.senate.gov/contact.cfm

Murkowski, Lisa (AK)
(202) 224-6665 murkowski.senate.gov/contact.cfm

Hatch, Orrin (UT)
(202) 224-5251 hatch.senate.gov/index.cfm?Fuseaction=Offices.Contact

Roberts, Pat (KS)
(202) 224-4774 roberts.senate.gov/public/index.cfm?FuseAction=ContactInf...

Allard, Wayne. (CO)
(202) 224-5941 allard.senate.gov/public/index.cfm?FuseAction=Contact.Home

Coburn, Tom (OK)
(202) 224-5754 coburn.senate.gov/index.cfm?FuseAction=Contact.Home

Oh, Oprah!

Sweet Jesus on a Triscuit...not you, too. Now Oprah has joined that tired old band on that more fatigued bandwagon dedicated to the proposition that black folks simply get a bum rap on the Percepto-meter.

While lobbing softballs at Malcolm Gladwell regarding his book, "Blink", Oprah bit at the low-hanging fruit of "TV Portrays Black Men As Crack Dealers And White Men as Judges." Now, we have herein documented our own abhorrence of White Privilege and those who use it to their nefarious advantage. But at some point in the last 40 years, this argument has simply lost not only its luster, but the very core of its relevance. It has, in fact, become the latest Big Lie to justify bad behavior by African Americans.

You don't ever - and I mean EVER - see gay, white rapists pointing the evil finger of accusation and undue influence at the movie "Deliverance" as their reason why they won't brush, floss, or keep themselves pure from unwelcomed anal assaults on innocent tourists. But give an inch and they'll take an hour to suggest that I cross the street in midtown Kansas City to avoid a baggy-panted man who has gone to great pains to mimic the gang-bang look - just because I'm sub-consciously racist. Two words, Ms. Winfrey: Bull Shit.

Big, huge, steaming piles of bull shit for you and your uber-privileged social circle. Big piles of bull shit for your well-earned platform being used to peddle this tripe as social psychology or, worse, as valid explanation for rampant crime among the community that gave you to us all.

It would take reams of megabytes to list the ways in which you abdicated your obligation to the truth when it comes to portrayal of Blacks and Whites in The Media.

Whoopi Goldberg played a do-gooder nun. Oprah played a Stand-Up-For-Yourself-and-Change-The-World character every time she's hit the screen. Vondie Curtis Hall, Jesse Martin, Angela Bassett, Alfre Woodard, Tyler Perry, Sidney Poitier, Halle Berry, and others disprove the point easily enough. But perhaps the point needs sharpening for those who, like Oprah did today, stoop to cheap opportunism to lay the deeds of bad people at the feet of casting directors.

Grey's Anatomy alone features James Pickens as Chief of Surgery at Seattle Grace, Isaiah Washington as a pre-eminent Cardiothoracic Surgeon, and Chandra Wilson as lead educator of the star interns. Criminal Minds features Shemar Moore as an intelligent AND street-smart FBI profiler. Will Smith and Thandie Newton starred in The Pursuit of Happyness, a You-Can-Do-It movie if ever one was made. Mr. Perry's one-man tour-de-force as writer, actor, producer and director in Diary of a Mad Black Woman and its sequel should, himself, demand an apology from Winfrey and the hack author for whom she shilled today.

American Idol cranks out talented, together artists - both Black and White - annually. Dancing With The Stars' exposure of Emmitt Smith and Laila Ali should have inspired no one to shoot anyone (we shall here remain silent on our private urges while watching Heather Mills and Paulina Porizkova).

We have had consecutive Black Secretaries of State in the country, to say nothing of the plethora of Black legislators that populate the national and state levels. Oprah has, herself, raised the profile of the Black Author beyond what any publishing imprint could hope to do singlehandedly. We cry "FOUL!", therefore, when this woman who has only a fleeting memory of racism, from whom no one runs on the streets, and who knows no one from whom one would flee...fans the flames of non-existent excuses for the real problems that plague the Black community.

Bill Cosby is right. Oprah Winfrey is wrong. Dead wrong. You are who you are because of who you have chosen to be. Given the same past, the same experiences, the same opportunities - maximized or lost -the same parents, the same schools, the same finances... two or twenty people all have the absolute prerogative to choose a path that defies their provenance. To suggest that a 1970's pattern of Black Man-Bad, White Man-Good in the media explains today's disproportionately criminal behavior by a subset of the Black Community requires that we also assume the opposite portrayals to be equally effective at social engineering.

We must assume, using Oprah's and Blink's faulty rationale, that there are fewer Blacks committing crime, more Blacks entering college, less single-parent Black families, less drugs in the Black community, and a stronger emphasis on education and success in the Black community - SOLELY because of the easily proved increase in positive portrayals of successful Black people in the media.

Hogwash? Maybe. But certainly no more so than what Oprah peddled to the world today. And I didn't make several hundred thousand dollars or sell an equal number of books to be equally wrong. If I am.

And I'm not.