Someone managed a change of heart, too late. It’s still been so popular that the worlwidegizno couldn’t let it go. So, here it is, pulled back out of a rabbit hole . .

Ariz. gov: Most illegal immigrants smuggling drugs
By PAUL DAVENPORT
Associated Press Writer – Fri Jun 25, 7:06 pm ET

. . “I believe today, under the circumstances that we’re facing, that the majority of the illegal trespassers that are coming into the state of Arizona are under the direction and control of organized drug cartels and they are bringing drugs in,” Brewer said.

“There’s strong information to us that they come as illegal people wanting to come to work. Then they are accosted and they become subjects of the drug cartel,” she said.

The majority of illegal immigrants are drug smugglers? Jeezus, what a moron.

. . without a snack . .

. . or with?

I ran out of skulls

I am exhausted. Or still a bit traumatized, maybe. Whatever it is, all I’ve been doing is sleeping and sleeping since the weekend, and I’m not much of a sleeper. I’m all whacked out.

Yeah, I know what it is — or what it was. It was that goddamned golf tournament, the U.S. Open at Pebble Beach, that I drove up to over the weekend. I caught the third round on Saturday.

That’s what did it. Lord, I have never seen such an ugly collection of Republican assholes in my life. I had no inkling of the bad scene gathering at the tournament, otherwise I would have skipped it. But once I got there, I saw all the nastiness, and I had no choice but to push on through all of it. It wiped me out.

Not that I didn’t expect plenty of right-wing-ishness from my brother, The Republican, whom I love. But, hey, he’s just one guy. Going to the event with him, I certainly anticipated his bit of it.

When it turned out his big plans for us to drive to Monterey meant going in his Hummer H3, I wasn’t too surprised. My ’87 BMW was still full of musical hardware and doesn’t sport his satellite radio or beloved radar detector, so there was no point in arguing. I threw in my bag and got in.

And a half hour into the drive, somewhere around Ventura, when my brother told me that FDR ruined the Great Depression economy with his imbecilic gold policy, our first inevitable argument got underway. He followed that up by reminding me how Obama raised everybody’s income taxes, to which I reminded him he was completely wrong, and he could look it up.

And I felt bad about bitching at him, again, so I wanted to avoid arguing any more. Man, did that end up being a weekend sentence. How are you supposed to argue with complete asshole strangers? They were everywhere, they became something like the wallpaper. You can’t ding ‘em, not all of them. Especially when you realize they’re barely aware of the shit that comes out of their mouths in public.

Some guy spots a curvy black woman in a sexy dress at the restaurant bar, sitting alone. She’s the only black human in the place. “I think she’s a pro,” he mutters.

It was a weekend full of this sort of garbage. And, believe it or not, I was trying not to remember much of any of this because this is exactly the stuff I don’t want to post at my little place. It’s off target and too easy. This crap has little directly to do with the Conservatives’ twisted policies and public philosophies that kill Americans’ lives and futures. Therein lie the real dangers, that’s why I started this blog in the first place.

But I can’t seem to get back on the internet roller coaster without first puking some of it up, so, here we are.

Saturday morning, the big day, starts nauseatingly. Crammed into a large shuttle van to get us to the course, we’re all bundled up in jackets in anticipation of the cool 54-degree weather, which is normal for the area. With the engine running, the heater way up and the driver screwing off, I get overwhelmed with the acrid stench of creams and after-shaves. Even though they were still drunk, they got up early enough for a close shave, every stupid one of them, just to drown themselves in menthols and man-perfumes and alcohols, violent fogs of antiseptic neon greens and blues.

On the course, the affronts continue. Standing at the ropes on the ocean side of the 12th fairway, I am watching the early-going pros hit their tee shots and walk down to the green when a husky dude behind a bushy mustache and black shades walks up next to me. Standing almost motionless except for the robotic motion of feeding his elephant face with sunflower seeds, he spits the shells on me over and over. I begin to think about punching the guy to wake him up when a teenage girl pokes her head between us, and so he spits on her.

I move down the line. A threesome, a couple and a man in their late forties, inexplicably split to either side of me and carry on this conversation:

(couple:) “So how’s it going with Sharon?”

(man:) “It’s going ok. There’s some tension there with the oldest, Elise, but it’s not a big deal. It’s not like she’s some sort of wicked step-mother, y’know?”

“Uh-huh.”

Nobody around for 10 feet on either side, they choose to settle 10 inches to my right and my left. So they’re cocking their heads to either side of me, or trying to lean around me, to continue catching up.

“It’s frustrating with Elise, though, y’know? Throughout this, she’s been a little bitch. I don’t know, maybe she sees Sharon as competition for me, or something. I just wish she’d cut the act. After about the first 30 minutes or so, everybody settles down and then it’s okay. ”

I quickly back out of our little foursome and leave. They get one syllable of an apology out but then get really pissed. They have to move away from me. Hey, tell Elise I said hello.

All of these people, incidentally, even at 9 a.m. in the morning, are at least halfway in the bag. So much booze and cockishness and smirking stupidity, they are everywhere. So many brutal hangovers. There was one guy that we helped light his cigar because his hands were shaking too badly to light it himself. A cigar.

The golf tournament is no longer golf, it is piles of vomit-stenched charm, you bet, yes sir. The people ooze with it:

– “She double-wanted my schwanz — what am I supposed to think?”

– “Tom Watson? He’s a cock-tease, he’ll never win.”

. . as Robert Allenby lines up a 2 footer for birdie: “GET IT CLOSE!”

Laughter. It’s clear there are two things this fat mob of douchebags planned for the Open: getting slobber-drunk and basking in each other’s giddy company. They are succeeding. The belly-laughs are everywhere, they are Pebble Beach’s resounding vuvuzelas.

Not that their disappointments don’t surface as well. In this instance, the visitors are still seriously pissed off: a couple complain to two friends. They’re all in their mid-thirties, carrying soft accents from somewhere:

– “So we took a limo back to our place last night.”

– “We told the driver we were hungry, so he says ‘Oh I know where to go.’ He took us to ‘El Pollo Loco.’”

. . and that chunk of Latin would be ‘EL PAWL-OH LOH-KOH,’ for you readers.

– “‘El Pollo Loco?’”

– “I think it’s some kind of chain.”

SEE, ESS OON CHAIN. Maybe they’re from ‘ARR-KANS-ESS.’ Perhaps ‘ILL-UH-NOIZE.’

It goes on and on and on like this. I don’t want to recall any more than these few blips, they’re enough.

That Saturday night, dressed in a button down shirt and decent jeans, set for a night on this temporarily ugly, crimson-polluted town, I just conked out, went to bed. I’m glad for having missed whatever shittiness I’d have been assaulted with on the ultimate night of stubble-free chimpanzee puke fest. Could’ve been bad. Glad to have just piled everything in that stupid tank and headed home.

OH, forgot — we’re driving back, through the town of Gonzales. I notice the huge light stanchions over the high school’s football field, and I think, “Didn’t have anything like that back at Palos Verdes High, that’s for sure.”

My brother: “How’d you like to go to Gonzales High School?”

What’s wrong with Gonzales High?

“Wouldn’t want that on my resume.”

Still tired, but I’m getting over it.

Sniper blogging:

Puke. Wishing I hadn’t found the gratis computer just off the foyer.

So true! They suckered us all!

Probably crawling out of their coffins as we speak! The scamps.

As usual, Conservatives’ singing and lyrics are killer. I’M FUNNY TOO.

Who wouldn’t want to eat something that appears to be a deep-fried scallop puking tongues of greasy bacon and oily cheese? Not me, I wouldn’t not want it. I beg of you, can I have a bubonic pirate serve it to me? Can I have him serve it to me on his black hands so I can lick it off like a famished dog? And then he gets a pirate boner and shanghais me and we sail off into a wedding gale of boiling Crisco? Mmmm, fast food.

Who wouldn’t want to eat some meat piled between some meat and some meat? Who wouldn’t want a plug of fried hog meat squished between fried chicken meat and rooster meat? I have only one complaint — why isn’t there any meat on this thing? Christ, I have to open my eyes to see any of the meat. I have to exist to be aware of the meat. There is considerably less meat on this sandwich than can be found on Chinese farms, all of them.

God has made more meat than can be found on this sandwich. A second sandwich of this type would be ridiculous, don’t even think about it. If you took all the meat on three of these sandwiches and stacked it sideways, it would gag a different planet. It would serve as a warning to alien civilizations: our fried-meat flagpoles are very big. We just turned on one of our meat-lasers, and this is exactly what it looks like. If you come anywhere near us, our livestock lasing capabilities will terrify you. Yumm.

Who wouldn’t want to eat a sandwich that Jedi warriors have to carry holstered on their belts? You can eat it, or you can wave it around and defeat The Empire. No running in the house with it.

The only purpose of the Census Bureau’s more detailed effort, the American Community Survey, is to take pictures of you on the toilet. It’s all part of the government’s “American Commode Life” Christmas exhibition at the Smithsonian.

In anticipation of it, pardon my perhaps indelicate question, but: Erick, do you . . well . . *ahem* . . wipe down there? You never can tell with cranky Republicans, it being the sort of thing Healthcare Hitler smiles upon. You might redouble your efforts in that capacity seeing as how you’ll soon be hog-tied with your head in the crapper and your butt in the air for some close-ups. Start by walking down to the corner Rite-Aid, say “Excuse me — do you have any Charmin? Or perhaps a boiling hopper of acetone? Just for me?”

Otherwise, don’t be too surprised to end up on the cover of the gallery catalog, with your blotchy skin and copious sideburns being the evening’s fascination.

You’re fired.

Yes, it’s true. I checked several sources, this is absolutely real:

British woman arrested in Dubai after reporting rape

A British woman who made a rape complaint in Dubai has been arrested for having illegal sex with her fiance, according to reports. The woman, a 23-year-old from London, said she was raped by a waiter in a luxury hotel after celebrating her engagement to her 44-year-old boyfriend, also from London . . .

The woman was allegedly inebriated after celebrating her engagement on a three-day new year break to the city, where her boyfriend proposed, and lost consciousness in the women’s toilets of the Address hotel where the couple were staying, according to the Sun.

The waiter is said to have followed her into the toilets and raped her while she was in a semi-conscious state. Her fiance, unaware of the attack, took her to her room.

The next day, after realising what had happened, the couple went to the Jebel Ali police station to report the crime.

Police began to question the couple about breaking the emirate’s strict decency laws. Usual rape procedures were ignored and the woman was given a full medical check and a morning-after pill only after the intervention of British embassy staff, the paper reported.

Her attacker is believed to have denied rape, saying the woman, a British Muslim of Pakistani descent, consented, but he has also been charged with “illegal sex”.

It is understood the couple have been bailed but are still in Dubai. They could face up to six years if found guilty of having sex outside marriage.

I wonder if the two Britons knew that rape in the U.A.E. is punishable by death. Doesn’t change the crime any, but makes you wonder if they’d still have gone to the police. Or if it’s even practical to do so.

The use of capital punishment by ultra-conservative institutions can certainly be a double-edged sword. In cases like this, it may only prevent the prosecution of heinous crimes.

In countries like this one, it may be a cultural pillar that, though men are completely dominant over the women around them, they are expected to always restrain themselves. I imagine this creates a great deal of anger and sexual frustration–being taught that they’re perfectly capable of taking anything they want, but trying it could get them hanged.

The local (male) authorities may then reflexively prefer to see this as a case of a drunken westerner, a sexually experienced outsider, doing what she normally does: carrying on without morals.

I’d bet it would be a completely different story if it had been a 15 year-old citizen, and the waiter probably knew that. To us, it’s the same brutal crime. To the authorities, what’s their alternative? Executing a young, local kid for having sex with a drunken, dirty girl from England?

Off to take a shower . . .yuck . . .

The latest trends in tiny pets…

Monkeys? Eww.

..h/t Booster Shots..

Love Makes You Creative, Sex Not So Much

“Scientific American:

In sum, the authors suggest that, because love activates a long-term perspective that elicits global processing, it should also promote creativity and impede analytic thinking. In contrast, inasmuch as sex activates a short-term perspective that elicits local processing, it should also promote analytic thinking and impede creative thinking.

I know this is tangential to this broader argument, but if fucking has made me more analytic, it seems to me to be defeating one of its core purposes.

I have had sex out of love and it’s an amazing, wonderful, transformative thing. At its height, it is the most overwhelming thing I have ever experienced. I have also had sex in my life largely as a way to escape this fucking brain in my head, that won’t stop constantly analyzing and thinking. I have had sex for these reasons as well – so I can gain a few blissful moments when I do not think at all. The relief of this is indescribable and, for me at least, an element of mental and psychological health.

I recall one marathon twelve-hour session of passion many years ago now. It was only afterwards that I realized I had barely had a single trace of an analytic thought for the longest period I could then remember. I was never happier. As I finally collapsed into my lover’s arms with the final orgasm that drained every last drop of desire or need from my body and soul, I understood for the first time why the French call coming “le petit mort”. It can be the emptying of self entirely. Which is why sex is so close at times to the presence of the divine, and reflects and incarnates God in ways few other things can so easily. We are more animal and more divine in sex than in any other activity.

The ordeal of consciousness is at times oppressive. To leave that consciousness and yet stay so vividly alive is one of sex’s great wonders. Love is deeper than that; friendship is deeper still. But I know nothing that God has given us – save psilocybin – that gives us this divine, if fleeting, parole from a vale of tears.”

So…if we perform heart transplants in the public square, will we hear the angels sing of the evils of atherosclerosis? Or the glory of Lipitor? Or, perhaps the joy of retaining an original-parts scalpel-wise-chaste heart in your horny chest? Confusing. I’m a little unclear on the ‘public gory-gut-spewing and surgical-blood-letting inspiring-the-blessed-angels-to-sing’ miraculous phenomenon.

I have a feeling the strange Lila Rose, here, would surprise us all and not then lobby for the sorts of public executions Fox would probably jizz over. That would be uncivil, I imagine, revenge being a deeply personal matter between you and the condemned.

…everybody now, watch, and sing a conception song: “HARK THE HERALD ANGELS SII-IINGGG….

…GLORY TOOO..THE NEWBORN KINNGGGG……”

…can we lighten the baritones?…k thx….