Let’s All Kill Whales Really, Really Loudly

See, this post isn’t even close to what you think it’s about. But using a blog post title like, “You’re a Fucking Fucktard, and Your Offspring Are Fucktards, Too,” isn’t really all that good for your rankings in the search engines. It’s really, really a bad SEO move. So I decided to type something about loud-assed whales.

There’s this news story circulating on the internet about a Canadian woman who shoved a typewritten note under her neighbor’s door, complaining in a rather non-sensitive way about the autistic boy who lived there during the summer. The nicest thing this letter had to say was that the grandmother should “donate all his non-retarded body parts” before they had the autistic boy put to sleep. Yes, like a mangy dumpster dog who’s missing an eye and pukes his own blood.

The outcry was loud, with many calling for an outing of the woman’s identity. And I kind of want her head on a pike in my front yard, too, but not for the reasons most people might think. Yes, I have an autistic daughter, but no, I really wish I could honestly say this is the very first time EVER that a dipshidiot said something nasty about handicapped people. My real problem with this woman goes far, far deeper.

She’s into dead whales.


Clearly, she indicates that the boy is guilty of “noise polluting whaling.” So it would be okay to bludgeon any whales that came up in the family’s yard as long as he did it quietly? Dead whales=good, being loud about killing whales=bad?

Now, as a college educated adult, I feel fairly confident that she meant “wailing.” I’ll let that slide. What I cannot overlook is the blatant abuse of grammar in this letter. Of course, the content of the message indicates that she should be forced to choke on her own uterus, so I shouldn’t be very surprised by the complete massacre of grammar conventions in the note. It was lovely of her to soften the blow of her letter by using pink paper, though, but I’m afraid it’s all she had left after making her “God Hates Fags” signs for her church.

This post dedicated to Sherry Fraser Snider, writer extraordinaire, who publicly called me out for not jumping on this story yesterday. She was saddened to think that I was quietly letting it go, but as anyone who’s known me for more than a minute and a half already knows, I am incapable of both “quiet” and “letting it go.”



My Future Self is Kind of a Snot

Thanks to either a wormhole in the space-time continuum or an abundance of black Toyotas in my town, I keep seeing myself driving places. It’s really eerie, then it becomes cool when you overthink it.

Every once in a while, I’ll see someone driving off in my car. My instinct is to chase them down while calling the police, but the only problem is when I think I see these people driving off in my car, I’m actually driving my car at the time. It’s a very unsettling, Dr. Who-ey feeling.

My twelve-year-old and I decided that the only logical explanation (and the only way to avoid looking like a total dipshidiot when you scream, “Stop! That guy stole my car!” from inside your own vehicle) is that the people driving off in our car are actually…(prepare yourself for this)…us.

Yes, my friends, thanks to my ability to time travel from the future, I have managed to see myself from the future and let me tell you, the future is looking pretty good. Apparently, I’m blonde in the future, and really skinny. I’m also a man. But we don’t have to talk about that.

I am a little bit upset that in the future I’ve become a total bitch who cuts people off in traffic, and I don’t wave. On one hapless time-line-bumping-into, I actually watched myself honk at an elderly person who was crossing the street. I pretended not to know myself at that moment, and refused to make eye contact to let myself know that I do not approve of my behavior.

On the plus side, future me listens to some rockin’ tunes while driving around in my car, and I also have a really outdoorsy-looking kayak carrier on top of my car. Either I plan to take up kayaking, or I’m a hopeless granola poser.

The most important thing I can do now is be sure not to accidentally get in a car wreck with my future self. That would be both awkward and possibly alarming, for everyone involved. And I’m pretty sure the consequences would wipe out several major species in the future. I’m already a snotty car thief, I don’t need animal killer hanging over my head, too.