Study: U.S. Population Finds Insensitive and Thoughtless Slurs Thoughtless and Insensitive

Yes, I too am jumping on the blogarazzi free-speech wheel of contemporary racial linguistics.

What the hell is going on? Why isn’t the media focusing on the actual issue at hand, the patently racist remark by Imus producer, Bernard McGuirk? His comment that refers to the Rutgers University women’s basketball team as “jigaboos” is by far more offensive and true as defining of a racial slur compared with the thoughtless and insensitive comment by Imus.

Ho, in case you don’t understand, is a gender slur aimed at half of the world population. Jigaboo is racial slur aimed at the entire black culture of the United States.

So there, the line is drawn. On which side do you stand? Are you accepting of ho and not accepting of jigaboo? Is there a difference?

The mass market, in general, would say that there is a difference. Call any woman a ho and you might get a verbal lashing, maybe a slap. Call a man of the black community a jigaboo and the odds are that you’re about to get an ass whoopin’.

[Chorus] Hooooooooo (Ho) / Youza Hoooooo (Ho) / Youza Hoooooo (Ho) / I said that youza hooooo (Ho) - [Repeat 1x] ~Ludacris

[Chorus] I can't believe that she's real... (it was a ho-down) / The way she makes me feel... (another ho-down) / If you knew what I knew... (it was a ho-down) / You would be down in there too... (another ho-down) ~Nappy Roots with The Barkays/Skinny

Why aren’t these people being boycotted, fired, or at least suspended for two weeks? Where are Al and Jesse, and why aren’t they banging on the doors of the company presidents? These types of lyrics are incredibly more damaging than anything Imus said, true? What the hell is going on, I say again. Should efforts not be put where they are most effective?

Look, I’m all about teaching and acting cultural harmony. Honestly, I am. And as a matter of fact, I will not tolerate it within any situation over which I have at least some control. But I’m not going to form a skirmish line outside the neighbor of the intolerant bastard who made the comment.

McGuirk is the idiot. He’s the one who should be fired.

Does Imus deserve a two-week suspension for the ho comment? Sure, that’s fine. Taking into account the context of his radio program, my comment is actually more along the line of “whatever”.

I do have a piece of advice for any of those people who are not on the Rutgers basketball team but are yet still offended by the Imus comment. I suggest that you boycott everything NBC, CBS and General Electric. Go ahead, show’em who’s the boss. You may even want to call the advertisers and complain.

However, I believe that once you realize how such a boycott would take away some of your creature comforts, I bet that you might see a slight tip in the scale of your moral judgment.

Flippin' Cool

I'm not going to be one to post with content of other blogs, but I couldn't let this one pass by because the photos were just so darn cool. The information comes from Danger Room - Wired News
The F-22 stealth jet may be about as useful for fighting insurgents as a snowboard in Baghdad. The plane may cost nearly $120 million a pop, making it one of the most expensive fighters of all time. But hot damn, does that thing look bad ass when it's going transonic.

Those are clouds forming around the jet, by the way. The plane's near-supersonic speed changes the temperature and pressure of the air around it, causing ambient moisture to condense. Clouds naturally follow.

Pictures on the left: Richard Vogel, AP/Yahoo News. High five: L787. Two more pics on the right, one courtesy from the Air Force (via Op For),
the other from the AP...

Has The Moon Exploded?

Growing wiser is a perk of growing older until you realize that reality sometimes sucks.

I think reality is the problem that I’m facing, but I don’t know how to further define my issues. I don’t feel good, but my cold and my fractured/sprained ankle are only physical aspects of present maladies. Being a wise and insightful physician of life, I’m diagnosing myself with flu-like symptoms of the soul.

Something is missing is the phrase that keeps ruminating through my person, which is basically a sign of depression. I don’t think depression is what it is. I started digging deeper yesterday into what it is, exactly, that seems to be missing. I found that my former life is missing, or I miss my former life, which ever it may be.

One aspect is the physical part. I’m a bit broken at present. I have a cold that is greatly exacerbated by Spring allergy season. My ankle is horribly sprained, slightly fractured, and I now hobble like the elder who wears his waist at his chest. My hair is thinning, graying, and certainly receding. I have a small patch of strange-colored skin on the side of my head, which makes me automatically think I have skin cancer. And my shirts and pants seem to be shrinking. I blame the shrinking on the washer and dryer versus poor diet and lack of exercise. Some might call that a hitch in my wisdom.

Physical aside, I know that there is something else. My adventurous spirit and passion for spontaneity and lust for the different are all exhibiting strangely as if the moon no longer had gravitational authority over the tide. The power of my moon is missing.

I miss my friends, those who I used to frequently define as part of my personality. I miss the G-man, who died almost a year ago. I miss Uncle Ted, Otis, GROB and our regular adventures. These people made me laugh, and I don’t seem to laugh any more. I miss spur-of-the-moment escapades. I miss gathering with others without having to have a reason. I miss the inspirational connection and shear force that my moon brought to my life.

I’m not sure why I’m unable to adjust to these changes in my life. I have a good life; I have a wonderful daughter and a great wife. Of course there are marital issues from time to time, but it is a marriage, ya know. These things happen.

I believe in God and the power of prayer. I believe that the Lord will take care of the needs of family and me. I have good job and I’m pretty good at what I do. My household income allows enough money to pay the bills and have some fun. I have great friends, although they are a bit more absent than I would prefer.

I am also a member of a men-only small group at my church. Theses guys, I believe, would do anything they could for me if I were in need, but I’m missing a connection with them. I can’t seem to form a bond like I have with my other friends. I think it’s because I fear their judgment of who I am. It’s my fear of their judgment, mind you. I don’t think it actually has anything to do with them.

As with any parent and husband, my life revolves around the sun. In this case, the sun happens to be the two other women in my life. I’m constantly doing something for one of them, or something to improve our living conditions, or planning something that will make one of them happy. But I feel as if I’m running in place. One project ends, the list of others awaits. One bug killed is no different than the another waiting beyond the shadows for the shoe of death. In between, things break and need immediate action. Eight billion inconsequential decisions need to be eternally made, seemingly by me.

I wouldn’t give up any of it for anything, ever.

Why does it feel like I’m always working a job? Where did the laughter go? Why am I sounding like Otis?

What happened to my moon?

My Left Foot…is broken

I’m nearly 38-year-old and ever have I broken a bone in my body…until now.

A week ago I stepped out of my boy alcove. The alcove is set off of the basement, is smaller than a standard-sized room and came as an after thought when making my screened-in porch. About the size of a jail cell, it’s carpeted, insulated, and is decorated with all of my classic rock albums that I no longer play. It houses my musical instruments, a computer, and a small fridge full of miscellaneous beers, sodas, and ½-full bottles of water. If I could mix in a lifetime supply peanuts, it would be pretty much everything that any man needs to survive.

So I stepped out of the alcove onto the basement floor, about an 18-inch drop. Instead of landing on the bottom of my foot, I landed on my ankle. All of you engineers start doing the math: One man at 265 pounds drops 18 inches at a standard rate onto one ankle. This pretty much equals disaster. I screamed as if someone had shot my testicles with a nail gun. The pain was intense, the worst I’ve ever experienced, and the kind that makes you want to toss chow. I started sweating instantly, and by the time I made it upstairs my shirt was soaked. Such a wonderful way to kick off my five-day vacation.

It took me a week before I made a trip to the doctor, although my wife told me I should go after day three of double-wide, purple foot. The first thing that the nurse said was, “oh, ouch”. Thank you for that expert diagnosis.

Dr. M twisted it, turned it and then had it x-rayed. The funny thing was, it really didn’t hurt that much when walking or during the aforementioned twisting and turning.

I didn’t see anything on the x-ray, but I knew something was amiss when Dr. M said to himself, “hmmm, I think I missed that,” while he stood there staring at the bones. He came over, pinpointed a particular location on my ankle, and as all doctors do so well, pushed while asking if it hurt. “Yeouwouchess”, I said. The sweat glands kicked into overtime instantly.

And then the words came, the words I have avoided throughout years of football, mountain biking, hiking, climbing, boating and all the other things that adrenalin junkies do to keep from being bored. “Yep, you fractured it,” he said.

The worst part is that I get no broken bone trophy. It’s not really bad enough to cast because the bone isn’t out of place, but it’s bad enough to use crutches for a month. I have to keep it wrapped in an Ace, keep it elevated, and ice it. I also have to do all the rehab, but I get no cast. From the first time I saw a friend with a cast during my childhood years, I wanted a broken bone because I wanted a cast that everyone could sign. I though it was so cool. But alas, I have strong bones. I guess it’s from all the milk. So, I get no cast but I get all the crappy stuff like ice, rehab, and crutches.

The photo is my foot 10 days after the injury. It’s still looks icky.

Marijuana Has Ruined My Life. Huh?

…um, oh yeah, now I remember.

The Federal Government has been classifying for a good long time the evil weed as something akin to crack, meth, and heroin.

Poppycock!

Yes, poppycock, I say.

Recreational drug use is not good. Some might modify this statement by clarifying with the word, “never”; others might say, “Extensive use of”. I’m sticking with the evidence that shows most any foreign substance abused over a period of time is probably detrimental to living a longer, healthier life and/or personal attitudes and relationships. I lump other items into my categorical statement, items such as McDonald’s, gasoline, and pornography. Still others include spelunking, under-water welding, and anything that allows your body to move faster than bipedal speed.

I’ll just come right out and admit it. I tried pot, once. I quickly figured out that the leaves get stuck in your teeth, the taste is unappealing, and it really doesn’t do much for you. From that point on I stuck to smoking it.

The Nancy Regan firestorm from the early eighties pounded into my head the detriments of saying yes. I answered in the affirmative despite the facts. I did it in high school, college and after. Through extensive research, my findings show that there are far worse things to abuse that fall within legal limits. Alcohol and tobacco are certainly in that list. Yes, I’ve used both. Legally prescribed painkillers, amphetamines, and anti-anxiety drugs are a far bigger problem than sharing a bowl with the boys on Friday night.

Pull out a piece of paper because you're about to make two lists. The first list is one with the names of people you know with a marijuana addiction, the other a list of people you know with some other addiction.

Now, search the Internet to find as many news stories as you possibly can that include something like, "Authorities say this person robbed/raped/fought/killed/over dosed/struggled with or ran from police/caused personal injury to himself and others/wrecked the car/...because he was high on marijuana and/or needed money to fuel his marijuana addiction". Now, same search again except use alcohol or prescription drug X or street drug X in place of marijuana.

Did it just get brighter in here?

Marijuana, however, is listed via federal government statutes as well into the red area of things that will KILL, KILL, KILL. As such, the purposely imposed social stigma gives people a false sense of reality as it pertains to use of alcohol and tobacco.

At times, tobacco farmers/manufacturers receive subsidies that support the growth of the tobacco industry. Tow-back-ee can be taxed, ya know. Taxation is the very idea that lead to the ban on marijuana by making it illegal to grow and then making it illegal to sell without a tax stamp. Additional regulations followed to classify the drug as such to impose a ban on all research…in the USA.

According to the AP, a study out of London shows (not necessarily proves) that alcohol and tobacco might actually be more harmful to you than an occasional spliff, or a spliff-a-day for that matter.

New "landmark" research finds that alcohol and tobacco are more dangerous than some illegal drugs like marijuana or Ecstasy and should be classified as such in legal systems, according to a new British study.

In research published Friday in The Lancet magazine, Professor David Nutt of Britain's Bristol University and colleagues proposed a new framework for the classification of harmful substances, based on the actual risks posed to society. Their ranking listed alcohol and tobacco among the top 10 most dangerous substances.

Heroin and cocaine were ranked most dangerous, followed by barbiturates and street methadone. Alcohol was the fifth-most harmful drug and tobacco the ninth most harmful. Cannabis came in 11th, and near the bottom of the list was Ecstasy. --Full article on MSNBC

Here is the deal in case you don't know. Pot makes you, shall I say, slightly lethargic. When high, it often becomes much more fun to play Xbox than work. To this I say that if you can’t motivate yourself to get off the couch after getting high, don’t get f*ckin’ high, dumbass. If you can’t remember to go to the grocery store after you get high, don’t get high before you go.

Don’t give me that crap about marijuana addiction. I was a head with the best of them. Merely wishing that you had a quarter-bag does not classify as a withdraw symptom, so suck it up and go to work. (Side note: Grocery shopping high is never a good idea unless you want to come home with $200 worth of Soft Batch Cookies and Little Debbie snacky cakes.)

So, is pot a gateway drug? I think that it can be. However, I think the frequency and berth of that gate is substantially increased by poor parenting as opposed to a hookah-toting teen. Do I advocate smoking pot? I certainly do not. Do I care if you do? Absolutely not -IF- you’re a responsible adult and you’re not harming/neglecting anyone. Keep in mind that harm to others comes in many forms.

Has smoking pot ruined my life or my career? Well, I woke up this morning. I’m a college grad, and I hold a professional position that I really enjoy. I’m a daddy, a father, a Christian, and trusted friend to numerous others. People tend to seek my advice and respect my opinions. I do, however, tend to lock the keys in my car from time to time. If that’s a life ruined, well, maybe I should just find the code to my keyless entry—if I can just remember where I hid it.

Whatchew Think?