Category: Humor

  • Can’t You Take A Joke?

    The ongoing discourse about “cancel culture” and how to “take a joke” provides a chance to reflect on our continuing evolution.

    All humor is based in pain. Much of it, in the pain of others. As Mel Brooks famously said, “Tragedy is when I cut my finger. Comedy is when you fall into an open sewer and die.”

    Humans are always evolving as emotional and social creatures, always learning more about ourselves as individuals and a group, always moving forward. This means that some things lose their humor over time, again among individuals and in the culture at large.

    One of the shifts we’re currently seeing is away from the schadenfreude of humor – the taking delight in someone else’s harm, rather than laughing with them and thereby at least in part at ourselves.

    Consider the movie “Airplane!” There are three classic scenes in this movie, which still are funny in my opinion but would never get filmed in 2022: the “jive dudes,” the little girl with the coffee (“No thanks, I take it black. Like my men.”), and the panicking passenger getting the crap beat out of her. These scenes still play funny to me, and from what I see online people in 2022 watching them still laugh, if with a bit of cringe at the little girl.

    Oh stewardess, I speak jive.

    If you tried to put the jive dudes over as original work in a script today it would be shot down. Appropriation, patronizing, othering, racism – is it? or is it a joke on racism? or simply a bit of fun with caricatures of cultural difference, and the ‘racist’ aspect is something we’re superimposing because the men are black and they’re using a parody (they made up the lines) of what was called “jive” in the 70’s and we’d now call “African American Vernacular English” after figuring out “ebonics” wasn’t cutting it? – and great white hopes, portrayal of black men as incapable of communicating “properly.”

    If my job is to vet project content for the probability of negative publicity I’m all over this, here in 2022.

    Nobody – nor nearly nobody, I haven’t seen anyone take it on – is trying to “cancel” that retroactively, but if you tried to put it through a studio today they’d never let it pass…and it quite likely *would* create a bunch of rancor on social media as people debated whether Mrs. Cleaver was really an avatar for white supremacy.

    The argument has merit, although I’m not sure you could really bring it home conclusively. You could make it strongly enough to cut the scene today using today’s values and mores, is the point.

    This is the evolution of humor. We understand in 2022, because of 42 years of discourse between that scene and now, that while there is still humor there it’s also important to hold the ugly part to account and talk about it and understand it and maybe it evolves into something where perhaps if someone rebooted it today it’s more the white stewardess who couldn’t understand “jive” that’s the butt of the joke, something to mitigate the implication of punching down in the original.

    I’m not trying to kill or cancel that scene, but I’m trying to say that humor, like all creative expression, *evolves* and when it evolves it’s generally because enough people finally figured out that the pain contained within some humor is a weapon, not a release; that people can truly be hurt by our words and portrayals of our perceptions of them so maybe we should try a little harder to not be dicks.

    When I hear comedians, especially people like Bill Maher and Dave Chappelle who have been to some extent taken as progressive thought leaders, going on and on about “cancel culture” and “nobody can take a joke anymore” even as they crap all over everything people liked about them, what I hear is people who have become lazy, complacent, and selfish. They want to coast on EZ mode, doing the same routines (or at least sticking to minor variations on the same proven themes) over and over, while the audience is moving forward without them.

    Humor is an expression of pain, and there are ways we can joke and reflect on being human and feeling pain, without inflicting it. With that said, those ways are going to change and shift and evolve too, and maybe something that’s pitch perfect today will be seen in twenty or forty years as almost criminally obscene, for better or worse, right or wrong.

    Three words makes all the difference

    Our job as people is to make sure we’re honest enough with ourselves to, in those moments, own our errors and do our best to set them right. Some of that has to do with the nature of our harm perception in retrospect; it’s hurtful but does it do harm? It’s hurtful to sexualize a pre-adolescent girl for humor, but was she harmed by it? Traumatized? (Did she even get the joke? And by the way, is it funny or not? Why?) What about the social impact, do we think there was a spike in human trafficking of little white girls to Africa in response to the coffee joke? (Let’s not forget the racism in play here, too.) The most likely reasonable answer to those questions is “no.”

    Oh, just remembered the whole bit with Peter Graves and “have you ever seen a grown man naked?” Have to include that one, in this discussion. (Similar to the ubiquitous racism in two of the clips above, that one catches the casual homophobia prevalent at the time too.)

    The entire humor in both of those bits is the uncomfortable, inappropriate tension. That’s the whole thing about it that makes you laugh. But it is too inappropriate to even tell the joke, in the light of our evolving understanding?

    These kinds of questions are *always* in play. For instance I’m not sure George Carlin’s routine about the n-word is something he’d have done in the last decade of his life because we evolved to understand that word is hurtful coming out of a white mouth and directed at a black person, regardless of whether it’s “meant to be” or not. Carlin being a linguistic genius and also a bit of a trickster god on it, may have still done the bit…but I’m not sure. I think he would’ve put a great deal more thought into whether the joke (or the deeper points behind it) would be obscured or mitigated or negated by his use of that word, and most importantly whether his work could be used to “punch down.”
    I’m glad to have cultivated an audience that seems to have a pretty good instinctive grip on where the lines are and why.

    When you stick to principle – “don’t punch down” – you’re less likely to make even an honest mistake, one borne of naive ignorance rather than malice, that hurts someone, and less likely to be whining about getting “canceled” while you’re selling out venues and appearing on every late night talk show. It’s still not easy mind you – knowing when you’re punching down is a function of empathy, which is also always evolving and refining – but it’s a good basic principle, and if you keep it in the back of your head while you’re doing your thing you’ll probably avoid saying anything you’ll wish later that you hadn’t.

  • The Twelve Steps Of Elder Scrolls Anonymous

    I originally wrote this back in the summer of 2003 as “The 12 Steps of Morrowind Anonymous.”  Since then of course the Elder Scrolls universe has expanded mightily, so I’ve revised it a little bit to reflect both the expansion of the game world and of its popularity.

    Step 1: Came to believe that we were powerless over Morrowind, and that our lives had become unmanageable…

    Step 2: Came to believe that Vive…er, a Power greater than ourselves could restore us to sanity.

    Step 3: Made a decision to turn our will and our lives over to the care of Azur God as we understood Her Him.

    Step 4: Made a searching and fearless moral inventory of ourscrolls OURSLEVES! Ourselves. I mean ourselves.

    Step 5: Admitted to Almale…er, God, to ourselves and to another NPC human being the exact nature of our wrongs.

    Step 6: Paid the ordinat Were entirely ready to have Azur God remove all these defects of character.

    Step 7: Humbly asked Him to remove our vampirism DAMMIT! shortcomings.

    Step 8: Made a list of all NPCs and demi-gods we had killed…shit, I mean persons we had harmed, and became willing to brag about it in Steam comments make amends to them all.

    Step 9: Paid the Imperial Guards...no, that’s not right…oh, yes: Made direct amends to such people wherever possible, except when to do so would injure them or others, or would cause us to lose Reputation points or be ejected from a Guild, Great House, or Temple.

    Step 10: Continued to take personal inventory and fence it before we got caught when we were wrong promptly admitted it.

    Step 11: Sought through prayer and Minion medication meditation to improve our conscious contact with Azu God as we understood Her  Him, praying only for knowledge of His will for us and the power to carry that out, and a longsword that would do 300 damage to hit, plus cast Soul Trap and Armor Eater so we could wipe out that annoying little bastard Gaenor outside the Temple complex in Mournhold during the Third Era

    Step 12: Having had a spiritual awakening as the result of these Steps, we tried to carry this message to Twitch, and to practice our marksmanship in anticipation of the next expansion pack.

    And now for a little prayer:

    Azura,
    grant me the septims,
    to buy the armor I cannot enchant,
    to learn the spells I don’t know,
    and the wisdom to save my game often.

    Amen.

  • Makin’ Some Noise

    Another one from just before I decided to go to college at age 40. At this point, I was still thinking of myself more as a performer who did political material, than a real political analyst or what have so, and I did a lot of these little videos just as though they were stand-up comedy bits, with a helping of pro wrestling style verisimilitude in the delivery – more “cutting a promo” than “telling a joke.”

    In this short bit, we discuss the idiocy of using traffic noises like sirens or car crashes in audio intended for broadcast on radios people listen to in traffic.

  • The Cassie Edwards Drinking Game!

    The Cassie Edwards Drinking Game!

    Ain’t No Party Like A Savage Party

    (Originally published 24-April-2009. At that time, unbeknownst to me, Ms. Edwards’ career had – recently, then – been basically ended by plagiarism charges. She published two more novels after this article was written. As Stephen King said, no great loss.)

    I’m a reader. I read everything, from the Bible to the Qur’an to the Book of Mormon to Dianetics; from Patricia Cornwell and Nora Roberts/J.D. Robb to Shakespeare, Dickens, Lovecraft, Poe, King, Heinlein, Straub, Bradbury, Nicholas Sparks, John Grisham, Mark Twain…if it’s written down, I’ll read it. I don’t care if it’s a multi-volume novel or the back of a cereal box.

    This rather undiscriminating approach led me to discover what may possibly be the worst published writer I have ever read: Cassie Edwards. The fact that this woman gets paid to write is a stunning and mortal indictment of everything the western world stands for. This is the kind of author who makes you think “Jesus, I could be on the USA Today Best Seller list, if this is the criterion!”

    I’ve read exactly two of her books. Part of one was called ‘Savage (Something),’ and it bears the distinction of being the first book ever in my life that I just could not finish. It was that bad. Cookie-cutter plot, stereotyped characters that are so poorly-written that you’re not just offended at the racial stereotypes (we’ll get in to those below), but simply at the fact that someone got paid to write this crap.  The other part of one was pretty much the same thing.  And the one in my hand right now.

    A collage photo of fifteen Cassie Edwards novels, every one of them featuring a heavily stereotyped, shirtless, Indigenous, American man and a somewhat less melanated woman. Hair flows, etc. Every single title features the word "Savage," e.g. "Savage Mission," "Savage Passions," and "Savage Honor."
    There’s like 85 of these, and that’s just the “Savage” ones…I donated a stack of these to the local library and the county’s average IQ dropped 38 points.

    I’m sure she’s probably a nice lady and all (this is me trying to be too nice. she’s not a nice lady, nice ladies aren’t raging bigots generating billions of dollars in revenue by perpetuating horrible and ignorant stereotypes -jh, 2019) but this woman is to literature what Pauly Shore is to brain surgery. She’s so predictable and cliche that she doesn’t just get one drinking game, she gets a whole party.

    Disclaimer: Please Drink Responsibly. I emphatically do not condone or endorse the levels of alcohol you will ingest if you take this game seriously. I mean it. Alcohol kills people. Be careful.

    That said…on with the show!

    The Cassie Edwards Drinking Game – EZ-Mode~!

    This one’s simple: Open any Cassie Edwards novel. If you see an ellipsis – you know, the three dots? Like…this? Drink. This is actually how I came up with this idea – I found one of her “books” in a box, and thought, “I bet I can open this to ANY random page and find at least one ellipsis.” I tried literally a dozen times, and succeeded every time. I’m holding one of her books in my hands right now, I’ll test the theory just for you! The title of this book is “Her Forbidden Pirate.”

    (Safety note: I was tempted as I constructed this to say ‘drink for each ellipsis.’ DON’T. Do not even think about it. You’ll die of alcohol poisoning before the end of the night. I promise. Even if you’re playing the game with water.)

    1. Page 250-251. Ellipses: 1
    2. Page 296-297. Ellipses: 4
    3. Page 72-73. Ellipses: 0~! (For your party, now pass the book to the next person)
    4. Page 346-347. Ellipses: 7
    5. Page 196-197 (weird the 6-7 keeps hitting). Ellipses: 1
    6. Page 368-269. Ellipses: 8
    7. Page 162-163. Ellpses: 15. FIFTEEN FLIPPIN ELLIPSES IN TWO PAGES! THERE ARE MORE DOTS IN HERE THAN A DAMNED SEURRAT PAINTING! I bet if you ripped all these pages out of the book and pasted them on cardboard when you back away from it it’ll look like the old grayscale newspaper photos.
    8. Page 360-361. Ellipses: 2
    9. Page 126-127. Ellipses: 4
    10. Page 270-271. Ellipses: 5

    So that’s the EZ-mode game. I promise you, if you have enough alcohol you will not be able to play this game for an hour without getting so hammered that you can’t SEE the friggin dots anymore.

    Expert Mode: General

    This is a little tougher, because it requires you to actually read this useless garbage. Fortunately you’ll be blackout drunk before you finish, so you won’t remember any of it.

    Step 1: Head to a used bookstore and find the Cassie Edwards novels. Close your eyes and select one at random. If it has the word ‘Savage’ in the title, find a designated driver.

    Step 2: Drinks are assigned for each of the following ‘plot’ points. I’ve broken these up into three categories: “Savage,” “Non-Savage,” and “General.” The “Savage” points apply only to books with “Savage” in the title, because all of Edwards’ “Savage” books apparently revolve around some bizzaro-world version of Native Americans, and there are some special things to go with that. The “Non-savage” list applies, obviously, to her filthy and witless wanderings outside of the ‘ME JOHN BIG TREE’ sub-genre. “General” applies to both.

    • If the female protagonist is under 18, drink.
    • If the female protagonist is a virgin, drink.
    • If the female protagonist is a pure, untouched virgin, unfamiliar with the ‘sight’ of a man, yet cheerfully casts off her clothes and schtupps the male protagonist out of his wits within the first five chapters, drink.
    • If the female protagonist’s mother is dead at the beginning of the novel, drink.
    • If she’s not dead at the start, but dies before chapter 8, drink. Drink twice if the female protagonist is absent for the death because she’s illicitly snuck off to be with the male protagonist.
    • If the female protagonist’s father is an outrageous bastard, drink.
    • Drink every time you see the word “throbbing” in connection with any part of the male anatomy (especially that part).
    • Drink every time a bosom heaves.
    • If the female protagonist has a friend who is described as “not beautiful in the conventional sense,” “thick,” “bawdy,” or some other variant of “unattractive but we’re trying to be performatively polite about it,” drink.
    • If the female protagonist is raped by the male protagonist and enjoys it, drink (I’m not even kidding).
    • Any time a phrase describes something that simply cannot happen while simultaneously invoking a bad romance novel cliche, drink. (Example, “‘Oh, Royce, I love you so!’ she sighed breathlessly.” You can’t sigh breathlessly. You have to breathe to sigh.)
    • If the male protagonist is cast as some sort of criminal – pirate, grifter, highwayman, etc. – drink. Drink again if it turns out he’s not really a pirate/whatever.
    • If there is a subplot suggesting that the male and female protagonists may actually be brother and sister, drink twice. If it turns out they actually are, drink twice more. If they continue having sex in spite of that, please consider donating a bottle of MD 20/20 to the “Help Cassie Edwards Move Home To MygoshijustLOVEmyfamily, Southwest Virginia” fund.
    • If the male protagonist’s muscles ‘ripple’ at any point, drink.
    • If the male protagonist is described at any point as ‘chiseled,’ drink.
    • If the word ‘loins’ appears referring to anything but a steak, drink.
    • Any time a character speaks out loud to themselves in place of a block of thought, drink. (I’m convinced that Edwards is aware of no other literary style with which to render thought.)
    • Any time a sex act is described as ‘filling her,’ drink.
    • Any time female genitalia is described as ‘her wetness,’ ‘her dampness,’ ‘her moisture,’ or ‘her heat,’ drink. Drink twice if the word “dewy” or “dew” is used to redundantly describe the aforementioned moisture.
    • Any time male genitalia is described as ‘his hardness,’ ‘his need,’ or ‘his love,’ drink.
    • If the ‘plot’ of the book involves finding lost treasure, a misplaced inheritance, or rightfully reclaiming one’s birthright, drink.
    • If the female protagonist’s father dies, drink. Drink twice if he’s dead before Chapter 7.
    • Every time you see a snippet of verse from an obscure poet that reads suspiciously like doggerel from a Hallmark card, drink. Drink twice if it’s the preface to the first chapter! (Thanks Katie!)
    • If the mother or father of the female protagonist turns out not to be her mother or father, drink. Drink again if her mother was kidnapped by her father but decided to stay with him of her own free will because she just loves the bad boys.
    • Any time you see dialogue that rolls off the tongue like a brick – thick, stilted, unnatural, heavy, and in no way related to any mode of speech ever employed by a human being, drink. (Bonus points may be involved; see the ‘Non-Savage’ section)

    Racism Bonus Mode! ‘Savage’ vs. non-‘Savage’

    ‘Savage’

    • Any time a Native American starts a sentence with “Ho,” drink.
    • Any time a Native American speaks in his ‘native’ language, which is rendered as a series of italicized syllables with dashes between them, drink. If he repeats the sentence in English, drink again. If the phrase turns out to be a secret nickname for the female protagonist that ‘translates’ to anything involving flowers, sunrises, does, or bodies of water, drink twice more.
    • Any time a Native American’s skin is described as “bronzed,” drink. Drink again if it’s “shining.”
    • If the female protagonist has a medical condition caused by an obscure combination of herbs assembled by the male protagonist, drink.
    • If the male protagonist (and the Native American is always the male protagonist) is described as a ‘chief,’ ‘brave,’ ‘shaman,’ or ‘medicine man,’ drink.
    • If the male protagonist at any time wears a loincloth, drink.
    • If the male protagonist reluctantly but necessarily kills the father of the female protagonist, drink.
    • If the female protagonist is in a near-death situation and the male protagonist revives her by singing or invoking any form of smoke, drink.
    • If at any series of concurrent events the male protagonist is described as carrying a bow and arrow, hatchet, AND machete, drink.
    • If at any time the male protagonist is depicted wearing a headband, drink.
    • If the female protagonist is assimilated into the male protagonists tribe, at first treated with loathing and suspicion by the other tribeswomen but charming them within two chapters, drink.
    • If the male protagonist already has a wife, drink. If he maintains two ‘homes’ in order to avoid any suggestion of actual kinkiness so as to avoid offending the strange people who actually enjoy reading this crap, drink again.

    Non-‘Savage’

    • If any character of African descent is featured with a name ending in ‘-i,’ ‘-ey’ or ‘-ie,’ drink
    • Drink once if any Black character says one of the following:
      • afadin’ (“fading,” especially when used as a euphemism for sleep or death)
      • any variant of “you be” or “I be” when the verb should be “am” or “are”
      • fo’ (“for”)
      • y’all. Drink twice if “y’all” is used to refer to a single person. Drink three times if it’s rendered as “y’all” and “ya’ll” on the same page. (I’m not kidding. Page 250 of Her Forbidden Pirate.)
      • Reference to either protagonist as “miss,” “missus,” “mister.”
      • Drink twice if “mistah” or “mistuh” is involved.
      • Toast Stephen Douglass if “Massa” makes an appearance.
      • ‘Fore (“before”). Bonus drink if this appears in the same book as “fo’” (I’m not kidding.)
      • “Fret” in place of “worry”
      • afta (“after”)
      • sho (“sure,” usually immediately following “fo’.” A legitimate quote: “He’ll be fit to be tied, Massa Saul will. He’ll come afta’ us fo’ sho’!”)
      • “Land sakes”
      • Yes’m
      • and of course, the ultimate in badly-written dialogue for black characters, “sho’ nuff.”
    • Drink if you can’t quite figure out whether the Black characters are slaves or servants.  Bonus drink if it’s obvious that they are slaves, but the word ‘slave’ is never used.
    • Drink if any reference is made to whipping.
    • Drink twice if it involves “whuppin’,” “whupped,” or “whup.”
    • Bonus drink if this “whipping” business is referenced, close together, by the same character in at least two different ways. (“Massa he goan whup me, I’s goan get a whippin’ fo’ sho’!”)
    • Drink if a Black character refers to themselves in the third person.
    • Bonus drink if the character adds the descriptive, “Ol’” to their names, as in “Ol’ Mazie’s goan fix you right up!”
    • Drink three times if this Steppin’ Fetchit pantomime of Blackness offends you even though you’re as Caucasian as Al Gore.
      • Add a couple of you’re politically conservative and still offended.
      • Add one more if you or any living relative under 65 regularly uses perjorative slang for Black people (e.g. the “n-word”) and yet you somehow manage to STILL be offended at how casually racist this woman is. I am. I’m almost offended at myself for even mentioning all of this, but this woman’s insane caricatures of ethnic minorities need to be drug out into the light where they can be properly examined before being beat to death.
    • This next one is a little tough. Make a two-shot cocktail for the whole party for every page (NOT every instance, see the safety warning above) where you can find linguistic anachronisms in which a black character jumps back and forth between badly-rendered and obnoxious colloquial “black” speech, and badly-rendered, unnatural, and artificial non-colloquial speech. The only way to really explain this is to quote some of it. Please note that EVERY SINGLE ONE of the quotes in the list below is spoken by the same character, the same who spoke the “fit to be tied” sentence a few bullets up:
      • “Massa Bryce will arrive soon, posing as a Doctor Jamison. There is a new doctor in town with the name Jamison, one Massa Saul hadn’t met yet. Massa Bryce will disable the true Doctor Jamison momentarily until Massa Bryce will have time to get you on his ship.”
      • “Miss Natalie, your father depends on me to keep a watch on you while he’s gone…Land sakes, if anything’d every happen to you while he was gone, he’d take a bullwhip to me fo’ sho’…probably until I’d neva’ walk again.”
      • “You’ll stay on the estate grounds, won’t you?…I don’t like the look in your eyes. They be adancin’, Miss Natalie. Since your return from your outing yesterday you’ve been a different young lady. Did you by chance make the acquaintance of a man? Is a man why you are behavin’ so strangely…so defiantly?”
      • “Old Tami ain’t gonna do nothin’ to stir up trouble for Miss Natalie…The years have made you my own.” The idea here is to celebrate the insane juxtaposition of the oh-so-richly offensive colloquial “Black folk”-speak, or proto-AVE or what the hell ever nonsense this woman is trying to stuff into these poor caricature’s faces, often in the same sentence as speech rendered, by the same character, in such precise diction that it seems unlikely even a classically-trained butler would employ it. We’re not talking about code-switching; we’re talking about glaring continuity errors in writing, aside from the outrageous stereotyping

    Conclusions & Further Analysis

    So there’s your game.

    The process of assembling the ethnic stereotypes really brought home to me how truly ignorant, obnoxious, and offensive this woman’s writing is. This isn’t Mark Twain faithfully rendering the language of the antebellum south and the Black slaves who inhabited it – it’s not even clear that this novel took place in a time of slavery, only that it was pre-industrial.

    This isn’t even Stephen King letting loose with a string of racial epithets spoken in the head of a black sub-protagonist by an evil hotel trying to keep him away.

    This is an ignorant, unskilled, suburban white hack who has likely never so much as heard a live black person speak in any context…and from the way she writes dialogue, she’s never heard anyone else speak either. Her non-white characters are a throwback of every advance past stereotype our collective consciousness has taken in the last century.

    I really didn’t start this article to write some hard-liberal politically correct diatribe, and that’s really not who I am (ed. note: in the language of 2009 “hard liberal” would have been accurate, but “politically correct” never has been and still isn’t. I don’t avoid the use of slurs to be politically correct; I do it to not be a dick. I don’t care in the least what people think is “politically correct” or not. -jh, 2021).  My own background is a mix of over a half-dozen ethnicities that I know of, including Black, at least two Native American tribes, and several flavors of European ancestry. I’m not averse to a little off-color (no pun intended) humor now and then, as long as there’s a purpose to it and it’s not just some stupid racist ‘joke.’ I certainly have no problem with honest, historically-accurate portrayals of non-white culture – the Geers, for instance, write some really excellent historical Native American fiction.

    But this woman legitimately offends me, and I just don’t even use that concept very often.

    Worst of all, this is just one facet of many that make this woman a walking offense to the concept of movable type. The dialogue of her white characters isn’t any less ridiculous, forced, unnatural, and just plain crappy – it’s just lacking the colloquial quality that marks her as not only an idiot, but a bigot too.

    But it’s not just the nearly belligerent bigotry in her portrayals of minorities or her utter inability to write dialogue that doesn’t sound like a poorly-written play for grade-schoolers. Every character is a bad cliche. Every sentence she writes looks like it came straight from the diary of a slightly insane Nazi boy of thirteen whose entire concept of female sexuality is based on Porky’s movies.

    And do I really need to point out the patently ugly, sick, and thoroughly evil nature of constantly portraying women who are first forced into sex, and then fall deeply and forever in love with their attackers?

    People play ‘cruel tricks,’ hands ‘flail,’ color ‘drains’ from faces, blue ‘swims’ in eyes, everything is ‘damnable.’ Lips are inevitably ‘forced apart’ by tongues, there is always the obligatory ‘tangle of limbs,’ and slight, spineless women are ‘swept up’ into bulging, rippling, bronzed, shining, chiseled, heroic arms. Heartbeats thunder, one always ‘rises’ from a bed, heat rises in loins, hearts skip beats, and everyone is almost afraid of the next paragraph.

    Whether you’re like me and read basically anything that crosses your path, or you’re a romance novel aficionado, I can not say it strongly enough: avoid this woman’s “writing” like the plague. She is the ultimate embodiment of every bad cliche in the genre.

    Enjoy your drinks. Responsibly.

  • My Apology To Rush Limbaugh

    My Apology To Rush Limbaugh

    Introduction & Opening Remarks

    Back in 2009, there was this weird rash of situation where noted and thankfully now deceased right-wing propagandist-agitator and all-around anthropomorphic feminine hygiene product Rush Limbaugh would say something ridiculous and obnoxious, then a right-wing politician would call him out on it, then a week or two later that same politician would reverse course and apologize to Mr. Limbaugh.

    As additional background context, back in the day on usenet’s alt.usenet.kooks group and other places, there was this fella – if I remember correctly it was the now departed Jamie Eckles – who used to write the most hilarious and deeply sarcastic “apologies” to the kooks he was trolling, like being sorry their home team big sports franchise can’t play worth a damn, that kind of thing.

    It was in this spirit the original was written, and having come across it recently (2021) while trying to curate archives and realizing that both the subject of the piece and the friend who inspired it are now gone, decided to make it part of the public archive as a tribute to Mr. Eckles…and a constant reminder that Rush Limbaugh was an ignorant pig of a man that far too many people took seriously.

    This piece has been edited from the original; a phrase used to refer to homophobes that was acceptable language when this was written no longer is, in my opinion, and a more suitable word that doesn’t itself invoke a slur has been substituted. In making this change I intend not to hide my error in judgement and my poor display of allyship, but to acknowledge and correct it. In recognition of shifting interpretations of things, I’d also like to point out that there’s a ton of sarcasm in this so when you’re seeing things that don’t sound like they’d be coming from me, like misogynist and islamophobic stuff? Yeah, that’s sarcasm. Kinda sucks I feel like I have to say that out loud now, but here we are.

    -jh
    July 6, 2021

    I’m Sorry, Rush

    In stark defiance of common sense and good taste, it seems that Rush Limbaugh, the Pundit of Palm Beach, has some how ascended from his rightful place as a fringe agitator shilling radio commercials to a legitimized conservative “leader” and, some are suggesting, potential candidate for President in 2012.

    Booking photo of notorious US right-wing hate broadcaster Rush Limbaugh after his arrest for illegal possession of prescription opiates.
    Rush Limbaugh’s booking photo from his arrest in 2006. These charges were eventually dropped by the local prosecutor. Public Domain via Wikimedia Commons

    Over the last few months, we’ve seen his lapdogs in the Republican party make the mistake of speaking their minds, only to recant time and time again when called out by this odious oxycontin overdoser.  Say something bad about Rush one day…and apologize the next.

    In keeping with this new tradition of reconciliation and regret, I too wish to make a public apology to Rush Limbaugh.

    *ahem*

    Dear Mr. Limbaugh:

    I’m sorry.

    I’m sorry that you had such a bitter, miserable childhood, growing up in a home where your parents could afford to send you to broadcast school instead of making you actually work for a living.  In a nation where so many of our children and young adults are lucky to find work at all, indeed in a nation where so many of our children have to work to survive, I understand the incredible burden of guilt that your short-cut to a lifetime of sitting on your ass for money must put on you.  I’m sorry for not recognizing the depth of intestinal fortitude necessary to bear this onerous burden.

    They Were All Against You From The Start

    I’m sorry that you have been so viciously used and abused by not one, not two, but three different wives.  Your multiple divorces are a stark testament to your unflagging respect for the institution of marriage.  Obviously, the evil feminazis you unceremoniously dumped were merely ringers for the vast left-wing conspiracy, trying to bring you down and ruin your reputation by attempting to actually give a damn about you.  You poor thing.

    I’m sorry you spent so many years in the Boy Scouts without ever once earning a single merit badge.  Obviously, the liberal thugs who lead the BSA recognized your sheer genius at an early age, and took every possible step to stop you from succeeding in life.  But you got the last laugh, as you earned the most important merit badge of all:  the praise and adulation of bootlicking Republican sellouts and their hate-filled, bigoted sycophants all across this great nation.

    I’m sorry that the Ivy League curriculum of Southern Missouri State University was so liberal and so beyond your own intellectual scope that you were compelled to drop out after a year.  Obviously the hidden cadre of brain surgeons, rocket scientists, political leaders, and multi-billionaires who have sprung from this pinnacle of advanced learning were against you from the start; threatened by your obviously superior intellect, they simply had to sabotage you.  Kudos to you for rising above and refusing to let the MAN keep you down.

    I’m sorry that your corporate lapdogs at Clear Channel and Premiere Radio saw fit to award you a $400 million contract last year.  With your well-known back troubles, it’s unconscionable of them to expect you to carry that weight.  Fortunately for you, in Palm Beach there’s a sizable population of illegal immigrants who will happily assist you for 20% of minimum wage or less, even while you agitate your ignorant, bigoted fan base to violence against them!

    Betrayal and Impoverishment

    I’m sorry that your hero, Ronald Reagan, has been revealed over time for the homophobic elitist economic fumble-thumb that he was.  It must truly break your heart every time evil liberal reminds us that the unquestionably failed and destructive policy of “trickle-down” economics is called “Reaganomics” for a reason.

    I’m sorry that you make more in a year for sitting on your hate-filled keister for an hour a day than many families in the US will make in a lifetime.  Knowing that your personal income tax burden is going to increase – potentially causing you the loss of untold necessities like your five Palm Beach homes or your half-dozen cars that cost a cool half-million or so each – for the sake of allowing yet another drug-addicted, poverty-stricken, malingering minority welfare queen to feed her family for another month must really hurt.

    I’m sorry that your 24,000 square foot main home was too small to make the life-size portrait of you that hangs in the front hall any larger…but then for you, life-size is already pretty large. If I get busted with a joint, I’ll eat government potatoes for 90 days and sleep on a concrete mattress.  When you get busted with enough pharmaceutical opiates to put the entire Haight-Ashbury district to sleep for a month, you eat with Supreme Court justices and presidents, and sleep in the Lincoln Bedroom

    I’m sorry that activist judges trying to write laws for themselves continue to sentence young people to years in overcrowded prisons for selling a little grass, but when it came time for you to pay the piper for your illegal Oxycontin and Viagra prescriptions, you were held to a different standard. 

    This is totally not fair to you, and it is unforgivable that these judges should put you in such a position. 

    It must prey terribly on your conscience to be the victim of such judicial disparity; you too deserve to be imprisoned just like a mortal man, and I can totally understand how hurt you must be that you were robbed of this opportunity to better understand that great underclass of self-defined losers in life who so courteously provide you a target for your hate.

    Vacation, All I Ever Wanted

    And speaking of drugs, I’m sorry that the half-dozen different doctors you went to in order to feed your Oxy addiction didn’t bother ahead of time to warn you that it would cause your reproductive organs to start malfunctioning, thus making it necessary to secure more illegal drugs in the form of Viagra when you take your trips to the Dominican Republic.  Of course under ordinary circumstances I wouldn’t be able to imagine what relevance Viagra would have to a single, old, man vacationing in the Dominican Republic, but after years of listening to your show I don’t think it’s any secret that you like to screw young black people as hard and as often as possible.

    I’m sorry that you had all that trouble with your ears a few years back.  I’m also sorry that you were forced to be able to have a qualified medical professional attend to correcting that trouble when so many in the Welfare World get by just fine without so much as a decent set of teeth.  Clearly this was just another liberal plot to cast you as weak and in need of the support of a doctor.  I’m glad that you can hear again – but just in case, I’m publishing this in print so you can read it.  I’m sorry to be so patronizing.

    I’m sorry that Michael J. Fox fakes his Parkinson’s disease for the sake of pushing his evil baby-killing agenda.  As you and I both know, all liberals are baby-killers who regularly conduct satanic rituals where they consume placentas and burn the corpses of dead babies to gain the favor of Evil.  Clearly Fox is either not taking his medicine or, far more likely, he’s acting in order to gain sympathy from the ignorant so they will fall in to line and promote baby-killing, thus ensuring that Evil continues to be pleased.  And you with nothing for protection but a microphone and 45% body fat.  Poor fella.

    I’m sorry that gay people think they should have the same rights to love and be loved as straight people.  Obviously, as a man who has been married three times, you know better than most what constitutes a threat to the great institution of marriage.

    I’m sorry that those evil feminazis refuse to admit that they want to be groped and manhandled by mouth-breathing, overweight old perverts.  Especially the ones who buy Viagra and fly to the Dominican Republic.  Obviously these women know in their hearts that it is their natural duty and obligation to not only tolerate but enjoy sexual harassment, and I’m sorry that we live in a world where it seems that only you and John Norman really understand the “natural order” of things.

    I’m sorry that I didn’t take the bone out of my nose before I called your show that one time in Pittsburgh.  I’m also sorry that the only reason people like Donovan McNabb is because he’s black.  I’m also sorry that all composite police sketches of criminals look like Jesse Jackson…but hey, you know, they all look alike to us anyhow, right?

    The Final Grievances Of Poor Rush

    I’m sorry that the stupid American public was so outraged over that harmless little college prank at Abu Ghraib.  Obviously since the babes were involved, this was all harmless fun.  Besides, we all know that Muslims aren’t human anyway, so what’s the problem?

    I’m sorry that the Republicans couldn’t field a black candidate, since that’s the only reason Obama won the presidency.

    And finally, Rush, I’m sorry that you had to work so hard to hone and sharpen an entertainment persona deliberately calibrated to separate the most gullible marks from the biggest percentage of their dollars. 

    I’m sure that as you cash that $38 million/year paycheck and kick around your 24,000 square foot home, your heart is just breaking to think of all the senior citizens dying in their homes because they can’t afford heat. 

    I’m sure that your unbearable burden of guilt over the way these people throw their money at you can only be relieved by the liberal (if you’ll pardon the phrase) application of synthetic opiates and erectile dysfunction remedies. 

    I’m just so glad that, because of your position and political connections, you never need worry about criminal sanctions as a result of using these drugs illegally.

    You bear your burdens with aplomb and courage, sir, and I’m sorry that more people don’t recognize your genius.

  • The Murloc

    The Murloc

    a poem by RogueGenius, Alexstrasza-US

    Back in the mid 2000’s I like many gamers was quite addicted to Blizzard’s “World Of Warcraft.” In fact I’d probably still be playing if I could afford it, but unfortunately their pricing is about as friendly as their labor policies. In any event, at that same time I was one of the founders of a local non-profit theater company in North Carolina, and one of the other founders was quite the Poe fan. We were also guild mates – “Champions Of The Raven” on Azeroth.

    That all has long passed now, but remaining is this little bit of nonsense I cooked up one night around…probably 2006 or something originally.

    Once upon a marsh, quite muddy,
    while I quested with my buddy,
    looking high and low for loot in some forsaken bog,
    Suddenly there came fapping,
    like a fish but not as slapping,
    Carried clearly to our ears
    despite the cold dense fog.
    ” ‘Tis a mudskipper,” I told my friend,
    “Now let us have more grog!
    Don’t get spooked, it’s just a frog.”

    Ah, so clearly I remember
    it was just this past September
    And Brewfest was alive with sounds
    of drunken dwarven priests
    My friend happened to mention
    a bit of loot for my attention
    So ‘leet that it induced me to
    forsake the autumn feasts.
    To seek the epic frogman,
    known as king among the beasts
    Zangarmarsh, I’d heard; to the southeast.

    As we sat there drinking, and
    my mind had started thinking
    Wond’ring if our gear would match
    against this nameless foe?
    A quiet then befell upon
    our damp and muddy hell and e’en
    the crocolisks and flies
    stopped moving to and fro.
    “One more brew,” said I,
    “and then we’ll pack and go.”
    Sad to think…we didn’t know.

    Presently a crash abounded,
    trembling earth and then it sounded:
    A call of demon evil
    unlike any heard before!
    With my boomstick quickly rising,
    I sought what was terrorizing
    the flora and the fauna on
    this ill-begotten shore.
    What fright had come upon us
    on this ill-begotten shore?
    And then, the quiet…nothing more.

    Trepidation seared my veins
    as my fear escaped it’s reins
    I began to cast about me for
    some meaning to this warble.
    Then it was, I saw, an Eye
    rising to the darkened sky
    Nictating, nor blinking,
    like a newly-minted marble.
    Staring deadly in the night as though made
    from dead, cold, marble.
    Quoth the Murloc, “ARLRLRLBGLBGLBGL!”

    “By the Titans!” I expounded
    As my heart in my ribs pounded
    leaping to my throat like
    some regurgitated meal
    “This monster is outragous
    If we’re caught he’ll surely cage us
    And braze us and fillet us with
    revenge-empowered zeal!
    Bronzebeard help us, this is it!
    He’ll club us like a seal!
    Then we’re done! A murloc meal!”

    The frogman’s arm was raised and
    I saw the end of days as
    the best I could have prayed was for
    the end to quickly come.
    But then to my deep shock
    this gargantuan Murloc
    gently grabbed me by my frock
    between his huge finger and thumb.
    “For Khaz Modan,” I muttered,
    and then, I was struck dumb.

    For the Murloc then commenced
    communicating the events
    which had led him hence, to this forgotten shore
    It seems there was a chest
    That had been duly blessed
    with a full set of armor
    even better than tier 4
    An entire set of armor,
    even stronger than tier 4!
    From my friend…still a snore.

    The voice was in my head it seem’d
    but clearly this was not a dream
    this thing, this frog, this man was real
    and had been here before
    back in the days of beta
    and the devs left in his data
    heretofore forgotten in some
    thumb drive in a drawer
    “I was king,” he sighed, but there was more

    It seems Azeroth’s fauna
    had evolved within a sauna and
    come up on the land with fins
    and gills and slimy hide
    The head-voice said “but sadly,
    The alpha went so badly, that
    the devs decided we would best
    inhabit the outside
    In the wetlands!” It exclaimed
    And then I swear it cried.

    This injustice, I decided,
    simply could not be abided
    And with renewed resolve I stood
    and said to my new friend:
    “Just tell me what you need,”
    said I and looked into that giant eye
    and saw my future there inscribed
    beginning until end.
    The Murloc finally told me of
    the place to me he’d send
    This crime, I swore, I would amend

    “In Jenkin’s office desk,” he said
    “Up in accounting, he’s the head
    You’ll find the plans from alpha testing
    showing our true fate.
    You see,” continued he,
    “We were intended to be free
    and help new players level so that
    they won’t have to wait
    They’ll have their mounts at level one and
    epic swords at eight!”
    “Heroic Deadmines?” said I, “I can’t wait!”

    “With our freedom, joy you’ll bring
    and you will be annointed king
    of Azeroth United, Orcs and Humans side by side.
    Arthas will no longer threaten
    Kel’Thuzud will be forgotten
    Sargeras’ plans will fall apart and
    you’ll be filled with pride!
    All his plans will crumble down and
    you’ll be filled with pride!”
    “Let’s do this,” I said. “Can I get a ride?”

    To Zangarmarsh we flew and
    let my friend sleep off his brew while
    I went AFK to get the data from the desk
    On my return rejoicing as
    the Murloc still was voicing
    Aspirations for his race that
    we once had thought grotesque
    A goal for every murloc more than
    just some frog burlesque
    “Where’s the loot,” I said, grinning my rogueish best.

    But still he kept expounding on
    the world that he was founding and
    one remark which struck a darker
    tone than ones before
    It seemed his greatest wish was
    for everyone to fish and thus
    the murloc then could eat without
    this mind-erasing chore
    Their plan was to enslave us all,
    so they could eat some more.
    “You no take candle,” the Murloc said
    And then, there was no more.

    Thinking quick I grabbed my blades and
    vanished fast into the shade behind
    the Murloc contemplating
    food with a contented warble
    A dagger in the back he took and
    sadly rolled his eye to look
    upon my dagger scoring deeply
    through that vast and lidless marble.
    My dagger sinking deep into that never-blinking marble.
    Quoth the Murloc, “ARLRLRLBGLBGLBGL!”

    (okay, it’s a little clumsy in spots. YOU try finding a rhyme for ARLRLRLBGLBGLBGL.)

    All game images are copyright Blizzard Entertainment.