Funny Grocery List

Ride of Silence [PHILADELPHIA]

Yesterday in memory of my friend, George Gonzalez, I rode my bike in silence with many other Philadelphians who lost a loved one in a bicycling accident. The "Ride of Silence" is an internationally organized 12mph bike ride that forces the public to recognize, "Share the road" mentality. I'd like to talk about honestly what I experienced while riding the 8 mile trek through Center City. First off, I couldn't help but break at red lights provoking motorists (especially cabs) much angst and frustration. I know it is immature, but hell, it felt good considering. I did talk a couple of times, sorry. I rode with George in spirit, which resulted in taking the happening in stride, breathing and enjoying the scenery. Thanks, George. Riding in silence with hundreds of people makes a powerful sound. All you hear are pedals. The funniest part of the whole venture was at one point someone nearly got "doored". Anyone who even only occasionally rides their bike in the city has had a doored or near doored experience. It's terrifying. Considering there were hundreds of us riding with police escorts trailing behind a large sign encrypted "NO MORE BIKE DEATHS" - you'd think that ignorant mother fucker would have seen us coming!? That's funny. At the end there was a speech. Looking around I noticed all the different people who had come to honor a loved one, there were a lot of us. Some people were serious looking bicyclist, with all the required gear. Others were not wearing helmets. I was a not wearing helmet person. Some bike messenger types. People were smoking. People were old. Everyone seemed to like riding their bike. The worst part was after the speech when we were asked to raise our bikes for 45 seconds if we had lost our friend/family member in a bicycling accident in the last 12 months. Nearly everyone did. It's scary how much people don't pay attention. George was 26 years old when he died. A good person I would have liked to know longer.
For more info go here: http://www.rideofsilence.org/
AND this blog is local: http://bcgp.blogspot.com

I HEART BOB, 3:00 book comic

New comic from the 3:00 book. Boob pun with Bob Barker.

read more | digg story

"Why I Didn't Vote Yesterday" by Beth Heinly

I have voted in every election, primary, what have you, since I turned eighteen years old. My dad made me do it, he's republican. The last time I participated in a fair and exciting! election where I actually felt I had made a difference was in the 2nd grade. Dukakis won. Since that time I have seen two full term republican presidents, one lame ass term republican president and one democratic president nearly impeached for getting a blow job. People.....men love blow jobs. Ladies.....men cheat on girls. It's true. Men.....women cheat too. Yes. And does anybody remember when the president we voted for didn't get elected? Does anybody remember Al Gore NOT fighting for our votes? If a presidential candidate is helpless in fighting for his votes where does that leave us? WTF? And what president Clinton had to go through while in office is shocking! I can remember watching him during the impeachment process describe M.L.'s vagina. Who was making him waste his time? It seemed like the public was for it, but it always seems that way. It reminds me of George Orwell's 1984 when crowds of people ministerially spoke in unison, numb to what was actually being said, propaganda at it's finest: vocal. I wanted to vote for the independent candidates in the last two elections, but I was afraid. I was terrified of republicans. Anyone who wants the constitution to stay just the way it was written over two hundred years ago seems a bit backward to me. I was told, "Al Gore will lose votes!" "Kerry will lose votes!" The best you can do is vote locally; mayor, senate, house of representatives, etc., which rarely has a third party running. This year it seems for presidential candidate third party we have Ron Paul (who was a Regan supporter) and Ralph Nader with running mate Matt Gonzalez (from San Francisco). Nuff' said. Seriously, check them out. From 2nd grade to now my political understanding and views have not changed much. I have never been able to break through the bullshit. It seems to me political repartee consists of symbols thrown back and forth between masses of people both, visually and vocally, having no concept of how the symbols work, but instead intuitively pick one and go with it, which inherently demands my involvement. Well, not this year because I don't know. Because we live in houses with cars and work at jobs with clothes forgetting about the ideal where community comes before the individual. I'm not suggesting giving away our precious possessions. I'm suggesting we think less about them. With that extra time we might be able to, together, stop the corrupt campaigning that dominates elections and sways votes with empty phrases. I walked out of my house yesterday and found litter on my front step, more than usual. Paper with phrases like, "Vote!", "Pro-Choice!", "Pro-Life!", "Peace!", "Hope!", "Change!". Perfect ways of giving a citizen information without telling them anything and littering at the same time. More trash, junk, pollution and jobs for people who work in the paper business.


Q. Most useful trash?
A. Rubberband.


Got my neighbors, everyone is affected.


This one got it's period.


Woman-man candidates, for those voters who are unsure which gender better serves them.


Dickher.


"O-BAMA! O-BAMA! Got my DICK in yo' ear!"


I shit on your face, Hilary Clitoris!

http://www.votenader.org/
http://www.ronpaul2008.com/

YOUR VOTE DOESN'T COUNT!

American Flag

"Hey buddy, my daddy died for that flag."
"Really? I bought mine. Yeah, they sell 'em at K-Mart."
"He died in Korea!"
"Wow, what a coincidence. Mine was made in Korea."

-Bill Hicks

It's always good to start with a quote. Why? It's a little easier to get people to agree with you when someone else's opinion leads the way. Do I need your opinion to agree with mine? No. Wow, I guess I really blew my opening. Since posting this video I have had people tell me they hope my cat, Zion, gets hit by a car, hope also that I get hit by a car or hope that I burn in a fire. Well, I'm glad because "hope" is a perfect thing to feel when you know you have no control over a situation. You just sit in your little ignorant houses and hope the war works out, hope that you don't find yourself a victim in a drug war, hope terrorism doesn't come to your neighborhood, hope your vote counts, or maybe hope that discrimination won't turn out too poorly in your favor. Sometimes you need to get a rise out of people to get them to think.

My "American Flag" video was taken down from break.com, it got flagged. I did not intend to have to write an artist's statement for this piece, but considering the circumstances, I am now. On break.com my video got around 3oo views with 14 comments. The comments were great and I appreciate everyone who posted them. Those comments are gone now, so please post here your opinions good or bad and we'll see how long they stay.

What I love about this video is the three distinctive symbols that get my point across. It's simple:

1. American Flag: symbol of the United States government
2. Zion: my cat, symbol of me, United States citizen
3. Catnip: symbol of drugs in the United States

In controlling the situation I was able to establish my feelings on the issue of the cannabis plant being illegal to be grown, possessed or inhaled by anyone, excluding medicinal (in some cases), within the United States. My feelings:

1. Anger
2. Laughter

I love this country, I love all countries. We are in this together not as a nation, but as a world called, Earth. People have also expressed that I'm lucky I live in a country where I can desecrate the flag in an act of protest. I am not lucky. It has nothing to do with luck. Are the times that sad where it's considered "lucky" to be free to express my opinion? Obviously, we do. Let's not hope any longer. Let's act. It's as simple as pulling together symbols from the collective consciousness and getting people to talk about the issues. If we and by we I mean; the poor, discriminated, minorities, sheep are able to sway headlines based on our short attention spans let's sway them on issues that provoke change and not on what is wanted from us, which is ignorance. One change I would like to see is innocent people being freed from jail on charges related to the cannibis plant. It's a law put there to put minorities in jail. It's a law put there to keep a large part of America from rising up and getting a piece of the pie we all deserve. I want us all to be equal, which is what our constitution is all about. Sometimes it takes great love to criticize. Saddest of all is the argument that it's wrong to use American flag in an act of protest because that suggests that the object is infallible, that the American government is infallible. Nothing created by humanity is infallible.

http://norml.org/
http://www.fbi.gov/ucr/cius2006/index.html
http://www.billhicks.com/
http://www.esquilax.com/flag/
http://www.freedomforum.org

Cabbage Patch Kids and the New Social Order

I love medicated chap stick. I love medicated chap stick because it smells like cabbage patch kids. That new plastic mixed with baby powder. Olfactory reception is said to be the strongest sense of memory. So, while applying medicated chap stick to my lips, breathing in the vapors, nosetalgia hit. My first cabbage patch doll was named, Sue, after my mom. Sue was a tough kid, I had to beat her a lot to get her to behave. My grandmom had one named, Thomas, who was younger than Sue. I was never allowed to play with Thomas. "He's not for playing." He had the cutest little sweat suit with bright white gym shoes. Finally, I got my own bald cabbage patch, his name was Tyler. Way more precious than Thomas and younger too. Sue was getting to be too much to handle and eventually I made her sleep in my parents bedroom until my mom let me throw her out. Then there were preemies.

I remember the commercial when they first came out. They were in those adorable plastic incubators! The nurses gently picked the petite baby up and put them in the little girls arms saying, "Be careful. Preemies need extra love and attention." Maybe my memory is skewed, but I swear that little girl was crying from happiness. I couldn't wait to have my own preemie. I never got one. I suspected my parents were a little out of touch with the cabbage patch scene. I was glad though because my friends who had them were so obsessed with caring for their preemies their lives fell apart. First, it was the endless boring conversations at lunch, "My preemie this, my preemie that." Next, their grades started slipping. Ultimately, you never saw your friend again. It wasn't until, out of curiosity, I read the side of my dad's pack of Camels that I realized a bigger issue was at stake.

"Surgeon General's Warning: Smoking By Pregnant Women May Result in Premature Birth, And Low Birth Weight." (No wonder it's called, "Being on the patch.") I was so confused. I thought that preemies were desirable, so why was this doctor army "warning" pregnant women. Wouldn't you want your baby to be cute? It was explained to me later that premature birth was not good. My world was then turned upside down. I decided to further investigate this whole cabbage patch operation. What was this Mr.X up to? He obviously had been lying about the cabbage patch. I may have been young, but I certainly wasn't born yesterday. Babies aren't grown in fields.

If I had a choice I would have cut up Sue first, but she was long gone by then. Tyler had to be sacrificed. It's still hard for me to talk about. What I found, wasn't cute. Tyler wasn't put together very well. Just six knots of thread located on the elbows, knees, upper thigh and buttocks. All the rest was stuffing. What were my parents paying for? I talked to the other kids at school. I tried to explain to them that premature birth is caused by smoking and not by an early harvest. I also told them that the C.P.K.'s were actually just cheaply put together dolls taken from mother's who smoked cigarettes. My friends all knew about the discipline problems I had with Sue and how it would make sense that this was because her mom was a smoker, but they refused to believe me. The C.P.K.'s had brain washed them. I was too late. I hadn't given up, I just needed more proof.

I spent over a month watching C.P.K. commercials only to find out that the people in the commercials were actors, not real people. I followed the C.P.K.'s in the news. On the surface it all looked very impressive, everyone wanted them. In 1985, one C.P.K. by the name of, Christopher Xavier, became the first of his kind to travel into space! I thought to myself, "This is getting out of hand."

In conclusion, I came to understand that C.P.K.'s themselves were not real, pretend. It was their concept that was reality. They were more than just dolls, they were examples of us: homeless and desperate for love, validated by their looks and material possessions. Birth certificates with trendy names verify their existence. Raised by children who are lead by a society promoting cyclical development, like for instance; creating a doll that makes sickness seem appealing.

And what did my parents say when they were me:
"You may say that I'm a dreamer.
But I'm not the only one."

Elizabeth Bathory:The Blood Countess

I enjoy reading horrible books. Very badly written books. I'm not alone. Anything to do with vampires, people who morph into animals, sex, murder, pregnancy and the south - I'm in. The trick to reading them is to pretend you are on a date and you just want to have sex. Like when the person is talking about their dull life, they're just so uninteresting, you nod and smile and just hope that their penis is really big or if you're into girls, just hope she doesn't have too much cellulite on her ass, that really grosses you out.
The good parts. Once you get to the good parts, take your time. Read over your favorite paragraphs. Don't be shy. This is what you came for, enjoy it.
As far as character development goes, don't feel bad about not investing too much. Just pick one and stick with that, it's enough. A good bad writer knows this and probably overdeveloped one character to a point where you can't even pay attention to the other characters. When they talk, you're like, "Wait. What was that? I really shouldn't be drunk while I'm reading this."
The plot. In order to follow a very badly written plot, keep in mind, self indulgence will lead you nowhere. Sure, the plot is what keeps you reading, but don't expect any results. In the end it will only disappoint you. Once you finish reading a bad book you must wait at least 30 days reading something useful before you start another. It might make you sick to read two bad books back to back! If you turn reading into a mindless, shallow act it will undoubtedly become less fulfilling. Eventually, you won't even remember the last book you read! Books will begin to all look the same to you, just a fuzzy merging of titles and cheap illustrations. Obviously, I speak from personal experience and I feel fortunate none of the authors have my phone number.
Lastly, please remember to wear a condom. You don't want to get any sexually transmitted denouements!

Excerpt from good bad book I'm reading now:

Elizabeth Bathory: The Blood Countess
"Slipping swiftly behind her like a knife blade into a deerskin sheath, the puppeteer said,"Your devoted slave is here, Countess." Without speaking a word, Johannes, still holding her hand, bent over the outer rim of the fountain. He wore a short tunic that barely covered his behind, and velvet leggings just like Elizabeth's. The Gypsy pulled these down, revealing the boy's white buttocks. He then undid his cloak and guided something that looked to Elizabeth like a small roast between Johannes's buttocks. She was still holding Johannes's hand when he tightened it over hers so hard she thought it would break. She reached for the Gypsy's round flesh with her other hand. It was warm, covered with fine velvety skin, finer than the texture of her tights. She parted the slit at the top of it, and a drop of thick, slippery substance met her finger. She rubbed it between thumb and forefinger. She then felt under Johannes's robe and drew the tip of her wet finger around the tiny puckered flower at the center of his buttocks. She then guided the Gypsy's manhood to the place and held on to it until it slipped between her fingers and buried itself into the boy. The sensation of touching the two boys made Elizabeth very warm, as if a small flame, beginning at the center of her spine, had shut suddenly upward, filling her brain. Her mouth was dry, and her boyish tights clung to her legs with her own wetness. At the center of this delicious sensation there was also a thought: if this is what I can make happen because I am Countess Bathory, think of all that I may experience in the future. I am only eleven years old now, and I know very little about pleasure."

Your welcome. I read this last night in my bedroom, with the lights on!
Elizabeth Bathory is a bad ass, literately.