Author Archives: Smaktakula

Diff’rent Strokes Curse Remains With Work Undone

29 Tuesday May 2012

Posted by in Celebrity, Culture

≈ 25 Comments

Tags

, , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , ,

By Smaktakula

“Mr. Drummond, I Assure You, Not Only Have I Never Heard Of Something Called A ‘Stinky Pinky,’ But I–OH!”

Diff’rent Strokes proved an instant hit with TV audiences in September of 1978.  The Norman Lear sitcom about Harlem orphans falling into the lap of luxury was anchored by veteran stage actor Conrad Bain, and featured promising child stars Todd Bridges and Dana Plato.  But the breakout star of the fledgling show was an adorably precocious chubby-cheeked Gary Coleman, whose shameless mugging and hilarious catchphrase, Whatchootalkinbout, blurred the line between funny and precious.

For a time, Diff’rent Strokes was a cultural phenomenon.  There were spinoffs both successful and unsuccessful–The Facts of Life and Hello Larry, respectively.  A variety of high-profile guest stars appeared on the set, including Knight Rider and KITT, Mr. T and an only slightly punchy Muhammad Ali.  Nancy Reagan even made an appearance in an very-special 1983 episode, where she made famous the line, Just Say No, which would within a few months completely eradicate America’s drug problem.  It seemed there was no place too remote to escape the ubiquitous images of cherubic Gary Coleman and the rest of the gang.  The future was indeed bright.

When Norman Lear Heard The Story Of The Park Avenue Psycho Who Abducted Two Street Kids As Sex Slaves (Seen Here On Surveillance Video), He Knew He Had A Hit Sitcom On His Hands. He’d Have To Clean It Up A Little First.

But by the time Diff’rent Strokes limped off the air in 1986, things had changed.  The venerable show had outlasted everyone’s expectations, but the cracks were beginning to show.  Cast members left, and improbable new ones were added.  Worst of all, while puberty had done nothing for Coleman’s stumpy physique, it had cruelly robbed him of his last vestiges of cuteness, leaving him a troll.  Even by the time the cameras had stopped rolling, people had begun to whisper about a curse.

THE ACCURSED:

Here The Gang Recreates Rembrandt’s ‘Eternal Virgin Flanked By Skank And Skonk.’

Todd Bridges/Willis Jackson:  Of the show’s three principal child stars, Todd Bridges has fared the best in that he remains alive as of this writing.  In the early 1990s, it seemed almost a certainty that the actor would have been long dead by now.  Life after Diff’rent Strokes may not have been easy for Todd, but it wasn’t boring.

Bridges traces his downfall to the diabolical troika of Sex, Drugs and Dana Plato.  Already an up-and-coming child star by the time of Diff’rent Strokes, Todd was thrust too quickly into a world with which he couldn’t cope.   Todd’s burgeoning crack addiction contributed to his legal problems, including a 1988 arrest for shooting a man while on a drug-binge.  Bridges had both the wherewithal and resources to enlist the aid of Johnnie Cochran, and was able to beat the charges.

Today, it is possible to be optimistic about Todd’s future.  He has been sober for several years, and has made inroads to rebuilding his shattered career.  Todd furthered his redemption in 2002 when he beat the shit out of Vanilla Ice on Fox’s vile Celebrity Boxing.

Todd’s Redemption Song Was The Sweet Stacatto Melody His Fists Played Across ‘Nilla’s Face.

Dana Plato/Kimberly Drummond:  Dana Plato began to unravel a few years before the show took its final bow.  When she became pregnant with her only child in 1984, the show’s producers wrote her out, bringing her back for a few appearances in the final season, including a very special episode about bulimia.  Even before her dismissal, rumors had begun to swirl about possible drug use and difficulties on the set.

It was difficult for Dana to find work, although she found in Playboy a showcase for her newly augmented breasts in 1989.  Sadly, her pre-Brazillian ‘spread’ may constitute the last high point in an existence which would drag on for another ten years.  During this time she would endure a number of personal setbacks–the death of her adoptive mother, abandonment by her husband and losing custody of her son, as well as some legal hassles.  The most embarrassing of these, a video-store robbery, culminated in a 911 caller exclaiming, “I’ve just been robbed by the girl who played Kimberly on Diff’rent Strokes!”

Dana Felt Deceived When She Found That Her Criminal Record, Despite Happening In Las Vegas, Would Not In Fact Stay There.

Dana tried to revive her acting career, appearing in soft-core films and even claiming (although she would later recant) to be a lesbian.  Dana died alone in a Winnebago on Mother’s Day 1999, parked outside her boyfriend’s mom’s house in Moore, Oklahoma.  Almost eleven years later to the day, her son Tyler would kill himself, a second-generation victim of the curse.

Settle Down Now. If A Dead Girl’s Ass Makes This NSFW, Then Your Boss Needs To Learn To Live A Little. That’s All We’re Saying.

Gary Coleman/Arnold Jackson:  Gary Coleman’s recent death is still fresh in the public’s mind.  But the pitiably pint-sized punchline endured much in the twenty-four years between his untimely death and the cancellation of Diff’rent Strokes, and given the heights he once reached, his must have been the most dizzying fall.

Hello?!? It’s 2011; We Don’t Call Them That Any More. The Album Should Be Titled: “The Indian And The Cultural Folk Hero.”

Gary had always had health problems, which along with his medication, contributed to his runtiness.  Then there were the legal troubles with his parents, whom Gary sued for misappropriation of his millions.  Gary was profligate with money himself, indulging his habit for model trains.  Sadly, the tiny has-been never thought to invest his resources into finding a cure for his virginity, which persisted throughout his life.

“Come On, Touch It. Just A Little Touch. Come On, Now–Slap It A Little.” Gary Had Trouble With The Ladies.

Whether it was as a money-lending pitchman, ‘Where Are They Now?’ TV cameo or as viral video laughingstock, Gary always found a way to entertain us.  It seemed that Gary had finally found love in the form of confirmed cooze Shannon Price.  Some experts have claimed that Price was the human personification of the Diff’rent Strokes Curse, or at the very least its dark avatar.  Gary gave her his heart and in return she fiddled while he died, and in what is the greatest indignity of all, never in their several months of matrimony bestowed her marital favors on the virginal troll.

“Your Honor–As My Wife, Isn’t She Supposed To DO Something About My Little Virginity Problem?”

THE UNPUNISHED:

Conrad Bain/Phillip Drummond:  A number of theories abound as to why Conrad Bain, who along with Coleman and Bridges was with the show for its entire run, has been allowed to live for almost 88 years.  Popular explanations for this seeming immunity range from the plausible (“Bain’s Canadianness somehow inures him from the effects of the curse”) to the frankly ridiculous (“The cast members of Diff’rent Strokes aren’t the victims of a hex at all, but rather the twin factors of stardom at an early age and coincidence).  Conrad attributes his longevity to nothing more than pure luck, clean thoughts and a half-pint of his own urine every morning.

This Gang Has A Bright Future.

Danny Cooksey/Sam McKinney:  Whether Danny Cooksey is subject to the curse is a matter of some controversy among Diff’rent Strokes academicians, as the delightful, country-singing moppet only appeared in three seasons after Coleman’s cuteness began rapidly to wane.  However, considering  that those three seasons comprised the show’s pitiful last gasp and that Cooksey was at least partly to blame for the show’s demise, as the introduction of his character marked the veteran show’s “jump the shark” moment, many feel that Cooksey’s continuing existence is an affront to God Almighty.  Since then, the sassy ginger is best remembered for being shoved into a video game by Bad Terminator in Terminator 2.

Danny Cooksey And His Awesome Band ‘Bad4Good.’ Or As We Like To Call Them, Tötyl Hömö.

Housekeepers:  Likewise, the show’s three regular housekeepers, perhaps because none served more than four seasons, also appear to be free of the curse’s effects.

Charlotte Rae, who appeared through the first season as Mrs. Garrett, was miraculously allowed to escape via spinoff.

Nedra Volz, who played the antiquated Adelaide Brubaker, lasted a few seasons.  Her career never suffered, and she died in 2003, well into her ninth decade.

Mary Jo Catlett was the last actress to play housekeeper to the Drummonds.  Like Sam McKinney, her tenure included the series’ sputtering demise.  However, as she was replacing an existing supporting character while McKinney was a new and unpleasant major character, the comparison is not valid.  Catlett has enjoyed a steady, if unremarkable career.

“Killing Willis?” That’s A Bit Extreme. We’d Just Like To Kick Him In The Nuts A Few Times.

THE CURSE IN REVERSE!

Melanie Watson/Kathy Gordon: Melanie Watson is best remembered for portraying the wheelchair-bound Kathy in several episodes.  In one notable appearance, Kathy denies that she is handicapped, and insists instead, “I’m handi-CAPABLE, turkey!”  Melanie, who suffers from a condition called osteogenesis imperfecta, seems to have carved out a nice life for herself, even starting a company to train helper dogs.

So They’re Not ALL Losers, Turkey!

It would appear that the Diff’rent Strokes Curse has run its course.  There will be those desperate few who hold out hope that the curse continue, perhaps branching out to claim performers with a more tenuous tie to the series than had “the big three.”  But wishing fervently for a thing will not make it come to pass.  The grim specter of death has lifted its pitiless hand from those involved with Diff’rent Strokes, and we will have to learn to live with it.

What Might Have Been: So Many Missed Opportunities, Gary. So Many Missed Opportunities.

Everybody’s got a special kind of story/Everybody finds a way to shine,/It don’t matter that you got not a lot/So what?/They’ll have theirs, you’ll have yours and I’ll have mine/And together we’ll be fine.

PT Classics!

29 Tuesday May 2012

Posted by in News

≈ 3 Comments

Tags

,

By Tardsie

Classic Promethean Times–You Love It!

You so lucky!

Smaktakula is staring down the barrel of a loaded deadline, finishing a project which sadly, draws him from his Promethean Times’ duties. As we speak the gifted writer is ensconced–as he has been for the better part of four days now–in his ‘thinking place,’ the filthy crawl space between the outside of his office and the back fence. He says that there, among the cinderblocks and empty paint cans, is the one place he truly feels free.

While an observer from those less cosmopolitan echelons of society (i.e., rubes, yokels, boobs and other halfwits) might perceive Smaktakula’s posture as fetal, this is actually a form of yoga. Smaktakula is focusing his chi by performing the ‘supplicant dog.’

This same cretinous fellow, upon hearing Smaktakula’s vigorous breathing exercises might confuse them for the wracking sobs of a man who understands too late that the fox he has captured is in reality a dragon and now can only wait for the sweet release that will prove his ruin when after tiring of him, the beast devours him whole.

It’s laughable, I know–but people get funny ideas in their heads.

And no, he is not sucking his goddamn thumb! He’s chewing on it! It helps him think. Geez…

Anyway, the upshot of this is that for this week, in addition to one or possibly two new pieces, we’ll be reposting a number of “classic PT” pieces that you probably haven’t seen, but are sure to love. But we really don’t care if you do or not.

You Know We Really Do Care. But Regardless Of What You Tell Everybody, You Like Us Better When We’re A Little Mean.

Seriously, they’ll all be winners. We promise.

Tardsie’s True-Ass Tales: Memorial Day Edition

28 Monday May 2012

Posted by in History

≈ 8 Comments

Tags

, , , , , , , , , ,

By Tardsie

And Others Of Us Gave Fuck All.

I have never served in the military. Although not a fan of America’s military adventurism over the past half-century, my failure to enlist has less to do with any ideological convictions than with the unfortunate but inescapable fact that I am a massive pussy. I have tremendous respect for those men and women who did serve. Their courage is both beautiful and unfathomable to me.

***

I went to high school near a large military base, and a lot of the kids I knew were military brats, many of whom ended up serving in the military themselves. For some of them it had been a lifelong ambition, and for others as simply a more affordable means than college to burn four years of their lives while they figured out what they really wanted to do with their lives. Some of them got out when their first hitch was up, others remain officers & gentlemen to this day. Some never made it through basic training.

I knew people who joined the military under unusual circumstances. There was the friend of a friend who realized too late that he had chosen poorly in dropping out of school to join the Marines. He tried like hell to get out, his mom and dad even bringing in a lawyer–but no luck.

VICTORY IS OURS!

A guy I knew joined the army to impress his iceberg of a father. It didn’t work. Another quit school to join the navy and learn valuable skills, where he became a cook.

Yet another friend disappeared one weekend during college, only to reappear a few days later explaining that he’d been in jail on unpaid tickets, during which time the notion had come upon him to join the Marines. He signed up immediately after getting out of the lockup. Despite this unlikely start (which included LSD & ecstasy binges when he came home after boot camp), unlike the schlub from above, this guy wanted to be a Marine. He only served one enlistment, but based on the life he enjoys today (beautiful wife, lovely daughter and some job in software that I don’t really understand but suspect is pretty decent), I’d say it was pretty good for him.

***

Although I never served, it had been something of a tradition in my family. My ancestors served in conflicts large and small.

Following the American Civil War one of my ancestors was hanged in Murfreesboro, Tennessee, for overzealously prosecuting the war as a Union Captain. (To clarify, I mean that my ancestor was executed at the noose. I should note that all males in my family, up into the present, have been mightily hung).

Like A Horse, People!

***

My Great Uncle, the Colonel, was a tough old bastard. He died just a couple of years ago at 89. He served in World War II, Korea and Vietnam. During the Second World War, he led a Guerilla outfit against the Japanese in New Guinea, and according to family legend was the “first white man to cross the New Guinea jungle.” Now, in the interest of keeping these tales true, let me say that I can’t vouch for that claim. For one thing, I’ve seen pictures, and there were plenty of other white dudes with him, all probably just as eager for Caucasian Hall of Fame immortality.

How do you suppose he died? Do you think it was old age? Old age couldn’t kill this man. Two or three years ago, during an intense Washington snowstorm, the Colonel decided that he would DRIVE HIMSELF to his doctor’s appointment for cataracts. Yeah, go ahead and read that sentence again. He hit a tree.

He lived for a month after that.

We Didn’t Think There Was Anything That Could Kill You.

***

My grandfather was old by the time I came along. A phlegmatic, mellow dude more comfortable with the exotic plants in his garden than with his children or grandchildren, my grandfather had an amazing story that he told to very few people. I found out not long before he died, and only when my mother told me. I asked my grandfather, and he told me it was true.

My grandfather joined the US Navy sometime around 1939 or 1940. In the early part of 1941, he was stationed in (I believe) California. His ship was the USS Arizona. My grandfather got his orders to go with the ship to where it would be based with the Pacific Fleet, at the US Naval Station at Pearl Harbor–a pretty plumb assignment.

But one of Grandpa’s buddies wasn’t so lucky. He got orders to set sail on a different ship for Washington State, which is nobody’s idea of a good time. My grandfather was from Oregon, and his friend convinced him to let him bribe the quartermaster $50 to switch their orders, so that Grandpa would go to Bremerton, and his friend to Pearl Harbor. Grandpa agreed.

I absolutely love this story. It’s very likely that had my grandfather gone to Pearl Harbor, I would not be here today. To me it is a wonderful story.

Not so to my grandfather. When he told me this story, he said that he felt like a fraud and a cheat–a walking dead man. He wept bitterly when he told the tale.

One Thing We’ve Learned, Grandpa, Is That You Have To Live With The Choices You Make.

***

However, my Uncle Roy, Grandpa’s younger brother (who also died within the last few years) was at Pearl Harbor on December 7th, 1941, and received some sort of commendation for, as he puts it, “Fishing people out of the water.”

It turns out that Uncle Roy, unlike so many other unfortunate young Americans that day, was awake when the attack came (and I believe–although I’m unsure and now not likely to ever know–that he was on land). He told me he was eating a sandwich when he heard the explosions which signalled the first salvo in the sneak attack, a military sucker punch so underhanded that it remained unequaled in the annals of perfidy until the events of September 11, 2001.

“What did you do, Uncle Roy?” I asked, when he told me the story the last time I saw him, at a family reunion years ago.

“I finished that sammich,” he said, dead serious, “I didn’t know when I was gonna get to eat again.”

***

More thoughts on gays in the military.

As you may know, several months ago, Promethean Times created its own slogan to replace the cowardly “Don’t Ask, Don’t Tell,” with something that reflects our own views: Won’t Ask, Don’t Care.

Gay people have been silently serving in America’s military since the days of the Revolution (mostly in the Navy, though). Just like their straight comrades, they have fought, bled and died for this nation. It is only fitting then, that we honor their service and dedication to country by allowing them so serve as complete individuals, and something of a mystery perhaps that it took us this long.

The military’s recent acceptance of gay openly gay people is unquestionably a positive step for personal liberty and a move to make America’s military better represent the face of her people. However, it must be noted that should a full draft ever be reinstated, by eliminating homosexuality as a dischargeable offense, these well-intentioned do-gooders have inadvertently eliminated the best chance a young man has for legally dodging the draft. And for that, we say: Nice Going, Homos!

“I Love It When We Hit Port And The Docks Literally Overflow With Running Seamen.”

You Only Live Once Or Twice

27 Sunday May 2012

Posted by in Cinema, Crime, Entertainment

≈ 6 Comments

Tags

, ,

By Smaktakula

“Goodbye, My Old Enemy. This Laser Will Shred You From Jug To Jewels.”

“And I’m Supposed To Be Scared–Is That Your Game?”

“Scared? My Dear Mr. Bond–You Don’t Even Know The Meaning Of Fear!”

“Actually, I’m Pretty Sure I Do. Isn’t That When You’re Really, Really Frightened?”

. . .

“Well Played, Mr. Bond.”

People Of Size Demand To Be Represented In Diabetes Commercials

27 Sunday May 2012

Posted by in Culture, Entertainment

≈ 10 Comments

Tags

, , , , , , , , ,

By Smaktakula

Seriously, They’re Upset.

Anywhere you travel across this great land, you’re very nearly guaranteed to see obese people. Whether they’re wolfing down a score of Whoppers at Burger King or zipping through the mall on their scooters, with cell phones to their ears and an extra-large bucket of soda in the drink tray, their gelatinous buttocks spilling over the seat–blubbery humanoids are becoming an everyday facet of American life.

In our society, obesity is ubiquitous and inescapable: in the supermarket and at public events, at the mall or even the gym. However, there is one arena where America’s blubbery class is all but invisible: television. Corpulent faces are rare on television, and this is even truer in regard to commercials.

This Is No More Fanciful Than The Representations Made In Actual Diabetes Commercials.

Some activists want to change this paradigm, and show America a swollen, spotty face like the one it sees in the mirror every morning. Monty Robinson of Let America Respect Diversity (LARD), an advocacy group for people of size, believes the best avenue for this accurate depiction is diabetes commercials.

Currently, most diabetes commercials look like this:

Does the man in this clip look like anyone you know who has diabetes? No, the man is an actor, who doesn’t have diabetes. His middle-age paunch is his only nod toward obesity; he is only pretending to have this largely-preventable, first-world malady.

Advocates Feel That Reality-TV Star, Snooki (Seen Here), Would Make An Excellent Diabetes Spokesperson.

Obesity activists point out that African-American characters are portrayed by African-American actors, and that Asian actors portray Asian characters.  Why then aren’t diabetes sufferers portrayed by gelatinous fatsos? “It’s not fair,” says corpulent actor Randy Bumfield, “How is anyone supposed to believe that I just had my gangrenous leg amputated if I’m handsome, slim and trim?”

In Reality, Diabetes Isn’t So Pretty.

The reality is that the producers of these commercials will never see fit to accurately represent their target audience. Diabetes spots will continue to feature paunchy-but-healthy middle-aged actors, who think nothing of trampling underfoot the surprisingly-sensitive emotions of the doughy monstrosities they purport to represent. This doesn’t, however, mean that Americans of size need go entirely without recognition–not if the average citizen does his or her part.

So the next time you’re in McDonalds for a late-night McFlurry run, and you’re greeted by the barnyard sound of rank humanity inhaling its feed, don’t wrinkle your nose in disgust or take a photo to show your friends on Facebook. Instead, make a conscious choice for change, and approach one of these ‘people.’  Imagine how good he (or she) will feel when you tell him, ‘That should be you in the diabetes commercial!’

These Dedicated Young Actors Are Working Diligently To Perfect Their Diabetes Skills.

Whose Pro-Life Is It, Anyway?

27 Sunday May 2012

Posted by in Culture, News, Science, Stupidity

≈ 9 Comments

Tags

, , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , ,

By Smaktakula

If Your Politics Begin And End With Abortion, You Just May Be A Hypocrite.

In so many instances an American’s political allegiance boils down to his or her opinions on abortion.  It makes a certain sense for someone who feels strongly enough about a single issue to be attracted to the political party which shares that view.  A darker corollary is proving increasingly true: more people than ever seem to modify their beliefs on the so-called sanctity of life based on the political party to which they are affiliated.

The foes of legal abortion tend to be Republicans, while those who favor at least some access to abortions align themselves with the Democrats.  The former call themselves pro-life, and the latter pro-choice. The  pro-life and pro-choice movements have tags for one another as well, pro-abortion and anti-choice.

Some Dudes Paradoxically Believe That Self-Emasculation Is Sexy.

That’s quite a bit of name-calling between two groups who, based upon their core tenets, are both pretty hypocritical.  The names these groups give to themselves show how they would like to be perceived as champions of life or of a woman’s freedom to choose her destiny.  In the same spirit, both groups labor diligently to portray themselves as champions against an unspeakable evil.  However, upon closer examination, it seems that both sides tend to go a little fuzzy when it comes to ideological consistency.

Little Girls Play Dress-Up. College Girls (And A Handful Of Bitter Spinsters) Play “I’m Gonna Change The World.”

The most zealous among the Pro-Choice movement do not consider a fetus to be human until it is viable outside the womb, typically late in the third trimester.  This despite the many instances of children born as early as five months who, thanks to advances in technology grow up to lead happy and productive lives.

Man, What Is It With You People And Pictures Of Aborted Fetuses Anyway?

These people regard embryonic humans as commodities, and have no issues whatsoever mortgaging the lives of children today to serve the hypothetical children of tomorrow.  In contrast to this antiseptic callousness is the heated ruthlessness with which the choicers pursue their aims, having no shame in attributing sinister motives to anyone not in lockstep with their vision of a D&C as contraception.  So if Michael J. Fox dies from Parkinson’s, I guess that’s just God’s will, huh?

For Reals? Because That Would Make Your Unborn Fetus Astoundingly Stupid, And We . . . Oh, Right.

However, when the death penalty is mentioned, the bulk of the Pro-Choicers are aghast: The state doesn’t have the right to kill anyone!, they breathlessly intone.  Human life isn’t something to simply be thrown away!

Pro-Life groups, on the other hand, venerate the fetus.  They make no distinction between aborted and unaborted fetuses, and in fact feature ghastly images of aborted fetuses on everything from protest signs to their dinnerware.  In their mission to save a billion lives of the yet-unborn, they see nothing wrong in terrifying and humiliating the young women who, sometimes in the direst circumstances, find their way to a clinic.  Moreover, the more lunatic among them see nothing ironic in blowing up clinics, killing doctors or various other terroristic acts in an effort to show how much God values human life.

“Look Honey! He’s Even Drawn A Little Aborted Fetus On There. Well Isn’t That Just The Cutest Thing You Ever Saw?”

However, the Pro-Life view of the death penalty harkens back to the Old Testament’s call for An eye for an eye.  On this issue, it seems, theirs is a God of vengeance and retribution.

One thing which quickly becomes clear is that while both the Pro-Life movement and the Pro-Choice movement would like very much to believe that their politics stem from a clear and delineated moral code, it just isn’t so.

Both of these self-righteous influence gangs will continue to wrap themselves in terms like Choice and Life, words which their own one-sided agendas have rendered meaningless.  Instead of Pro-Life and Pro-Choice, why don’t we call these hypocrites what they really are?: Pro Semi-Life and Semi Pro-Life.

We Don’t Think You’ll Have To Fight Too Hard To Keep Those Hands Out Of Your Vaginas. Also, Lady Schick Has A Product For That.

Nobody Loves The Opossum

25 Friday May 2012

Posted by in Science

≈ 32 Comments

Tags

, , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , ,

By Smaktakula

Stupid, Despised And Unfit To Live, Yet The Opossum Still Flourishes. The State Of Indiana Can Be Explained In Much The Same Way.

Spare a moment of thought, if you will, for that most wretched and despised of God’s creations, the opossum.  Sometimes called simply a ‘possum,’ this primitive marsupial is most famous for its disgusting prehensile tail and its trick of playing dead when threatened.  Opossums are also notable for having the smallest brain-to-body size ratio of all mammals.  The combination of these factors ensures that the opossum is paramount among the world’s cowardly, hideous and stupid creatures.

Heidi The Cross-Eyed Possum Is A Celebrity In Germany, Whose People Are Justifiably Proud Of Their Reputation For Protecting Those Things Which Are Both Exotic And Defenseless.

No one advocates for the opossum, or regards it as anything other than filthy vermin.  Washed-up, bloated celebrities won’t appear on late-night infomercials extolling the good works performed by the Opossum Relief Fund, while images of abused and neglected opossums play to sad music.  Deranged old ladies never leave out bowls of milk for these skulking night-rats.

Despite All That’s Happened, Kirstie Alley’s Career Has Yet To Fall Below The ‘Possum Line.’ Sadly, The Same Cannot Be Said For Shelley Long.

Not usually eaten in first-world nations (we know you just can’t help yourselves, Mississippi), the opossum’s life is denied even that value accorded to a barnyard hen.  Unlike say, a robin or starling, nobody ever has a life-changing moment after killing an opossum with a BB gun.  Quite the opposite in fact; it’s not uncommon to hear possum-killing described with great satisfaction: “I’m glad I drowned that filthy creature in a trashcan filled with motor oil and lawn clippings.”

“Well, Aren’t You Just The Cutest Thing? Rusty–Get My Slingshot.”

Tardsie’s True-Ass Tales: The Most Terrible Thing

25 Friday May 2012

Posted by in History

≈ 37 Comments

Tags

By Tardsie

Just When We Think There Isn’t Anything We Can’t Make A Joke About…

It is no exaggeration to say that I sometimes feel blessed in that I can see the humor in just about anything. In times of great sadness and loss, this trait has often enabled me to remain standing when it seemed as though the whole of the world was arrayed against me. There are few events in my life–some sad, and a great many more happy–that I can’t to some degree view through a humorous lens. However, the story that follows is from that dark bag of memory from which there can come no laughter. It is not intended to be funny.

Warning: This Post Contains Scenes Of A Graphic Nature, And May Contain Themes Upsetting To Some Readers

Friends, this is the first–and I hope only–Promethean Times piece to come with a warning to readers about potentially disturbing content. Those of you who frequent this site are most likely already aware that we think nothing of from time to time exposing our readers to salty or risqué language and suggestive themes, and that we have been known to blithely utter staggeringly irresponsible and patently false statements

The following story is one which I’ve seldom told, and typically only to good friends. I recently put this unsettling memory “to paper” for the first time about a month ago in an email. I found myself moved once again in the retelling of this story. In so many ways it is the symbolic representation of a period in my life in which I was more terrified than I ever hope to be again, but a time in my history which I have come to discover served as the anvil upon which was forged the man I would later become. It sometimes seems like a fading photograph of someone else’s life. I’m not the frightened, bewildered young man who witnessed this terrible scene; I haven’t been him in a long time.

I can’t say precisely why it’s important for me to tell you this story or what it is exactly that I expect you to draw from it. To the former I can only say that I’m no closer to understanding my reaction to this long ago event than I was in the numb shock of its aftermath, and I suspect I will wrestle with this question just as long as I draw breath.

And to the latter? I leave that to you. Let’s get to it.

When I was seventeen years old, I watched two teen criminals sexually assault an eleven-year-old boy in the shower of a boys’ prison. What I was doing there is a story for another time.

Moving from maximum security to minimum security was supposed to be a good thing–you weren’t confined to a windowless Navajo-white concrete box that stunk of piss and disinfectant, where your combination sink-toilet stood in full view of the tiny, scored plexiglass window in which the eyes of a guard (they had the fucking temerity to call themselves ‘counsellors’) would appear every three minutes to combat the twin dangers of furtive masturbation and the occasional suicide attempt. Minimum security accommodations were like dorms, and the bulk of the inmate’s day was spent in a large multi-purpose room, with pool tables, a basketball half-court, an ailing television (and anything remotely interesting was blocked) and the company of about fifty of your fellows. I initially refused the transfer to minimum security (I had quite a collection of books and magazines, whose necessary loss in a move to minimum security I judged to be heavier than any benefit from association with the other inmates), but relented after it was suggested that my refusal would make me appear anti-social, which could have a detrimental effect on the outcome of my upcoming trial.

The assault took place in the communal showers shortly after my transfer, in the minutes leading up to lights out. Four of us stood around the metal pipe which ran from floor to ceiling, shower heads evenly spaced around it. In addition to myself were two guys, maybe fifteen or sixteen. They knew each other on the outside, I think. I don’t remember what they did to end up in there, if I ever knew. But the other person was an eleven-year-old boy. I don’t remember his name, but I remember that he was there for stealing a car. I guess he probably must’ve, but he had no business being in a facility with so many aggressive–and without exception, larger–boys. The boy had shoulder-length brown hair, and a soft, unmarked face that spoke of an intelligence not at all academic. He was thin and fragile, and his hairless body looked wrong and out-of-place here in a world of aggressive, well-muscled boys.

The kid was quiet as the rest of us talked, the other boys playing a spirited game of grab-ass with one another. It was perfectly normal (you would be amazed at how quickly you adapt to institutional life; you think you won’t, but you will) until that awful, inescapable moment when it wasn’t.

One of the bigger boys blew me a kiss; I blew him a kiss in return. As bizarre as it might sound, such displays were the norm, and even though calamity was less than ten seconds away, there was still not even a hint of the paroxysm of ghastly ferocity which would soon pervade the room. Of the four of us, I think only the boy saw it coming, and he had been feeling it creep up on him for as long as he had been in the place. He was waiting for it, and in his own way, invited it like a hated but inevitable guest.

When the grab-ass kid turned and blew a kiss to the boy, there was wild animal terror in those soft, clear eyes that now looked too big for the boy’s face.

“Don’t do that!” he practically screamed, and then it was on.

The bigger kids were on the boy in less time than it takes to write it. One of them stood behind the boy and wrapped his arms around the boy’s naked waist, lifting him from the ground. The boy began to scream, his bare feet kicking uselessly at the air. The air was thick with his inarticulate pleas.

And what do you suppose I did, readers? Do you imagine that I waded into the knot of naked flesh and pulled the boy free, perhaps throwing a righteous punch or two? Or maybe  I shouted at the top of my lungs, “STOP!”? Or if not that, surely I called out for the guards? Right?

Here’s what I did: I put my head under the spray, and with one or two quick, vigorous strokes, splashed the soap from my head and body. I turned off the spigot and threw my towel over my shoulder. For just a moment I made eye contact with one of the attackers, and then I looked away. I didn’t look at the boy at all, and a second later, when I stepped from the tumult and terror of the shower room into the placid and innocuous hallway the boy was eclipsed from me forever. I toweled off as I walked back to my room, moving aside for the guards rushing to the scene.

And at last we’re getting to the thing I wanted to write about, the thing which, to me anyway, makes this something more than just the ugliest thing I ever saw. In reading this story, you probably are asking yourself what you would have done in this situation. You may believe you would have acted differently. Perhaps you would have.

But for you, this question is an academic exercise, and your answer doesn’t have the power to fundamentally change who you are. Although this question is for me now moot, it can never be academic. I don’t have to ask myself this question–daily, it demands an answer from me.

I am a lifetime removed from the young man who experienced this episode, and now, I have three young boys of my own. I’m married to a lovely woman and live in a lovely house in a lovely town. I have a lovely life. These perhaps-undeserved bounties are what I see when I answer the question: Would I have done anything differently?

And this is the thing I expect to be most troubling for anyone who has bothered to stick with me this far: if I were given the chance to do it again, I would change nothing. For the sake of my own children and of my efforts to live as a righteous man, for the sake of the life I have created from the ashes of an old one–I would once again walk out that fucking door and not look back.

I don’t expect you to understand, but I do hope that this was of some value to you. Thanks for reading.

Headlines 05.24.12

24 Thursday May 2012

Posted by in Culture, Music, News, Politics, Religion, Stupidity

≈ 23 Comments

Tags

, , , , , , , , , , , , , , ,

By Smaktakula

…And Makes A Friend For Life.

In which we comment on topical events after having only bothered to read the headlines, which at least makes us better-informed than the average American.

***

Fiona Apple’s new album title is 23 words long ~ We’ll have to take your word for it. We kinda zoned out after the word “Fiona.”

Obama challenged in Arkansas primary ~ The Arkansas primary also features a challenger to the law of gravity.

Latest Met Aria: Bad Opera News Is No News ~ Good opera news is similarly worthless.

Bear attacks man in outhouse ~ Relying on conventional wisdom, the man foolishly thought he would be safe from bear attacks while in the outhouse. Folks, hopefully you won’t have to learn the hard way that regardless of what you’ve been told, bears don’t always shit in the woods. Likewise, while it’s true that a frog’s ass is indeed water-tight, it should be noted that, excepting those individuals suffering from certain embarrassing conditions, so is yours.

Rick Santorum feels like Rocky Balboa ~ And yet he looks more like Rocky the Flying Squirrel.  Glad you’re gone, Rick. Stay gone.

“Marriage Is A Pact Ordained By God Almighty Between A Moose And His Squirrel.”

Robin Gibb, member of the Bee Gees, dies after battle with cancer ~ Hey, you know that song Staying Alive?…what? Oh, whatever–you people are so sensitive. Too bad he didn’t write a song called Too Soon.

Penn Judge: Muslims Allowed to Attack People for Insulting Mohammad ~ Because killing folks with whom they disagree is a central tenet of the faith, and you’re just going to have to learn to respect that.

Romney takes big lead in Arkansas, Kentucky primaries ~ The dimwitted hillbillies were delighted to be a part of the democratic process, not knowing what ‘fait accompli‘ means.

Welcome to the mortgage-free housing recovery ~ ‘Cause there ain’t no fixed-rate APR on a cardboard box.

He’s Living The Dream.

Woman fighting foreclosure arrested ~ Damn right. Every time we throw a punch at that smart-mouthed lady from the dry-cleaners, we spend a night in jail. It’s only fair other people should be punished for fighting, too.

Pit bull saves owner from oncoming train ~ And then devours him.

Jewish leaders expressed outrage ~WHAAAAAA?!? Normally they’re so passive about insults real & imagined.

Dating site: No ugly people ~ Sometimes–like chocolate and peanut butter–you wonder just what the hell took them so long to think of this.

In Your Heart Of Hearts You Know That Love Was Never Intended For One Such As You.

Man drowns after swan attack ~ Sad. When this happens, it means not only is Mother Nature out to get you, but that she has no respect for you whatsoever.

Kids with cancer: “What doesn’t kill you makes you stronger” ~ Nobody’s had the heart to break the bad news: cancer kills.

Coroner: UK spy found in sports bag likely killed ~ So you read that the body of a secret agent has been found crammed inside a piece of sporting equipment and you immediately make the leap to foul play?

What I want Obama to say about gay marriage ~ The same thing we want him to say about straight marriage: nothing.

Sometimes We Wish You Guys Would Just Fuck And Get It Over With.

Would-be suicide bomber was U.S. informant ~ “If I had to do it again, I probably wouldn’t inform the US about my would-be suicide bombing attempt. In retrospect, that just seemed to defeat the whole purpose.”

Romney: American kids get ‘third-world education’ ~ Well, sure–because Romney could afford to send his children to private school. But don’t the rest of us have a right to expect a third-world education for our children as well?

What time do women want it? ~ The hour varies, but they call it ‘Smaktakula Time.’

Boy wonder comes of age on Wall Street ~ More specifically, in an anonymous bathroom stall of a Wall Street Dunkin’ Donuts.

Secret Service agents were ‘brutes,’ prostitute says ~ Folks–consider this one very seriously for a moment. Would you feel any more secure believing that the men in whose hands the President entrusts his very life were tender lovers?

“Fast? Baby, I Just Got That Out Of The Way So That I Could Take Care Of YOU. Now Let Me Show You A Little Something They Call ‘The French Z.’ ZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZ”

Members Only

23 Wednesday May 2012

Posted by in History, News

≈ 3 Comments

Tags

, , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , ,

By Smaktakula

Promoting Equality And Unity Through Race-Based Exclusion.

Americans take pride in the notion that their nation is a meritocracy, a place where the pathway to success remains open to every man, woman and child regardless of his or her race. This has not always been the case: for almost two-hundred years the United States denied equal rights to all its citizens based on the color of their skin. But times have changed, and most 21st Century Americans regard as odious any organization which precludes membership based on race. This is particularly true with regard to government.

Meet the Congressional Black Caucus. African-American members of the House of Representatives founded the CBC in 1971 to address inequities within the African-American community, particularly in regard to poverty, economic security, voting rights and health. Because the Caucus concerns itself exclusively with issues of importance to black Americans, critics of the Caucus or of Caucus members often find themselves cast as racists. The Caucus’ virtual immunity from criticism has until very recently permitted a remarkable lack of press scrutiny.

She Likely Takes A Dim View Of Race-Exclusive Organizations.

Although their membership has been primarily composed of Democrats (there have been a handful of black Republicans in congress over the years), the Congressional Black Caucus is not officially affiliated with any party. Other than being a congressperson, the one qualification for membership in the CBC is being black.

Despite this non-partisan stance, it might be expected that with the Caucus being almost exclusively comprised by Democrats, Caucus members’ loyalty might be divided between race and party. Not so. On numerous occasions the CBC has supported primary challengers against sitting Democrats if the challenger was African-American and the sitting Democrat was not.

Pete Stark, a California Democrat and white person, tried to join the CBC in 1975. Although the Caucus’ rules do not specifically prohibit white people from joining, Stark was politely rebuffed.

The CBC Is Keeping It Real, And By Real We Mean Exclusively African-American.

More recently, another white guy tried to join the club–Tennessee Democrat Stephen I. Cohen. While campaigning in the heavily black district formerly held by Harold Ford, Cohen promised that if elected, he would join the Caucus to better represent the interests of his constituents.

Cohen failed to understand that the CBC’s interest lie with black politicians, not black constituents. Shortly after Cohen won the seat, the Caucus made it clear that even one caucasian was one too many.

Undercover Brother: The Rep. From NC Is A Proud Member Of The Caucus.

Said Representative William Lacy Clay Jr., a Missouri Democrat, “Mr. Cohen asked for admission, and he got his answer.” Defending this policy, which might seem reminiscent of a Jim Crow era No Negroes In The Country Club practice, Clay said, “It’s an unwritten rule. It’s understood. It’s clear.”

Cohen said he became convinced that joining the caucus would be “a social faux pas” after seeing news reports that former Rep. William Lacy Clay Sr., D-Mo., a co-founder of the Caucus, had circulated a memo telling members it was “critical” that the group remain “exclusively African-American.”

Unfortunately, the delicious irony of race-based exclusion by a congressional body stemming directly from the civil rights movement seems lost on the members of the Caucus.

“Sir, There Is Nothing At All Ironic About Your Racism!”