THE MEATRIX
Sunday, July 15, 2007
Thursday, July 12, 2007
So Sad...
Horrible.
I don't understnd how an enire culure can hate women and fear female sexualiy so much.
I have a friend who thinks human behavior is driven by sex. I think he's wrong; I think it's driven by a desire for power and control. And, religion becomes a perfect way to disguise this drive...
Monday, May 21, 2007
Partners
The following is a segmented memoir I wrote about my little brother and me for a composition class in 2001. I am not a writer by any stretch of the imagination, but I have always loved this piece - probably because it reminds me of the good ol' days when we were kids. The stories described in this memoir are all basially true.
Circle Software
My little brother Sam, on the other hand, never had these computer difficulties; in fact, he loved the exasperating contraptions. Sam was about nine when we got out first PC, and by the time he was eleven, he had made his first program. It was your basic, mad-lib game and had, according to my expert assessment, definite marketing potential. Yes, I personally had no clue about computer technology, but I did posses certain charismatic abilities. Some would say that I was the motivating force, the mastermind, if you will, behind the Coles sibling enterprise. A visionary and a leader, I motivated and inspired my fellow business partner to great heights; and, if he didn’t like it, I could always beat him into submission (a definite benefit of being the oldest.) So, I wrote the detective story, he did his little computer thing, and there it was -our future computer empire. We called it Circle Software. Sales ended up being pretty low, but hey, it was our first venture into the computer industry. It’s such a volatile market, you know, and I, being the flexible business strategist, managed to find more productive and monetarily rewarding avenues for our talents.
Operation Dipsy Dumpster
The fact that there wasn’t a recycling bin anywhere near Long Beach, North Carolina never fazed us. Mere geographic infeasibility could not hinder the mission. While sneaking into our next-door neighbor’s strawberry patch one afternoon, to “borrow,” if you will, a few ripe berries, I overheard our back-door neighbor, Mr. Barlow, talking about how recycling centers paid up to five cents a piece for aluminum cans and seven cents for glass bottles. And I figured Mr. Barlow knew what he was talking about - the man had at least ten trash bags filled with beer cans in his yard at all times. (I think he was trying to do is part to save the environment.)
Operation Dipsy Dumpster
The fact that there wasn’t a recycling bin anywhere near Long Beach, North Carolina never fazed us. Mere geographic infeasibility could not hinder the mission. While sneaking into our next-door neighbor’s strawberry patch one afternoon, to “borrow,” if you will, a few ripe berries, I overheard our back-door neighbor, Mr. Barlow, talking about how recycling centers paid up to five cents a piece for aluminum cans and seven cents for glass bottles. And I figured Mr. Barlow knew what he was talking about - the man had at least ten trash bags filled with beer cans in his yard at all times. (I think he was trying to do is part to save the environment.)
Later in the day, I ran my newly designed, enterprising scheme by the lower ranked business associate.
“But, we don’t have any cans,” Sammy pointed out in his feeble, shortsighted way. Had he no vision? True, there were never any beer cans in our trash, or even coke cans for that matter, and turning our parents into alcoholic, soda drinkers didn’t seem like a feasible option; although, I hadn’t crossed it off my list of innovative solutions. Despite this setback, we had options, I told him. The streets were filled with trash! Bottles and cans, ripe for the harvest, lined the roads, screaming out to be gathered and taken to the recycling place - wherever that might be - and transformed into cold, hard cash. I don’t think Sam was really into the idea at first, but with my persuasive abilities and a few good thuds, he eagerly joined in my enthusiasm.
So every afternoon, we rode our bikes up and down the streets of Long Beach, collecting every discarded bottle and can we could find. Once we’d collected a fairly large and profitable amount, we’d store them in big, black trash bags and hide the bags behind the wooden shed in the backyard. (There was really no need for the regulating, parental force to know about our economic activities.) By the time a week had passed, we’d filled a whole box of bags and had pretty much cleaned the entire town from top to bottom. Adapt -A-Highway had nothing on us.
Sweat streamed down our dirty faces as we brought in load after load in the sizzling summer heat.
“Miriam, there aren’t any cans left! Can’t we go inside, I’m all sweaty and my face is burning.”
He was whining again. What did I have to do to get good help around here?! I rolled my eyes and glared at him. Okay, so his face did look red (almost reminded me of a dewy, ripe tomato). But sacrifices had to be made! And besides, he needed a little toughening up. Excuses were not acceptable. There would be no quitting, not while I was in charge of this operation.
And then, as I stood there devising ways to discipline my disgruntled work-force, it hit me: trashcans were full of trash – wonderful, pre-collected, easy to find trash! All we had to do was salvage the cans and bottles out of other people’s dumpsters! Brilliant!
“Are you crazy? We can’t go through people’s trash! That’s gross.”
Despite his feeble protests and cowardly attempts at abandoning the mission, ‘Operation Dipsy Dumpster’ was put into effect. No, he didn’t want to do it; yes, I pounded him; and yes, he cried. Did you know that if you make a fist with your hand and bring it down right between someone’s shoulder blades it makes a wonderfully hollow ‘thud’ sound? Sam knows this; he knows this well.
I must admit, it was a little gross. Trash just smells funny, and it gets grimy and rotten sitting out in stagnant, plastic containers in the sweltering, July sun. Logistically, because I had the best mind for reconnaissance work, I would post lookout while Sam rummaged through the dumpster, removing all cans and bottles. After a while, we began to retrieve other items as well.
It’s really amazing what people will throw away. In one dumpster we found a perfectly good hat, only thing we had to do was clean off the splatterings of spaghetti sauce and unbend the rim. Another dumpster contained a bunch of magazines from the late seventies about home decorating. (Why anyone would throw away decorating tips from such a fashion savvy era is beyond me.) But, the best find was a gigantically enormous, partially eaten pack of individually wrapped Kit Kat bars. (We’re not talking Food Lion king-size here; we’re talking B.J.’s Discount Warehouse blowout, king-size extravaganza!) We were baffled; what could possibly cause someone to throw away such a treasure? After a short deliberation, we decided that although the original mission statement did not include chocolate, given the extraordinary nature of this particular find, we should keep them. I mean, with starving children in Africa there was really no reason to waste perfectly good Kit Kat bars.
Later that night, after our hard day’s work, Sam and I sat down to watch TV and eat our much deserved candy reward. Sure, they were a little melted and had been squished under something heavy in the dumpster, but if you could get past that and the slight garbage smell, they were delectable. Ah, the life of a business mogul.
Unfortunately for the Kit Kat bars, we ran into a slight problem when homeland security spotted us and demanded to know “where we’d gotten candy” because she “certainly hadn’t allowed it.” Amazingly, she refused to believe the answer which poured forth from our chocolate covered mouths: “I don’t know; we just found them.” Apparently, this was considered an inadequate response and subsequent attempts to amend our rely proved unsuccessful. Punishments promptly ensued, as was customary in our dealings with homeland security. Often, the great financial minds fall prey to the overreaching claws of the powers that be. I was not alone – Bill Gates, Martha Stewart, Enron - they too felt the pangs of tyranny.
‘Operation Dipsy Dumpster’ met an untimely end not much later. Being chased out of Mr. Peterson’s yard by his overly friendly rotwiler didn’t slow us down too much. But, when some strange old man on 34th street ran us out of his yard wearing nothing more than thread-bare tighty-whities and waving a blue fly-swatter in the air while calling out obscenities and threatening to call animal control, we decided maybe the garbage industry wasn’t for us. I never realized people were so serious about their trash.
Seashells by the Seashore
Tourists are consumer sheep. Every summer, without fail, they rush their pale Yankee bodies to our tiny, white-trash, tourist-trap beach in flocks. Once in paradise, these strange and often fiercely hated creatures bake themselves to a crisp and congest the roads (probably in search of sunscreen) driving two times slower than the posted speed limit so they can take in all the exotic sights: “Look Mom, that trailer’s pink.” Not only that, but tourists (whose good sense has been permanently damaged by solar radiation, beer and sun-in,) will buy absolutely anything (the only reason why most of them haven’t been murdered in their beach-house beds by hostile locals.) Sam and I had observed this consumer craze on many occasions, incredulous at the number of inflatable plastic tubes, airbrushed tee-shirts, and corny “Long Beach” logo-ed visors were sported by our out-of-town guests. So, not wanting such a market to go to waste, we too decided to enter the world of tourism sales.
But, resources were limited. Sam looked under all the couch cushions and only found seventy-five cents and a broken, paint-by-number paintbrush. I managed to rummage through the cabinet drawers one afternoon while mom was taking a nap and found about four bottles of stencil paint. Jackpot! Business was on. All we needed now was something to paint.
After a little thought, I came up with something perfect: something small, completely worthless, and adored by tourists of all ages – Seashells! With this new inspiration, we rode our bikes to the beach and filled several plastic Food Lion bags with whatever whole seashells we could find. They didn’t have to be perfect; heck, they didn’t even have to be pretty. Tourists don’t know the difference.
Sammy, whose fair, freckled face and strawberry blonde hair never took well to the heat, gripped the whole time, as always. But once we got back to the house and started decorating our goods, he seemed to get into the spirit of things. We painted them blue, olive green and yellow (perfect beach colors.) On a few of the big scalloped shaped ones we tried to spell out the name of the island, but it didn’t really fit. Oh well, tourists were too stupid to notice. Granted, we probably should have waited for the paint to dry before setting up sales, but profit margins would not to be hindered by trivial details. The market was booming and seashells were in great demand.
Somewhere, we managed to find a huge wooden spool that had once been coiled in rope, and we set it on its side to make a table. Sam pointed out that a well trafficked area would be best, so we put it at the base of our yard, in-between the mailbox and the dumpster. Then, we sat back, relaxed, and waited for the on-slot of greedy tourists to come, begging to buy our beautiful merchandise.
“Miriam, we’ve been sitting here for hours and no one’s even passed us.”
His lack of confidence grated on my last, sun-scorched nerve and I wanted to beat him into a million pieces just for daring to speak pessimistic thoughts after we had sat there, diligently, all afternoon. Now was not the time to test my good nature.
“Shut up,” I hissed wickedly.
“You know you’re not supposed to say that. I’m gonna go tell mom.” He jumped to his feet, ready to run for his life.
“Sit down, butt-face! You just wanna go back in the air conditioning!”
“Don’t call me butt-face. I’m telling!” We were both running, ready to break into a fight as soon as I wrapped my hands around his scrawny little neck, when all of a sudden Sam caught him out of the corner of his eye and stopped.
“Hey, it’s a person,” He shouted. I scoffed; did he really think I was stupid enough to fall for such a trick? A deep ‘thud’ echoed through the streets as he curled up into a pathetic, little ball. Weakling. As I reared back for another blow, I glanced toward the road just in time to see a middle-aged man walking right past our unattended stand. Hmmm… Maybe we needed to invest in a bigger sign.
The Good Kid
At Seventeen, I embodied the perfect, college-bound, career-minded student. Not only was I a diligent academic, but I was also president of the 4-H club and captain of the district Bible Quiz team. I studied SAT vocabulary words everyday and directed children’s plays in my spare time, doing everything I could to be the well-rounded, successful person I knew I was destined to be. You see, I was the good kid.
Sammy, on the other hand, never seemed up to the challenge of matching my high standard. He didn’t belong to a single club and participated in only the few activities to which mom managed to drag him, kicking and screaming. Instead of studying, he’d hide away in his room and do “God knows what,” as mother would say, on that stupid computer - playing silly games, looking at dirty pictures, who knows? It was a shame, I thought, as I readied myself for success and careerdom. He was such a slacker and would never be a success. If only he had my motivation.
Partners
You know, it’s pretty amazing that in this great country of ours, you can have a full-time job as a computer programmer while still not being old enough to buy cigarettes or watch rated R movies. Sammy is constantly griping about the injustice of age-discrimination. I just roll my eyes and remind him he’ll be 18 in a few months and then he can finance his own furniture (right now, he has a five-piece stereo and yet no furniture in his lavish Raleigh apartment.)
Meanwhile, I, the college Junior, make 5.15 an hour for work-study in the Wellness center (basically, they pay me to work off that pesky freshman fifteen.) To my parents, who never call me anymore, I am no longer seen as the good kid, but as the last of the money-sucking leaches. Sammy on the other hand, is a paradigm of virtue and success, particularly now that he has achieved financial independence.
I don’t really talk to Sam much these days. He’s busy working in some cubical making lots of money, which he won’t be spending on me, and I’m focusing on making it to every late-night bash without sleeping through class the next day. (We Coles kids sure do have our priorities straight.)
But even though life has taken us in very different directions, the idea of our great partnership is not forgotten. We’ve always been partners and friends, even if we never realized it. Some bonds are too strong for even time or distance to severer. In all honesty, there are only a few special people in this world that I would be willing to crawl through the trash for, and Sam is one of those people. Over the Christmas holiday we both decided that if and when he ever goes into the computer business for himself, I can run the whole operation, just like in the good ol’ days (Okay, maybe he never said I could run the whole operation, but I’m sure that’s what he meant by ‘administrative assistant.’) With my leadership and Sammy’s ability to handle trivial details, the financial world could be ours once again. Only this time, beating my fellow employees into submission probably won’t be an option.
“But, we don’t have any cans,” Sammy pointed out in his feeble, shortsighted way. Had he no vision? True, there were never any beer cans in our trash, or even coke cans for that matter, and turning our parents into alcoholic, soda drinkers didn’t seem like a feasible option; although, I hadn’t crossed it off my list of innovative solutions. Despite this setback, we had options, I told him. The streets were filled with trash! Bottles and cans, ripe for the harvest, lined the roads, screaming out to be gathered and taken to the recycling place - wherever that might be - and transformed into cold, hard cash. I don’t think Sam was really into the idea at first, but with my persuasive abilities and a few good thuds, he eagerly joined in my enthusiasm.
So every afternoon, we rode our bikes up and down the streets of Long Beach, collecting every discarded bottle and can we could find. Once we’d collected a fairly large and profitable amount, we’d store them in big, black trash bags and hide the bags behind the wooden shed in the backyard. (There was really no need for the regulating, parental force to know about our economic activities.) By the time a week had passed, we’d filled a whole box of bags and had pretty much cleaned the entire town from top to bottom. Adapt -A-Highway had nothing on us.
Sweat streamed down our dirty faces as we brought in load after load in the sizzling summer heat.
“Miriam, there aren’t any cans left! Can’t we go inside, I’m all sweaty and my face is burning.”
He was whining again. What did I have to do to get good help around here?! I rolled my eyes and glared at him. Okay, so his face did look red (almost reminded me of a dewy, ripe tomato). But sacrifices had to be made! And besides, he needed a little toughening up. Excuses were not acceptable. There would be no quitting, not while I was in charge of this operation.
And then, as I stood there devising ways to discipline my disgruntled work-force, it hit me: trashcans were full of trash – wonderful, pre-collected, easy to find trash! All we had to do was salvage the cans and bottles out of other people’s dumpsters! Brilliant!
“Are you crazy? We can’t go through people’s trash! That’s gross.”
Despite his feeble protests and cowardly attempts at abandoning the mission, ‘Operation Dipsy Dumpster’ was put into effect. No, he didn’t want to do it; yes, I pounded him; and yes, he cried. Did you know that if you make a fist with your hand and bring it down right between someone’s shoulder blades it makes a wonderfully hollow ‘thud’ sound? Sam knows this; he knows this well.
I must admit, it was a little gross. Trash just smells funny, and it gets grimy and rotten sitting out in stagnant, plastic containers in the sweltering, July sun. Logistically, because I had the best mind for reconnaissance work, I would post lookout while Sam rummaged through the dumpster, removing all cans and bottles. After a while, we began to retrieve other items as well.
It’s really amazing what people will throw away. In one dumpster we found a perfectly good hat, only thing we had to do was clean off the splatterings of spaghetti sauce and unbend the rim. Another dumpster contained a bunch of magazines from the late seventies about home decorating. (Why anyone would throw away decorating tips from such a fashion savvy era is beyond me.) But, the best find was a gigantically enormous, partially eaten pack of individually wrapped Kit Kat bars. (We’re not talking Food Lion king-size here; we’re talking B.J.’s Discount Warehouse blowout, king-size extravaganza!) We were baffled; what could possibly cause someone to throw away such a treasure? After a short deliberation, we decided that although the original mission statement did not include chocolate, given the extraordinary nature of this particular find, we should keep them. I mean, with starving children in Africa there was really no reason to waste perfectly good Kit Kat bars.
Later that night, after our hard day’s work, Sam and I sat down to watch TV and eat our much deserved candy reward. Sure, they were a little melted and had been squished under something heavy in the dumpster, but if you could get past that and the slight garbage smell, they were delectable. Ah, the life of a business mogul.
Unfortunately for the Kit Kat bars, we ran into a slight problem when homeland security spotted us and demanded to know “where we’d gotten candy” because she “certainly hadn’t allowed it.” Amazingly, she refused to believe the answer which poured forth from our chocolate covered mouths: “I don’t know; we just found them.” Apparently, this was considered an inadequate response and subsequent attempts to amend our rely proved unsuccessful. Punishments promptly ensued, as was customary in our dealings with homeland security. Often, the great financial minds fall prey to the overreaching claws of the powers that be. I was not alone – Bill Gates, Martha Stewart, Enron - they too felt the pangs of tyranny.
‘Operation Dipsy Dumpster’ met an untimely end not much later. Being chased out of Mr. Peterson’s yard by his overly friendly rotwiler didn’t slow us down too much. But, when some strange old man on 34th street ran us out of his yard wearing nothing more than thread-bare tighty-whities and waving a blue fly-swatter in the air while calling out obscenities and threatening to call animal control, we decided maybe the garbage industry wasn’t for us. I never realized people were so serious about their trash.
Seashells by the Seashore
Tourists are consumer sheep. Every summer, without fail, they rush their pale Yankee bodies to our tiny, white-trash, tourist-trap beach in flocks. Once in paradise, these strange and often fiercely hated creatures bake themselves to a crisp and congest the roads (probably in search of sunscreen) driving two times slower than the posted speed limit so they can take in all the exotic sights: “Look Mom, that trailer’s pink.” Not only that, but tourists (whose good sense has been permanently damaged by solar radiation, beer and sun-in,) will buy absolutely anything (the only reason why most of them haven’t been murdered in their beach-house beds by hostile locals.) Sam and I had observed this consumer craze on many occasions, incredulous at the number of inflatable plastic tubes, airbrushed tee-shirts, and corny “Long Beach” logo-ed visors were sported by our out-of-town guests. So, not wanting such a market to go to waste, we too decided to enter the world of tourism sales.
But, resources were limited. Sam looked under all the couch cushions and only found seventy-five cents and a broken, paint-by-number paintbrush. I managed to rummage through the cabinet drawers one afternoon while mom was taking a nap and found about four bottles of stencil paint. Jackpot! Business was on. All we needed now was something to paint.
After a little thought, I came up with something perfect: something small, completely worthless, and adored by tourists of all ages – Seashells! With this new inspiration, we rode our bikes to the beach and filled several plastic Food Lion bags with whatever whole seashells we could find. They didn’t have to be perfect; heck, they didn’t even have to be pretty. Tourists don’t know the difference.
Sammy, whose fair, freckled face and strawberry blonde hair never took well to the heat, gripped the whole time, as always. But once we got back to the house and started decorating our goods, he seemed to get into the spirit of things. We painted them blue, olive green and yellow (perfect beach colors.) On a few of the big scalloped shaped ones we tried to spell out the name of the island, but it didn’t really fit. Oh well, tourists were too stupid to notice. Granted, we probably should have waited for the paint to dry before setting up sales, but profit margins would not to be hindered by trivial details. The market was booming and seashells were in great demand.
Somewhere, we managed to find a huge wooden spool that had once been coiled in rope, and we set it on its side to make a table. Sam pointed out that a well trafficked area would be best, so we put it at the base of our yard, in-between the mailbox and the dumpster. Then, we sat back, relaxed, and waited for the on-slot of greedy tourists to come, begging to buy our beautiful merchandise.
“Miriam, we’ve been sitting here for hours and no one’s even passed us.”
His lack of confidence grated on my last, sun-scorched nerve and I wanted to beat him into a million pieces just for daring to speak pessimistic thoughts after we had sat there, diligently, all afternoon. Now was not the time to test my good nature.
“Shut up,” I hissed wickedly.
“You know you’re not supposed to say that. I’m gonna go tell mom.” He jumped to his feet, ready to run for his life.
“Sit down, butt-face! You just wanna go back in the air conditioning!”
“Don’t call me butt-face. I’m telling!” We were both running, ready to break into a fight as soon as I wrapped my hands around his scrawny little neck, when all of a sudden Sam caught him out of the corner of his eye and stopped.
“Hey, it’s a person,” He shouted. I scoffed; did he really think I was stupid enough to fall for such a trick? A deep ‘thud’ echoed through the streets as he curled up into a pathetic, little ball. Weakling. As I reared back for another blow, I glanced toward the road just in time to see a middle-aged man walking right past our unattended stand. Hmmm… Maybe we needed to invest in a bigger sign.
The Good Kid
At Seventeen, I embodied the perfect, college-bound, career-minded student. Not only was I a diligent academic, but I was also president of the 4-H club and captain of the district Bible Quiz team. I studied SAT vocabulary words everyday and directed children’s plays in my spare time, doing everything I could to be the well-rounded, successful person I knew I was destined to be. You see, I was the good kid.
Sammy, on the other hand, never seemed up to the challenge of matching my high standard. He didn’t belong to a single club and participated in only the few activities to which mom managed to drag him, kicking and screaming. Instead of studying, he’d hide away in his room and do “God knows what,” as mother would say, on that stupid computer - playing silly games, looking at dirty pictures, who knows? It was a shame, I thought, as I readied myself for success and careerdom. He was such a slacker and would never be a success. If only he had my motivation.
Partners
You know, it’s pretty amazing that in this great country of ours, you can have a full-time job as a computer programmer while still not being old enough to buy cigarettes or watch rated R movies. Sammy is constantly griping about the injustice of age-discrimination. I just roll my eyes and remind him he’ll be 18 in a few months and then he can finance his own furniture (right now, he has a five-piece stereo and yet no furniture in his lavish Raleigh apartment.)
Meanwhile, I, the college Junior, make 5.15 an hour for work-study in the Wellness center (basically, they pay me to work off that pesky freshman fifteen.) To my parents, who never call me anymore, I am no longer seen as the good kid, but as the last of the money-sucking leaches. Sammy on the other hand, is a paradigm of virtue and success, particularly now that he has achieved financial independence.
I don’t really talk to Sam much these days. He’s busy working in some cubical making lots of money, which he won’t be spending on me, and I’m focusing on making it to every late-night bash without sleeping through class the next day. (We Coles kids sure do have our priorities straight.)
But even though life has taken us in very different directions, the idea of our great partnership is not forgotten. We’ve always been partners and friends, even if we never realized it. Some bonds are too strong for even time or distance to severer. In all honesty, there are only a few special people in this world that I would be willing to crawl through the trash for, and Sam is one of those people. Over the Christmas holiday we both decided that if and when he ever goes into the computer business for himself, I can run the whole operation, just like in the good ol’ days (Okay, maybe he never said I could run the whole operation, but I’m sure that’s what he meant by ‘administrative assistant.’) With my leadership and Sammy’s ability to handle trivial details, the financial world could be ours once again. Only this time, beating my fellow employees into submission probably won’t be an option.
Tuesday, May 15, 2007
Good Riddance to Bad Rubbish.....
If, as the deceased Jerry Faldwell stated, "the 9/11 attacks were America's punishment for "throwing God out of the public square," then Jerry Faldwell's death is liberal America's reward for rejecting the "moral majority."
Wednesday, April 18, 2007
Westboro Baptist Church's tribute to VT
From the same people who brought you anti-gay protests at military funerals, comes a heartwarming message of Jesus' love and compassion in the wake of the VT tragedy:
Godhatesamerica.com
At first I just couldn't get over how much I hate these people. And then, I began to realize that they don't deserve the satisfaction of getting me all riled up. Honestly, I feel sorry for them. How horrible to be so consumed with unexplainable hatred towards others...to blindly follow teachings that contradict rational notions of equality, justice and compassion.....and to fail to understand how such cruel words and actions could hurt others....
I pity these people.
Godhatesamerica.com
At first I just couldn't get over how much I hate these people. And then, I began to realize that they don't deserve the satisfaction of getting me all riled up. Honestly, I feel sorry for them. How horrible to be so consumed with unexplainable hatred towards others...to blindly follow teachings that contradict rational notions of equality, justice and compassion.....and to fail to understand how such cruel words and actions could hurt others....
I pity these people.
Monday, April 16, 2007
"On Becoming A Woman..."
On Becoming A Woman.... a guide to fulfilling your dreams of becoming a housewife and mother, in addition to helpful advice on sex, masturbation, and female circumcision...
a Special thanks to Heather for pointing this one out....
Sunday, March 25, 2007
Things I want to rant about but don't have time...
1.) Apparently, some kids/teens are being given Aderall for weightloss. I just don't know where to begin on this one....
2.) The Supreme Court recently heard the "Bong Hits for Jesus" case... This is a free speech case involving a high school student. God, this is why I love high school kids so much... I miss the good ol' days at North Meck, protesting Operation Save America and stirring up trouble with the student newspaper.....
3.) I think what disturbs me most is the story of the city manager who was terminated because of his plans to get a sex change. This person has been severely wronged by the community he served diligently for some thirteen years. I think he has a sex discrimination case. Generally, the courts hold that "gender" discrimination is not protected under Title VII. This means that it is perfectly fine for an employer to fire a guy who is acting feminine or has an earring. BUT, in this case, the guy is being discriminated against because if his desire and intent to actually change sexes. He is not just identifying as a woman (gender), he is becoming a woman (sex). I think he has a case, and even if the courts reject that theory, it will be worth the fight. If he needs a lawyer, he should call me in a year....
2.) The Supreme Court recently heard the "Bong Hits for Jesus" case... This is a free speech case involving a high school student. God, this is why I love high school kids so much... I miss the good ol' days at North Meck, protesting Operation Save America and stirring up trouble with the student newspaper.....
3.) I think what disturbs me most is the story of the city manager who was terminated because of his plans to get a sex change. This person has been severely wronged by the community he served diligently for some thirteen years. I think he has a sex discrimination case. Generally, the courts hold that "gender" discrimination is not protected under Title VII. This means that it is perfectly fine for an employer to fire a guy who is acting feminine or has an earring. BUT, in this case, the guy is being discriminated against because if his desire and intent to actually change sexes. He is not just identifying as a woman (gender), he is becoming a woman (sex). I think he has a case, and even if the courts reject that theory, it will be worth the fight. If he needs a lawyer, he should call me in a year....
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