Who Should Play Casey Anthony?

Let’s not kid ourselves, troops — there WILL be a TV movie about Casey Anthony and it will probably be on Lifetime.  Now, there are rumors that Kristen Stewart, the hair-pushing little sprite of Twilight “fame”* is in the running. 

This is WRONG.  I mean, sure, she has the dead-behind-the-eyes 1000-yard stare of someone who could murder a baby.  And if the allegations of sexual assault are correct on Casey’s part, then Kristen has plenty of practice from being man-handled by her sparkly boyfriend.  But she really doesn’t have that je ne sais quois…

There is only one person equipped with the looks and talent to play Casey Anthony, consumate liar, alleged victim of sexual assault and unemployed native Floridian.  That, my friends, is the actress who portrayed “B” in The Human Centipede.  Just LOOK at them!

Now, I am not suggesting that Casey Anthony be sentenced to be a part of a Human Centipede if convicted, though she is being tried in Florida where anything is possible.  I would be more inclined to see the media asswaffles who have turned this goddamn thing into a circus turned into one giant Human ‘Pede since they’re already so good at shitting out of their mouths. 

Of course, I’d also like to see Christopher Walken play her dad, so I doubt anyone in Hollywood is listening to me. 

*Here, “fame” = “notoriety for being a singularly terrible actress in a teeny-bopper movie that encourages young girls to like boys who stalk them and withold sex”

Tits and Bigfoot

I feel like this blog post title should win a goddamn award.  If someone wants to nominate me, feel free. 

So this post is going to be a collection of completely random shit from my life.  First, the Tits: 

Who is losing sleep over having a great rack?! Not me, son.

All right.  What the good fuck is going on here?!  “My boobs… they’re so HEAVY!  I wish I had something large and uncomfortable to shove between them.  That’ll help.”  And it’s so judgey – C cups and larger ONLY, ladies.  Makes you wonder if there is a guy on the phone when you order to verify that you got big knockers.  I have more than a handful myself, kids, and I can’t fathom the purpose of the damn thing.  How is wedging cock-shaped plastic between your Girls going to help you sleep better?  If I needed a huge brown and pink wanker between my ta-tas ALL NIGHT LONG, I’m pretty sure my husband would volunteer his services.  

Apparently, it’s called a “Kush” and you can see a close-up and read the hilarious customer reviews here.  

So, this can’t be a real thing, with a real purpose, in any case.  It’s gotta be some kind of sex toy in disguise, right?  Yet… just a few pages later…. 

Quite a selection, you must admit.

 

My doorbell just don't require this level of ringin'

So they’re clearly not shy about selling clitoral massage pumps.  “Gentle suction” my ass.  And look at that lady bottom right, holding the blue vibrator to her throat.  Someone give that bitch a map, some GPS, something.  She is a bit north of her intended destination, I feel.  My favorite comment from the reviews online:  “The suction thing hurts!”  Bwahahaha!  I fucking bet it does.  But you can’t really claim that you didn’t know what you were getting into.  That is an explicit little mechanism, pal.  See close-ups and read more hilarious reviews here. 

But such a selection means, terrifying as it may seem, that the titty shelf is foreal.  *sigh*  This is why the rest of the world hates us, America.  There are starving African babies and we’re inventing boob balancers.  

No lie, this is all from a catalogue called “Solutions: Products that Make Life Easier.”  It’s like getting SkyMall at home.    

Now this, gentle readers, is from my honest-to-god local news channel.  I cannot even make this shit up.  This is where I live.  Fucking brace yourself: 

 

Not only do I live within miles of people who foreal believe in Bigfoot, but apparently they kinda have a tween-girl crush on him: “He had beautiful hair!”  

Also, in case you missed it while rolling on the floor in your own urine just now, the newscaster’s name is Neill McNeill.  What a fucking douchebag.  At least Mr. I-tell-Bigfoot-to-Git-and-he-Gits hasn’t got a ridiculous name.  Well, not that we’re aware of.  Yet. 

That’s your weekly Southern update, friends.  As the 4th of July approaches, I just thought I’d take the time to examine what makes this country great:  Tits and Bigfoot.

A Lesson on Gender

So, I was out getting my drink on last night (as is, usually, my wont, though lately I’ve been too fucking tired after working on this Neverending House to rock out with my Martini out — where’s that goddamn Luck Dragon, Falcor, when you need him?!  Probably busy terrorizing school children… As is his wont.) and, in typical Sorcia fashion, managed to turn the conversation to an obscure medical tradition exploited in literature. 

Mommy drinks because you cry, children. 

And it struck me that you, dear loyal readers, might also be hankering for yet another little history lesson, since the last few have been so informative.  Here’s what I learned as an English MA degree holder about vaginas and penises as perceived in the Renaissance:

Galen’s One-Sex Theory

Galen was a charming motherfucker, so let’s get that out of the way first and foremost.  Left a fucking billionaire (or hunder-aire or whatever they had back then) at his prime boning years, he decided to philosophize about medicine.  And also about pussy.  Of course.  He’s the asshole we have to thank for bloodletting becoming popular, so thanks a lot for the bloody charade that medicine became for centuries, douche-bag.

He had, in his infinite wisdom, noticed that ladies have lady parts (“DOWN THERE” as my mother furtively hisses) and gents carry around some more external fishing gear.  Clever guy.  He ALSO noticed that penises, generally, tended to fit neatly into a willing vagina, leading us to consider that he had the most hilariously fun ”research” grant ever.   

So he comes to the conclusion that, naturally, women just have an inverted penis that we are mistakenly calling by another name, er, names (fill in the blank, here).  He actually compares your lady business with the EYES OF A MOLE.  Cause that’s how he rolls.  The comparison was that mole eyes and vaginas don’t open, they’re both just fine examples of how God likes to make mistakes.  That’s right.  Vaginas = FAIL.  From a book on gender, cited below: Pussies are, for all intents and purposes, failed cocks, or, “an imperfect version of what they would be were they thrust out” (28).  Cocks = WIN!

So there was just ONE sex, male (the “perfect” one, remember), and so girls were just infuriatingly imperfect specimens of that single gender.  Of course, these were people who mixed up semen and breast milk, figuring that, eh, what can you do?  It probably all comes from the same place.  In Galen’s defense, he did suggest, probably as a goddamn footnote, that it helped conception if women could be brought to orgasm (we had sperm too, you see, that was required to mix with Man Juice to make a baby). 

Pictured: Vagina

These are ALSO the same assholes who believed in the humours.  You know, we’re all made up of invisible elements that we can never risk washing off by taking a fucking BATH.  Along with the humours, there was also the idea that women were, by nature, colder than men.  So it was proposed that girl babies just didn’t get warm enough while buns in the proverbial ovens, and along with innate feminine laziness, was why they didn’t sprout a penis.  This fantastic theory lead folks to think that, perhaps, if women TRIED hard enough, or got overheated, that they might, at long last, turn into perfect males.  You get fucked-up apocryphal stories about sheep-herding lassies who become men after too-vigorous runs after the sheepies.   

To re-cap, then:  Essentially, bitches be too lazy to oblige their desperate male-heir wanting parents by popping a penis out.  Also, it’s mom’s fault, too, because her bun warmer is clearly defunct. 

People believed this shit (along with the horrifyingly erroneous assumption that slitting your veins was a good cure for the common cold) until the 1800′s.  That means we had TRAINS before we figured out that women were not innately lazier and more cold-blooded than men (though modern science has yet to explain Ann Coulter, so there’s that.  Well played, Galen).   

TRAINS. 

If you love this kind of stuff like I do (and who doesn’t?!), check out Thomas Laqueur’s book, Making Sex: Body and Gender from the Greeks to Freud.  It’s magical.

Glenn Beck Makes Me Want to Drink

My poor mother was dragged, by my father, to a Republican enclave in The Villages (picture Village of the Damned, but with the cast from Cocoon).  It’s a community where everyone drives  golf cart and no one under 18 is allowed to stay longer than 48 hours (or else they harvest your youthful, supple skin to wear as a suit).  My father, the last lone Republitard in the family, is a member of the Mayflower Society, where people research their connection to the original goddamn pilgrims and then feel good about it, for reasons that escape all common decency and moral sense.  They have meetings, consisting of old white guys sitting around and re-imagining the 17th century, when you could fuck your wife like you paid for it and brown people were still firmly in their place (read: in chains). 

It’s like living in your third grade Thanksgiving play.  It goes without saying the 99% of these whimsical old bastards are indoctrinated with the special loathing that only Right Wing Nut-face radio talk show hosts can provide.  So not only have they claimed a village all their own (though I feel it should be specially marked, warning lonely travellers in the same way we warn tourists about the radiation levels in certain parts of the desert), but they invited every seething bitch-pants of a Republican loser from the last election to come hang out.  It must have been like tailgating with Satan, considering that Palin, Huckabee AND MacBeck were all coming (I call Glenn Beck “MacBeck” for two reasons: 1) he looks like he ate a MacDonald’s and 2) he reminds me of another sociopath, the one from a certain Scottish play). 

In any case, my mother survived, though barely, possibly because she has a sense of humor.  Case in point, she took the following picture. 

Retards AND drinking? Count me in, padre.

I know.  Best. Mom. Ever.

Who’s the Big Winner?

YOU, my friend (and loyal blog reader)!  You, because you’ve picked this book:

For 75 cents?! Damn straight.

Yes, now you too can hand Las Vegas’s ass back to them.  How can you tell?  Why, look at that nice young man on the cover!  He has the look of someone calmly raking in the dough, now doesn’t he?  Those wild eyes and gaping jaw surely indicate the delight of some big Vegas winner.  

Nothing Shifty Here!

And FINALLY.  A book that’s going to give us gamblers the straight talk! 

They even put that pesky new-fangled game of BlackJack in quotes… where it belongs, if you ask me.  “21″ indeed. 

But wait just a gosh-darn second here, folks.  Who is telling us all this secret information?!  It could be a communist, for Cripe’s Sake! 

The face of an angel

Oh, no.  It’s just sweet ol’ Mike Goodman.  Even his NAME indicates goodness and fair play!  After all, he RUNS A CASINO!  He couldn’t possibly have the motivation to shyste the fine American people who patronize his joint out of their hard-earned cash. 

Red is the color of honesty

That’s right, Mikey boy.  I’m sick and tired of being promised the moon, too!  Now how are you going to show us the action?   

Zombie Apocalypse... Vegas style!

Well, look at this sprightly fellow.  Nothing wrong in his world, nosiree.  He’s just enjoying a mellow smoke while the chips pile up, and why shouldn’t he?  He has no eyeballs for the smoke to get into!  In fact, this book is so versatile that it even caters to BLIND gamblers.  Now that’s pretty forward-thinking for 1964, wouldn’t you say? 

Do it for Sorcia, son.

Ok, well this guy can see.  SEE THE MAD CASH HE’S WINNING!  I guess so, anyway.  He’s either playing a manic game of craps or is about to punch the illustrator in the face. 

Hours of fun for the whole family!

Here’s Hairy Arm Man.  He’s still alive and well at the casinos.  You can’t smoke at his table for fear of his flesh shag going up in flames faster than taffeta on prom night.  Wait a sec… is that a pack of smokes next to that man fuzz?!  Run for your fucking lives, people!  Oh, and just a head’s up — if you go to Vegas now and find a table where the dealer must draw to a 16 and then stand on ALL 17s, you give your pal Sorcia a call.  Mama MacNasty gonna win herself some new shoes.   

Well that’s a relief!  Here I was thinking that it was them there ornery dice that were in charge.  Whew.  They sure took charge of my wallet. 

That oughta do it.  See you all at the tables!

Valentine’s Day: The Day of LIES

I hardly need to detail why I think Valentine’s Day is a crock.  I laugh myself sick when I hear on the nightly news that sales are down this year — just what the retail venue deserves after concocting a fake holiday in the first damn place. 

But upon closer inspection, when one of my fellow Humor Bloggers posed the following query, I realized I was probably just scarred at an early age:  “What was the worst Valentine’s Day gift you ever got?” 

My response?

The Time:  3rd grade, an era of pigtails, innocence and the first stirrings of a young girl’s heart turning to fancy…

The Place:  The playground, never a stable environment to proclaim love

The Gift: (Presented by little Mikey Cobb, my 3rd grade “boyfriend) A dead hummingbird. 

Because nothing says “romance” like avian flu and rotting bird eyes. 

 

What about you, dear, loyal readers?  Ever get a truly terrible Valentine’s Day gift?  Who was responsible and are you still speaking to them?

Baskets of Fun!

Now that the naming contest is over, I can get back to my more pressing duties; namely, complaining about everyone I come into contact with.  It’s a tough job, but you know – 

No.  No, it’s not.  That was a lie. 

I drove down to South Carolina for a weekend, to see one of my oldest, best friends, Kimmy.*  First, a note on the Carolinas… In the hierarchy (one which I cannot even begin to explain here) South Carolina is to North Carolina what ConeyIsland is to Disney World: They’re bothfull of inexplicable mystery and strange new smells, but while you can take your kids to Disney World withthe reasonable expectation that they won’t die, not so much with the Cone Land.  Now, why is there rivalry between two Southern states both clearly named from the same source?  I have no idea, but you have to remember that we’re talking about a people who engaged in the “War of Northern Aggression” for 4 years, neverminding that they didn’t have a canon factory in any of their territory.  I’m not saying it’s a dumb rivalry, just misguided.  Much like the other Southern institutions of banjo music, the Klan, Clay Aiken and deer jerky. 

Here is just a brief smattering of reasons that I like staying withKimmy:  1) I get to stay in their “Muppet Room,” which is a guest room covered wall-to-wall withMuppet memorabilia.  You wake up in the middle of the night and it’s like an art-school interpretation of childhood nightmare.  Everywhere you look, Gonzo is cackling at you and the Dog Father is gazing down at you menacingly.  It’s awesome.  2)  Her husband cooks bad ass selections of meat.  We had ribs and steak while I was there, and it was only a two-day visit.  Also, he made up a new alcoholic-DT-inducing beverage for us.  I don’t know what he calls it, but it was like a liquid Almond Joy with booze.  Yeah.  3)  I can engage in completely feminine pursuits while briefly away from my uber-masculine husband, which means I can watch The Holiday without anyone laughing at me, discuss vaginas without impunity, and go to events like The Southern Women’s Show.

What is this Show, you ask?  Oh ho.  It’s a smorgasbord of free shit.  No, really.  That’s it’s actual subtitle.  Well, it should be.  For $9 (I got in free, since some woman came up and literally handed me a free ticket), you can wander through thousands of booths giving away free things, ranging from pens to ice-cream samples to aborted fetuses. 

Yep.  Read that last one again. 

Ok, so they weren’t ACTUALLY aborted.  They were made from plastic.  But they were meant to represent aborted fetuses, which I feel is just as bad, if not worse, than having a pink-blanket-lined basket full of fake dead babies. 

I was in line patiently (read: tapping my foot and glaring at the neck rolls of the minotaur in front of me, one of the many creatures there who’d clearly invested in the stock of the catchy-menopausal-saying t-shirt company) waiting for my sample-cup-full of cheap Carolina wine, when Kimmy (and this is why we’re friends), snuckup behind me with a plastic fetus and squeaked it at me.  Sort of like you would a novelty dog toy.  Which is exactly what I assumed it was. 

“What the hell IS that?”  I asked, laughing as she continued to merrily squeak the pink baby into the faces of passerby. 

“It’s an 11-week old BABY.”  Bellowed a woolly mammoth, appearing magically out of nowhere (as is their wont, being mammoths).  “It has fingerprints already and toenails.”  Kimmy and I exchanged glances of impending doom.  We’d unwittingly stumbled into a little corner of hell, cunningly disguised as an anti-abortion booth, and slyly placed next to the wine booth.  Like alcoholic deer, we’d unwittingly walked right into a Pro-Life trap. 

Basket of Fun! (if by

Now, it was on the tip of my tongue to ask why, then, they looked like bathtub float toys, but Kimmy shot me a look.  Kimmy, I should mention, is both Jewish and Puerto Rican (A Jewarican, if you will), so she spends most of her time in the South trying ardently to stay OUT of trouble.  As you can imagine, I don’t help her out in this arena very much.  But she’s stuck with me because we’ve known each other since before puberty.  Still, I filed the thought away as a later, hilarious gag to play on some hussy friend who’d just had an abortion — fill her bathtub with these plastic dead babies and maybe some red jello for good measure.  Hilarity would ensue, surely. 

I was ready to move on to the next, pink booth with free pens, called “Don’t Let God Hit You with His Cancer Stick!” or similar, but the gorgon had us in her mind-melding deathstare, and our way was blocked by both her bulk and her flailing arms, both hands filled with a fistful of fetus.  This was when I noticed: She was replinishing her supply of mini-mes from a BASKET.  A basket lined in a pink baby blanket.  A basket full of fetuses.  I was about to blurt out, “What in the good FUCK, lady?!”  But then I remembered that I live in a place where “Truck and Tractors” is a bonafide category in the entertainment calendar, and decided that this was not the place to get into a baby brawl.

“AIDS goes right through a condom,” she was shrieking.  “RIGHT THROUGH IT!  And young girls don’t know that!  They think latex will just save their lives, but they are wrong, wrong, wrong.”  I glanced at Kimmy, who is a pharmacist, and so clearly the person to dispute such a bizarre, adament lie, but my poor Jewarican companion just shook her head at me, a warning to please, please not get us lynched at the Southern Women’s Show.  I sighed and let Crazy Fetus Lady shake another dead baby at me.  “And the Guardasil shot?  You might as well just get shot with a big ol’ test-tube of LIES.” 

“I got that shot.”  I finally interjected.  Kimmy started backing away slowly, eyeing up the nearest exits and fumbling in her purse for the keys to our inevitably-needed get-away car.  “My doctor said it –”

“Your doctor was WRONG.” 

I thought, I’m sorry, are YOU a doctor?  Or just a peddler of lies?  In any case, my threshold for conservative small-mindedness has been breached.  Abort!  Abort!!  Not just the babies — abort this fucking booth of baby nightmare! 

“Ok, well, we have to go eat free things and find more wine.”  I said instead, lamely.  Kimmy dragged me off before I could pillage the baby basket to my heart’s content, which would have made lovely presents, I think. 

“You think she owns the car in the parking lot with that bumper sticker, ’AIDS = when the devil wants to bring you home’?” 

“Undoubtedly.  Now let’s go pilfer some free parafin wax for our dirty, dirty, baby-killing hands.”        

And we did. 

 

*  Name NOT changed to protect the innocent. I’ve known Kimmy since the 6th grade.  She knows and expects to be occasionally humilated on the public interwebs by me.

A Plague of Plagiarizing

What a week.

I had to take part in the Homecoming Game, which required me to herd teenage Homecoming Court candidates around like retarded cats:  “I don’t have pantyhose!  Is that your husband?  He looks like Tom Cruise!  I have to pee!  It’s cold!  Where’s my dad?  Are you the new teacher?  I’m taking my bra off!” 

All of this, mind you, on the middle of the football field at half-time, as they awaited their destiny.  Three girls got titles (Miss Congeniality, Princess and Queen), and the rest, well, just tried to look brave and not suicidal.

Also, there was a run-in with a dippy student dipping in my class.  I found his disgusting bottle of spit and dip (he’d been expectorating into a Mountain Dew can… “Do the Dew” indeed!) and rather than confront him, I instead told the class they could either turn in “the culprit” OR, instead, face the consequences with all of them losing their beverage-drinking privileges.  About 5 seconds later they turned his sorry ass in.  Now he’s copying all the literary terms out of the back of the book in penance.  He actually asked if could be suspended instead.  “What — let you sit at home, missing class, dipping your life away?”  I scoffed.  “HAH.  Get copying, Dippidy Doo Dah.”

ALSO, I discovered that one of my students copied and pasted his entire first paper to me from a website.  Not just any website — a CHILDREN’S website.  Based out of England.  I was tipped off when he referenced St. Dubricus (patron saint of swords in ponds) and used the words “lad,” “mates,” and a sprinkling of Latin.  I simply googled his first sentence and the website popped up. 

I have a pretty bad ass stand on plagiarizing.  Here’s why:  1.  It’s stealing.   Stealing is a pretty crappy thing to do.  2.  It’s disrespectful and lazy.  And they’re required to be neither in my classroom.  3.  It’s lying.  I hate lying liars who lie.  There is a reason that Dante put liars and traitors in the 9th Circle of Hell — because they suck.  And I laid out this philosophy for them all on the first day of school and required they sign an honor code.  If they break this rule, they automatically get a “0″ on the assignment and I call their parents.  If they’re stupid enough to break it again, they fail my course.  

So I called his poor mom, at her waitress job.  She didn’t sound surprised, but she sounded irate.  Then I made him stay in with me during their pep rally to explain that as a result of his plagiarizing, he had under a 40% in my class.  Which means he’s in danger of failing English 4.  Meaning he may not graduate.  He was deeply chagrined, and bizarrely impressed with my mighty powers of detection.  “But how did you KNOW?!”  He howled, much like a thwarted Bond Villain.  I told him (knowing he’d tell his other, stupid friends) that I had wired in a program to my computer that detected any and all plagiarizing.  But he was embarassed and apologetic, and hotly worried about me calling his poor Mom.  I told him that if he wanted to avoid suspension, he’d have to write me a paper on plagiarism.  I swear to god, he said:  “No problem.  I have one I wrote last year for another teacher.  I’ll give you that.” 

Pointing out that this would be rather akin to yet more plagiarizing, and sternly remonstrating him for TELLING ME he was going to do such a thing, I instead insisted he write a 4 page paper on what he wants to do with his life when he graduates.  I told him that working in fast food is not an acceptable life goal and that the paper better be life-altering for all of us concerned. 

Sigh.  What was the line from Handmaid’s Tale?  Oh yes — the latin:  “Nolite te bastardes carborundorum” (Don’t let the bastards grind you down).