Monthly Archives: January 2012

My Cell Phone’s Photographic Journey Through 2011

It is January 27 and I still have yet to start any of my New Year’s Resolutions. I’d like to say it’s because I am too busy, which I often feel I am, but since I managed to devote 15 minutes today trying to learn how to finger whistle, and over an hour researching strange facts about cows, my argument is sort of beat to shit, for lack of a better term.

Therefore I have decided to restart 2012 on February 1. I’d like to commemorate 2011 and all its 13 months of glory, with a blog entry depicting its brilliance with photographs taken throughout the year. Since I can’t own an electronic without breaking it in a very dramatic and embarrassing fashion, my cell phone has been my primary photographic tool. Aside from countless pictures of my butt, in various pairs of pants, my cell phone is actually filled with some photographic gems. So I have decided to use a sampling of those and can only hope by the end of this read, family, friends, and internet bullies alike, will still find something endearing about me.

January  2011

My Old Cubicle

In 2011, my cubicle, like my existence, was a train wreck. While the Ansel Adams’ photography, saliva-scented water bottles, and countless piles of garbage may be only slight windows into my growing psychosis, the off-camera stacks of magazines, drawers filled with oatmeal, and affectionate snapshots of Bob Dylan pasted on pieces of construction paper outlined with heart doodles, show a young woman on the brink of “exhaustion” (I feel you Demi, I feel you).

(also) January 2011

My drawing of Bob Dylan

Umm…yeah, so…I was REALLY lonely in 2011. I know locking myself in my apartment, crying while drawing pictures of Bob Dylan didn’t add much to my social life, but its better than getting date raped at a Scranton bar.

February 2011

Sales Material for My Old Job

So I like, totally wrote this poem. I know. BE Jealous.

March 2011

Mah ve-hic-le gettin' effed up by a snow storm

Sometimes it snows in Pennsylvania…no big deal. Of course one might assume that if someone were to grow up in Pennsylvania, they would be adequately prepared to deal with this gigantic dump bird shit. However, I am not as bright as this blog so consistently implies, so I had to use a dustpan and an old Swiffer to dig my car out. It was so fetch.

So apparently nothing in life was worth photographing during

April 2011

or

May 2011

I know. Sad. Pathetic. You can feel sorry for me, I get it. I would too. Except I’m lying. I took lots of boring, unbloggable pictures during these months. So let’s just forget they ever existed, k?

June 2011

Wall painting at my Tennessee Apartment

I was quite the tortured artist in Tennessee. So tortured, I painted these sunflowers on my wall and drifted into a life of hard drugs and street hopscotch.

July 2011

Nashville Street Musician

This is one Bad Ass Motha-Fucka. Had he a beard, we probably would have been betrothed on the spot, and today I’d be found living under a bridge next to Willie Nelson.

August 2011

Private Office at my Tennessee Job

 I was like, so important. See that bag of carrot sticks sitting in front of the computer? All mine, baby. All mine. You can look but you can’t touch it. IF you touch it, I’ma start some drama.

And you don’t want NO drama.

No, no, Drama.

No, no, no, no, drama.

I hate the Black-Eyed Peas.

September 2011

Saliva of my Tennesse "boyfriend"

I lived in Tennessee for 4 1/2 months and for 8 weeks I dated a very nice gentleman, we’ll call him Andre. (In respect to “Andre” let me say, he was not as gay as this fictional name would imply. Far from it, if you catch my drift…this is getting weird) Anyway, one day in September Andre took me to a beautiful state park, a few hours into the Tennessee countryside, filled with beautiful waterfalls and vigorous hiking trails. Quite the panty-dropping experience. Or it would have been, had he not suffered several allergy attacks. Upon hiking to the bottom of a waterfall, Andre was overcome with a coughing/sneezing fit, and hacked up this lovely wad of saliva. Enthusiastically entertained by everything, I took a picture with my cell phone, much to the displeasure of Andre who had been trying to overcome his condition for hours to make the trip romantic. While he scoured the rock formations in search of the perfect heart-shaped stone to give me, I took pictures of his spit and made him help me clean up garbage people had left at the bottom of the waterfall. Is it any wonder why I am single?

September 2011

Toothpaste in my contact case!

One of the greatest mysteries of 2011 took place one September morning when I tried to put in my contacts. I walked to the bathroom like any other day, half-dressed and ready to defecate, when I decided to put in my contacts first. I opened the case, anxious to regain my man-made vision, when I saw what appeared to be two globs of toothpaste in lieu of my contacts. I was perplexed. My roommate was gone for the weekend and I had spent the night alone, leaving no room for foul-play. Utilizing the safety precautions learned in high school Chemistry, I jammed my fingers into the unknown substance, anxious to determine what it was. The gritty texture did not feel like toothpaste, nor did it smell like anything that could reduce bad breath. After much deliberation, I decided that my contacts somehow disintegrated overnight, turning back into their liquid form, which is evidently, toothpaste-colored gobbledygook.

September 2011

Everything that's wrong with America...or something less dramatic

During one of my bi-weekly grocery trips, I spotted this painfully obnoxious vehicle. My first instinct was to throw a shopping cart through the window and run away screaming, but I decided taking a picture would be less illegal and unfortunately less awesome.

September 2011

Road Sign Outside of Nashville

So, apparently all I did in September was take really stupid pictures, of really stupid things. This is another. While living in Tennessee, my fictional ADD was in high gear. One afternoon I found myself aimlessly driving around the outskirts of Nashville and nearly flipped my car, (by calmly pulling over) when I saw this sign. The Band is probably my favorite band, and the song “Up On Cripple Creek” validates my existence.

October 2011

A fake tattoo that only made me look cool in the mirror and my imagination

Not only is this the 3rd reference to Bob Dylan made in this blog post; as the text of this fake tattoo is a Bob Dylan song title. But it is also quite possibly the lamest picture ever taken in this history of photographic technology. In October I was packing my belongings, readying myself to move back to Pennsylvania. Since I’m the most bad ass 23 year old alive, I thought it’d be totally bitchin’ to draw a fake tattoo on my arm with black liquid eye liner, then take a picture of it to commemorate how cool it was. I almost want to stuff myself in a locker, for this.

October 2011

Puppy Hate

Trying to make something love me, that doesn’t, is the tagline of my life. Exhibit A, taking a picture with Molly as she violently squirms out of my arms, desperate to free herself from my overbearing grip. And I had only been home for three days. Where is the love?

…The love

…The love

I still hate the Black-Eyed Peas

November 2011

Meal worms...in the fridge...yeah

Right next to the organic orange juice, a brown paper bag of meal worms. This is what happens when your mom is a high school biology teacher. Or a fisherman.

December 2011

This is my sister, isn't she pretty?

In December my stepmother had non-invasive brain surgery that required her head to be restrained with this mask, which highly resembles a Medieval torture device. Needless to say, she was into it. So she showed us her mask and while my head was too fat and sassy to fit, my sister excitedly shoved her face into it, allowing for this Samsung moment.

Yes, my family has problems.

So that was all kinds of fun, huh? No? Screw you.

Bring on 2012…er…again!

Love,

The girl who learned today that the average cow produces 25 gallons of saliva each day, while simultaneously bringing sexy back.

People Who Passively Watch American Idol and People Who Destroy Relationships Over It

PLEASE NOTE: As a throwback to my previously established blog, www.twosortsofpeople.com which involved my unbalanced segregation of all people into two irrelevant categories, I’m hitting you up with a blast from the past, Brendan Fraiser style, with another “two sorts of people in the world” blog entry. Enjoy!

I’m not a huge fan of reality television.  I know everybody says that while secretly filming audition tapes for “Wife Swap,” but I’m serious. Yes, I watch “What Not To Wear” on occasion, and dry heave my way through episodes of “Jersey Shore” but like I always say, if I haven’t “liked” it on Facebook, it’s not actually happening.

However there is one reality show that I anxiously reluctantly allow into my life each January. One that breaks through my general attraction to the – anti-establishment, screw top 40 radio, involuntary mouth-foaming rage at the mere mention of Ke$ha –mentality I harbor in regard to modern pop culture:

It IS… A-MERICAN Idol

Ok, that was supposed to be written with a very obvious Seacrest-ian inflection, but I realize without the 5’2 physique and frosted tips, it sort of falls flat. So use your imagination.

oooooooooooh yeaaaaaaaaaaah

Anyway, American Idol has always had some sort of a mystical hold on me. I can’t quite describe it…

I see nothing unreasonable about this

…. so I’m going to try. It’s like the butterfly feeling I get in the pit of my stomach every time I see a Leonardo DiCaprio movie, particularly if he is shirtless, using an accent, or aging to the point of death throughout the duration of the film. Or the agitated trembling sensation that flows through my body when I lie in bed at night, knowing Nutella is somewhere in the house waiting to be eaten. These reactions are very similar to those that I feel when introduced to a new season of American idol, and last night at work during the season 11 premiere those panty-changing feelings returned (ewwww).

I know what you must be thinking. How could such a street-smart, happenin’ chick, with great hair and a vinyl record collection get behind the revolving factory of crap American Idol has proven to be year after year? Simple:

“It’s where dreams come true”   …or go to die, depending on who you are.

Scott Macintyre - not a fan, but the "blind guy" pity vote got him much further than his voice ever could!

It’s not just about the often over-hyped singing or the offensively hokey Ford commercials, which frankly I could do without. American Idol has locked me in because every year some 17 year old from North Dakota — who learned to overcome the struggles of being born with one eye to mute parents, by working toward a cure for childhood diabetes in between secret vocal lessons in the local church basement, that no one knew about until she begged to fly to Austin to audition for American Idol using the money earned from the sale of the single, family vehicle, — sings a rendition of a Stevie Wonder song or something from the “Hannah Montana” soundtrack, “wowing” the judges to the point of tears. Said teenage cyclops will then proceed to awkwardly cry, and explain to the camera in a candid post audition interview, that this is her dream and “dreams really do come true” and that she WILL be the next American Idol. As we pan out, one of the judges, probably Randy, will point his never-used pencil at the door and say something like “that’s what it’s all about, dawg. That’s what it’s all about.”

It’s a really beautiful scenario and if you were not moved to tears by my portrayal, get your eyes checked, son. Anyway, my point is that my love for American Idol is often more about the hopeful, inspired feeling I get while watching it, than the actual talent. At least until three years ago…(I’ll get there, don’t worry)

So, according to my limited understanding of the world, pretty much everyone has watched American Idol at some point in its 10 year run. Therefore I feel comfortable dividing all of humanity into two different categories:

Crazy Sanjaya Girl

People who Passively Watch American Idol and People Who Destroy Relationships Over It

Now I realize not everyone who watches American Idol does so with the same level of dream-realizing grandeur with which I do. There are some people (tools) who watch it to make fun of the talentless hacks (just keepin’ it real), but don’t actually care either way about what happens. To these people, and all other, non-voting, non-psycho viewers who fall into the former category of people who watch passively, I say bravo! You are sufficiently less irrational and cracked-out than me. Good for you. Now go get hit by a bus.

Because really, it goes without saying that I fall into the latter category; the people who destroy relationships over it. I’m not going to lie. Anyone in a category that indicates obsessive, home-wrecking levels of passion for a TV show ought to be dragged out into the street and shot. Not really. But, something to that level. After all, it is completely ludicrous for anyone to get as unreasonably attached to a reality show and its contestants as I do. But in all honesty, I just can’t control myself!

Last night while working the coffee counter I decided to watch the season premiere of American Idol. Just so you understand, this is not the kind of thing I would normally deem appropriate for being in public. Why? Because  a typical evening of watching American Idol provokes a certain manic behavior in me that is not in the best interest of society.   But every year, I convince myself I will be stronger. I will care less about the poverty-stricken man with a newborn and a nasty case of Tourettes, who can sing like gold. I will care less about the homeless single mother with a Janis Joplin vibe and cool back tattoo. I won’t cry during auditions, or throw pillows at the TV in angst, I will sit back like the passive viewer I used to be three years ago.

Three years ago. What can be said? I was happy, healthy, and armed with sardonic wit about the crazy Sanjaya chick and the unexplainable fandom of David Archuletta.

If you do nothing else in your life, watch this video:

But then Season 8 happened and I fell in love with 16 year old Allison Iraheta.

Ok…marathon voting and crying when she was voted off…no big deal. Then Season 9 happened and I was introduced to Lilly Scott and Crystal Bowersox…

This was a very difficult year for me. Lilly was voted off early but Crystal made it to the finale and I never thought I could be more obsessed with a contestant until Season 10. Arguably the best season in the show’s history, with the weirdest indie-style, jazzy talents ever. I am weeping just thinking of Casey Abrams and Haley Reinhart.

OMG, I need to stop. Let it be known that my need to find videos for this blog entry turned into an hour of me watching and rewatching videos, while sobbing from the tears they all moved me to. I have a serious problem. But it’s important that you see this vulnerable, disturbed side of me because my obsession with Haley Reinhart last season, resulted in several fights with family members, near loss of friends, and two hour voting sessions. The judges hated her, HATED her, and other (jealous) people hated her amazing voice, her beautiful hair, her incredible legs…OK I admit it, I’m a bit lesbianic for her. I’m out and proud.

But seriously, everyone I was obsessed with was painfully, unbelievably talented in genres I actually listen to. I don’t care how indie, or anti-establishment, or hipster you are, you cannot deny the talent of the people above, and if you do, I will likely mail you a package of anthrax.

My kind of smile

But I managed to stay composed during last night’s premiere. While I did have a few inexplicable smiles of insanity, explosions of unprovoked laughter, and the salty taste of tears streaming down over my lips in reaction to some inconsequential audition I don’t even remember right now, I’d say I kept it together pretty well. How I will fair the rest of the season, I cannot say.

I think it’s quite obvious that I have an illness. I’m not proud of it, just simply aware that I am not alone! Since I already congratulated the former group of people for their tight grip on sanity, I am going to applaud myself and the other dangerously fanatical people out there. You are NOT alone. I am here! Which you may not find the slightest bit comforting, but let’s face it. You’re obsessed with American Idol…what else do you really have at this point?

Love,

The girl who knows it is tacky to plug her own blog, within her blog, but still hopes if you enjoyed the “two sorts of people in the world” theme you will check out her other posts under the Sh*t I Write About section: two sorts of people in the world

SOPA or Die – Stopping the Stop Online Piracy Act Before We All Turn into Communists

There are a lot of good things to be said about China. It is home of one of the few manmade structures that can be seen from space, and the food, single-handedly responsible for the coining of the internationally endearing term “fat Americans.”   We can’t deny glory where glory is due. But not everything in China is all puppies and aborted female fetuses; there are actually some issues worth getting upset about. Case in point, the Chinese government’s use of internet censorship.

The Chinese government has placed more than 60 internet regulations on citizen internet use, which according to Amnesty Internationalhas resulted in the largest recorded number of imprisoned journalists and cyber-dissidents in the world. Not even a generous plate of buffet style Chinese donuts could excuse this sort of heinous governmental activity. Not cool, China. Not cool. They are served better hot 😉

Would you like a donut with the unjust infringement of your human rights?

But here we are in 2012, when promoting American exceptionalism incites collective nut busting of pretty much every God-fearing American (GFA), so you would think that those same GFAs would like to maintain what makes America so exceptional. Enter SOPA.

SOPA is the Stop Online Piracy Act. For those of you who have been living under some sort of sedimentary substance for the past few months, allow me to explain. SOPA basically allows the government to shut down, or censor, any website that has had any one complaint about copyright infringement. Meaning, blogs using images like this without permission:

Or youtube videos featuring songs like this:

…could be considered copyright infringement. Now as much as I would love to live in a world where Justin Bieber doesn’t exist, every decade has its disco so really he’s just fulfilling that need. Besides, there are unfortunate results of every good thing, like Law and Order: Criminal Intent. But to enforce censorship in AMERICA? Land of the Free-dom fries??? No, I don’t think so.

So in support of the ever-growing fight against SOPA, I am going to black out my blog, along with internet giants, Wikipedia.com, Google.com, WordPress.com (go blog host!), and countless others. To show your support visit: STOP SOPA NOW!

Love,

The girl who hopes to overcome her lack of internet sav and actually go dark, but if not will find some other way to show support.

My Feminist Breasts: Late Night Bra-Shopping for My Huge Rack

Warning: Male relatives you may read at your own risk. If the idea of a blog post about my boobs makes you uncomfortable I recommend you avoid this blog post entirely. Should you decide to read on, please do not contact me about how uncomfortable I make you. There is a warning. Much like the “hot” label on a McDonald’s coffee cup or a “do not swallow” on a bottle of rat poison. If you choose to swallow, don’t change your mind and spit. Dirty.

I have a huge rack. I can call it that because it’s mine. And also because no one gets offended by the term rack, especially not when the term “fun bags” is an option. Nevertheless, I have gone through life, being reminded of my huge rack by everyone who comes into contact with it and those who want to but never do. Why? Well, we live in a culture that is obsessed with huge racks and the owners of them.  Huge racks are assets to civilization that must be preserved, displayed, and glorified at every opportunity. Or, aren’t they?

Tonight after work, I decided to go bra shopping.  Any woman reading knows that bra shopping is either a wonderful experience, resulting in a euphoric boost of self-esteem, or an agonizing one, with thoughts of suicide and the slightest consideration of taking a cheese slicer to every ounce of unwanted fat, yet to be sexualized by black guys and Hugh Hefner.

Since I get out of work after 11pm, my only option was to go to Wal-Mart. Now, when it comes to bras, Wal-Mart wouldn’t even qualify as the retarded little brother with spina bifida and a lisp, to the famous Agent Provacateur or even a Target. But since my huge rack recently assaulted the (flimsy) underwire of my favorite bra, with a Joan of Arcian level of womanly force, I thought I should give it a go.

After grabbing a pair of $3 sweatpants and browsing the fake Uggs, I ventured to the “intimates,” section. Quickly scanning the aisles, preparing for some intimacy with the Inimates, I came across a corner shelf display of “Buty Pants,” (because sometimes you just need a buty).

Bullshit Booty

Now, I’m not sure if this is the white marketing version of “booty” but I think the label gives you the idea. These are, yes, you read correctly, pads for your butt.

I know.

Pads….for your butt.

Your butt.

Moving on. I was taken aback by this blatant display (literally) of the negative messages women receive about their natural bodies. But before my feminism kicked in, my ever-present frat boy mindset was popping its disenchanted collar. Dude, padded butts? False advertising, bro. Seriously, though, how could a brand that calls itself “Lingerie Solutions” make a product like this? First of all, if a chick is in her lingerie with a guy, nothing is going to shrink a boner more than saying, “Oh wait, let me take my buty pads out” or “you can’t spank me, you’ll damage the fake ass I used to lure you in before revealing I’m needy and have low self-esteem.” Epic fail, my man. Can you dig it? (high five)

Back to female feminist now. Not only was I disgusted by the fact that this product even exists, but I was incredibly frustrated by the difficulty I proceeded to face in my own shopping experience. Since the term  “huge rack” is all relative I should tell you now, I wear a size 40 D/DD. Though this can change based on brand and store this is a pretty consistent range. After several minutes of searching, I started to grow frustrated by the limited availability of huge rack bras. Not only do most bras only run in sizes A-C to begin with, but those with the D or the even rarer DD option, were quite limited. Me and my huge rack were frustrated by this. We shook our heads in disgrace and sadly collected five of the ugly 40 D/DD’s available. For some reason, lingerie designers think big-breasted women like ugly bras and hate the cute ones with cupcake patterns and hot pink zebra stripes. They must work with the same crackpot design team selling plus size t-shirts with pictures of watering cans and kittens playing with yarn, on the front.

As I browsed the last aisle I couldn’t help but think about the mixed messages women get. All we ever hear is, “BOOBS! ASS! CAVEMAN LIKE! MUST BE BIG!”…unless they’re natural. Because let’s face it. Any woman going to Wal-Mart hoping to add fake curves to her butt has an easier time than any woman going to Wal-Mart hoping to find support for her real curves.  With a prominent corner display, every woman passing gets the reminder that her butt may not be curvy enough to work in her lingerie, therefore she needs Lingerie Solutions. And every woman who actually needs to find something deserves a Worth Bingham Prize.

But at this point, my huge rack and I were exhausted, and all we wanted to do was try on the measly options and leave. Of course, as the tier below retarded little brother with spina bifida and a lisp, Wal-Mart does not inform shoppers with any kind of signage that dressing rooms close at a certain hour. Since you can’t buy an ugly bra without knowing how badly it fits, I decided the next best option would be trying them on in the aisle, over my tee shirt.

Now, it is impossible for a man to pass the bra section and not look down every aisle. I’m not saying it’s intentional. I really think it is more like an involuntary physical reaction like blinking or pooping your pants on a long car ride. But as a couple passed, the man glanced at me, in my shameless state, and I nodded “hey,” like a scene straight out of a Diablo Cody movie. It was my “I’m on my hamburger phone” moment, minus the Oscar nomination.

After selecting two mediocre garments, I browsed $5 movies while waiting at the checkout line. Apparently “What Happens in Vegas” holds the same retail value as “Sister Act.” Who knew?  I paid for my bras and left $15 poorer, and pricelessly more aware of our contradictory world.

So for any non-relative men reading, I want to say one last thing. The next time you are with a girl who complains that her boobs are too big, her butt is too small, or that her natural body in general is too inadequate to deserve a spot on the corner display at Wal-Mart, please think of this post. Or at least my huge rack. She doesn’t have to know.

Love,

The girl with the huge rack (as if I left you wondering)

See Ya Later, Ambien: How Obama and the Indefinite Detention of U.S. Citizens Will Help Me Sleep at Night

The War on Terror has encapsulated my life. Though it did not officially begin until 2001, I have feared the turban with unprecedented bedwetting since I was four years old and saw Aladdin for the first time. Following the 1993 World Trade Center bombings, I was diagnosed with Insomniac Depression Instigated by the Overreaction to Terrorism (IDIOT) Disorder. Crippled by fears of curry, the body hair of Middle-Eastern men, and the presence of radical Islam, I have spent nearly twenty years of my life lying awake at night, trembling in horror from the constant threat to my freedom as an American. Up until December 31, 2011, I could only begin to relieve my terror each night by listening to Rush Limbaugh and humming “God Bless the USA” to myself until I fell asleep.

But on January 1, 2012 I awoke to a blessing disguised as a “friend’s” Facebook post of an article from the head news organization of the liberal media elite, known as the “New York Times.” It revealed to my baggy eyes, a new law put in place by President Obama called the National Defense Authorization Act (NDAA). Now, to be fair, my initial reaction was not that of increased patriotic sentiment. In fact, I felt no prouder to be an American than when I went to bed the night before, as I assumed this was some sort of law Communist Obama was using to further strip America of its greatness as a nation. But when I read the article and learned what the law entails, a feeling of warm, safe, ignorant bliss, flowed through my well-fed American body.  

The NDAA is a law stating that under the President’s authority, any suspect of terrorism, including U.S. citizens arrested in the United States, could be indefinitely detained, without charge or trial, and possibly under control of the U.S. Armed Forces.

Physically aroused by the thought of combatting terror on American soil, I stepped away from my computer and resigned to a cold shower. Trying to free my mind and body from the frenzy of pleasure this latest act of government control incited in me, proved to be more difficult than expected. I found my mind swirling in a haze of jingoistic pride. Who knew a reformed terrorist like Barrack Obama could enforce such a patriotic response to the threat of domestic-based terrorism? Not me, that’s for sure. Just knowing, that fellow Americans like me, innocent and never to be charged or proven guilty of anything in particular, could be denied their constitutional right to trial by jury, already makes me feel safer.

But it seems, I am one of few to see the beauty in this law. The American Civil Liberties Union (ACLU), an evidently popular terrorist organization, has released statements, treasonously speaking out against this law and President Obama.

“President Obama’s action … is a blight on his legacy because he will forever be known as the president who signed indefinite detention without charge or trial into law,” ACLU Executive Director Anthony Romero said.

 

Um, as if?

f***ing clueless

orange is the new pink! *giggle*

The ACLU, the Center for Constitutional Rights (CCR), the Human Rights Watch and other anti-freedom organizations, keep referring to this law as “unconstitutional” and “authoritarian.” But like, since when has protecting our freedom been unconstitutional? The whole point of the government is to make sure no uppity Muslims can take away our constitutional rights to being Christian and owning guns. But unfortunately, some ungrateful Americans, feel the need to participate in terrorist activities like joining Jihadist Facebook groups and TiVoing “American Muslim.” Frankly, I think there is absolutely no reason, that whole “innocent until proven guilty, trial by jury” thing, should apply to these phony, undeserving Americans. In fact, I’m PRETTY sure, our Founding Fathers would agree that, when it comes to fighting for our freedom, the constitution is sort of a null and void set of guidelines, at best, and if they were important, we wouldn’t have reelected Bush after he approved the Patriot Act. More like, ACL-U don’t know what you’re talking about! Might as well rename yourself the Al’Qaeda Coalition of Liberty Under-miners!

When our freedom to be fat and unemployed is at stake, the government has every right to trample the rights of the people. And any so-called American who wants to challenge the authority of our government, which only has our BEST intentions in mind, should be detained. After all, if you aren’t making a bomb in your attic, browsing Iraqi porn on the Internet, or doing anything else the NDAA fails to mention as actual reasons for the indefinite detainment of Americans…hmm…, anyway, if you aren’t doing anything the government, vaguely describes as possible “suspected terrorism,” you have nothing to worry about. Yeah, I mean, I’m not sure exactly what they consider suspected terrorism, but I’m sure it’s pretty bad, and as I always say,” if Toby Keith wouldn’t, I shouldn’t.”

But what I’m mostly concerned about is this radical, anti-troops notion that the military involvement in this law is a bad thing.  Look, people, the military is here to protect us.  If Obama says someone is a threat, then they MUST be a threat, and therefore deserve whatever they have coming to them. Frankly, I’m shocked that anyone could even insinuate that the Armed Forces would abuse their power. It’s not like that’s ever happened before…

 

Abu Ghraib Prison Abuse

Ok, ok, but that’s no worse than a typical Red State method of punishment, much akin to a childhood spanking….

ANYWAY I just thought I should write something to express my gratitude to the Obama Administration.  I for one, have never felt so safe and so proud to be an American citizen, temporarily free to roam our gold-paved streets. So I want to thank you, President Obama. Thank you for using your elected-position to infringe on the rights of the people who elected you. I know you wouldn’t do it if you didn’t truly believe it was the right thing. I’m proud of you and anyone who disagrees can go choke on some freedom fries.

Love,

The girl who really, seriously, PRAYS, from the bottom of her heart, that ya’ll can appreciate some sarcasm.

 

Click for the terrifying truth about the NDAA