Old but great 2005 article on her “quiet depravity”, panic attacks, SNL days, and process.

I work a day job in a gross carpeted cubical.

A woman with stinky perfume who works on the other side of my wall is constantly complaining. Loudly. She bitches and moans all day about her job and the coffee and the lighting and her daughter and the customers and the people in other departments with snark and venom, interrupting co-workers to yell, “IS IT ME, OR IS SO-AND-SO JUST A STUPID FUCKING IDIOT?”

Day after day after day after day after day. And so loudly my noise-cancelling headphones don’t do shit. Please lady, o please let me suffer in silence. I live for her sick days, I really do. Asthma. Poison ivy. A broken hip. Anything.

Today during her rants I couldn’t help but think: “My god, this woman sounds hysterical, and I mean that in the most politically incorrect and historical sense of the term.”

And then, right on cue:

“UHHHHH! I JUST WANT TO SCREAM!!!”

Somebody just fuck her already. Anyone.

what is this thing?

What do Lao Tzu, Thomas Jefferson, Thomas Paine, Adam Smith, Milton Friedman, Robert Heinlein, Denis Leary, Trey Parker, Clint Eastwood, Danny Elfmann, Bruce Willis, Penn & Teller, Drew Carey, Kurt Russell, Tom Selleck, Howard Stern, Dennis Miller, Chris Rock, Jimmie ‘JJ’ Walker, Neil Peart, Zora Neale Hurston, and Jimmie Vaughan all have in common?

They’re all Libertarians.

Try this quiz. Do you . . .

• Oppose all forms of censorship?
• Think the Federal gov’t is ridiculously bloated?
• Oppose special treatment for any gender or race?
• Believe military service should be voluntary?
• Oppose all laws regarding sex & marriage between consenting adults?
• Support drug legalization?
• Oppose overseas invasions?
• Think America’s militia kicked Britain’s arse in the 1770s?
• Disapprove of corporate subsidies?
• Think gov’t “no-fly” passenger lists don’t counter terrorism?
• Agree that abortion must remain a personal decision?
• Favor free markets and trade?
• Believe teachers should be paid more?
• Support incentives for non-profits instead of welfare?
• Believe in the Bill of Rights?

.
If so, maybe you’re a Libertarian too.

The two Georgia men claiming to have found Bigfoot’s body last week came forward today to admit it was all a hoax. In truth the carcass they unveiled was just a rubber Sasquatch costume filled with . . . wanna guess?

Possum roadkill and slaughterhouse leftovers.

Think of it: these guys could’ve filled the suit with anything—old rags, pillows, even dirt. Any of these would’ve been convincing enough for a grainy photograph. But they actually opted for decaying animals—even though nobody but them would know there were carcasses inside. That’s dedication, people. Deadication.

Makes you wonder what Star Wars’ costume maker stuffed into Chewbacca.

“So, did you give the wookie a heart?”

“No. Pig intestines!”

I wish I were a reporter on the scene—I’m so filled with questions I could burst! Is fat roadkill better than flat? Do tire tread marks add structure? I can totally picture those good ole boys driving around Georgia backroads looking for roadkill: “There’s a possum, Jeb! Stop the truck! I’ll get the shovel!” Scraaape.

And what, pray tell, are ‘slaughterhouse leftovers’? Spleens? Hair? Teeth? That must’ve been some nasty-ass dumpster diving.

“Thank you for calling MovieFone. Press 1 for Deliverance: The Early Years, starring Hannibal Lecter.”

Now the men are being threatened with lawsuits, which is sad. The “Blowoff”—carny slang for the bonus attraction at a sideshow where you’re charged an extra quarter to see a woman with a hairy spider legs, a three-legged fetus in a jar, or some other display you know is probably faked out—is a great tradition of traveling American and English sideshows dating back to the 1820s, and still exciting today. That’s all these Georgia bubbas are guilty of.

A lawsuit? Come on. We all hoped it was Sasquatch, but did anyone really believe? Really? Truly?

Ok, maybe this guy did. And boy, does he look pissed.

I went to dinner at Farina, a Ligurian joint in the Mission district last night. Being only 10:30, the place was filled with diners, clinking wine glasses, and chefs’ lively Spanish and Italian banter.

Suddenly I heard the high-pitched pops of Chinese firecrackers right outside the restaurant’s front window—one, then two more, then yelling, then something in my gut screamed, “Get down!” and I hit the concrete floor about the same moment as everyone else around me. We heard more bullets popping and people running outside. I glanced up and saw women in dresses sprawled flat, men in suits, busboys, waiters, napkins, bits of food . . . anybody looking in from outside would’ve seen a desolate restaurant full of empty chairs. A woman next to us started having violent muscle cramps in her hamstring with her back arched—looked like a grand mal seizure. A few of us asked another woman who was face down if she was ok, but she just shook her head and refused to lift her face from the concrete—too scared. I crawled to my cellphone as the manager dashed for the restaurant phone. Gangbangers in black hoods were scattering in all directions outside, then police car lights, then a dozen cops darting past on foot—it was like being on the sideline of an insane foot race.

It’s hard to describe how surreal it is to suddenly receive a gut message to violate social norms and throw yourself to the ground without knowing for sure if your gut is correct or not, and at the risk of looking like a freak if it only turns out to be some crazy outside with crackers and a lighter. It’s not the same as your nervous system automatically throwing you out of harm’s way; with gunfire it takes a second to register if you haven’t heard it before—it sounds higher-pitched in person than it does in movies—and to overcome the sheer disbelief that this shit is happening right now. I still feel wobbly. My thoughts go out to anyone who has to face that regularly—in Iraq or on the street—developing that awkward reflex to dive. Oh my god, I’d have to wear a diaper. 

Lisa Madigan. Photo © 2007 by blahedo

In her latest attack on freedom, last week Attorney General Lisa Madigan banned the sale of super caffeinated Meth Coffee from the good state of Illinois, saying the product is “glorifying drugs.”

Her claim is ridiculous. Look at Meth’s web site. The product’s whole spin is blatant satire—bad taste to some, maybe, but obviously a joke—and therefore protected speech. Right from the very first word on Meth’s home page, the paranoid first-person narrator talks about his new “volatitherapeutic beverage” that “straightens drunks” and “wakes zombies”—and if that’s not enough, click on the ‘About’ page for a look at the madcap disclaimer: “CONTAINS NO ACTUAL METHAMPHETAMINES, I.E., CRANK, GLASS, SPEED, CRYSTAL, BATU, SHABU, MABU, CRACKHOO, ETC. PRODUCT NOT WARRANTED TO CURE ECZEMA, EDEMA, ACNE, CONSTIPATION, TOURETTE’S, OR GUM DISEASE.” It’s hyperbole at every turn, and carries no believable danger. What’s next, banning exploding gum because it might encourage terrorism?

Meth issued a response outlining Madigan’s poorly researched claims against the beverage, that Meth is clearly a joke for an adult audience, that its founding members include recovering drug addicts, and that the company is a good faith co-sponsor of the hilarious 2008 Comedy Addiction Tour for addicts in recovery. Meth also makes the great point that “Richard Pryor, Mad Magazine, and other comedy geniuses have unleashed dark, satiric comedy about drugs for years, and to positive effect.”

The point here is that Madigan is using taxpayer money to trample her own constituents’ freedom to see, hear, and consume what they choose. Other totalitarians have made this mistake. The people of Illinois are no doubt pissed off; read the Chicago Sun-Times comments sections and you’ll see more than one reference to “Nanny Madigan” and her compulsive need to diaper everyone in sight. Slapping an “explicit lyrics” sticker onto a Richard Pryor CD isn’t enough; apparently any product that references drugs, even with funny over-the-top satire that appeals to thousands, must be censored even if raises awareness, promotes discussion, and makes its target adult audience laugh. Madigan is waging a disingenuous fake war against fake drugs in the worst kind of political grandstanding, with Meth Coffee as her straw man. And just watch: if she really does run for IL governor in 2010, or, god forbid, President, her handlers will be sure to misrepresent her soundbites to their fullest: “Remember how tough Madigan was on drugs in 2008? She fought meth!”

We’ve all heard the criticism of the Right over wiretapping without warrants and torture at Guantanamo; this time it’s a reactionary Democrat intent on trampling the Constitution for political gain. But I guess I shouldn’t be surprised, given how hard Madigan has fought against gun ownership and death row prisoner rights. Maybe she earned her law degree in China?

I recently heard of a coffee brand called ‘Bad Ass’. I’m surprised Madigan hasn’t sued it for giving donkeys a bad name.

Watch your ass, Illinois, if you value your freedom.

try walking san francisco’s financial center downtown at 8 a.m. and see if you don’t get run over by 300-pound corn-fed businessmen pulling their briefcases behind them on little luggage carts.  it’s no wonder america’s gotten soft—its men can’t even carry their junk. you’d think they were hauling forty bricks or hiking a hundred miles or suffering a broken arm, but noooo.  these paunchy lady men may look fairly robust.  they stop to buy snacks. they wave to fellow financiers. they puff on cigars. but then they put their bald heads down like bulls and charge with their little effete dollies rattling behind them over curbs, cigarette butts, passed-out bums….  

“sure,” they grunt. “we can put down half a pig and a bottle of chateauneuf while grabbing the lunchtime waitress’s ass, but sometimes that 2-pound briefcase gets a little heavy.  it’s the working man’s burden.  our cross to bear.  hell yes it is.  heh heh.  suck my balls.  grrr.  now. where did i put my hanky?”

maybe they just like the feel of pulling something behind—it adds length to their girth on the sidewalk. fuck viagra.  or maybe the act of folding up the cart when they get to the office makes them feel important: “hold on, larry, i’ll ride up in the elevator with you right after i fold up my big-ass samsonite all-steel roller here.  yessir, she’s a nice one.  almost as big as my cock, heh heh.  wait, hold on, i’ve gotta spit.”  

and i’m sure it’ll get worse.  next it’ll be their wallets.  then coinpurses.  ”hallo, mr. homeless person. i am a big spätzle-eating german businessman.  you want to touchen mine frankenfurter?  it iz quite large!  ha ha ha. no i only kid you.  vut iz dat? you vant a quarter? sure, let me bend down here and go into my little four-ounze coin purse i am pulling back here on my gertzheimerlund all-aluminum pully pully. oh! i am out of quarters. you vill take a euro, yah?”