Anne Lamott: A Call To Arms

If anyone else is as frustrated with the current media frenzy around a certain vice presidential nominee as I am, then you will love this article from Anne Lamott.

We truly cannot afford to lose this one, especially not now. McCain, our oldest presidential nominee, has chosen as his running mate a woman who admitted to not following the war in Iraq and whose policies are awash with bad judgment. Along with that I simply don’t like her. She does, as Lamott states, seem to “take pride in her ignorance,” which is a character trait that we have had to put up with during the last eight years and I would rather not repeat.

Anyhow, enjoy the article. And if you feel proactive afterward, I’m joining forces with others in San Diego to bombard Nevada with phone calls and voter registries on behalf of Obama.

Oh and if the woman running for vice president had named me, I would be Comando Coalfire.

Sept. 16, 2008 | I had to leave church Sunday morning when it turned out that the sermon was not about bearing up under desperate circumstances, when you feel like you’re going crazy because something is being perpetrated upon you and your country that is so obscene that it simply cannot be happening.

I sat outside a 7-Eleven and had a sacramental Dove chocolate bar. Jeez: Here we are again. A man and a woman whose values we loathe and despise — lying, rageful and incompetent, so dangerous to children and old people, to innocent people in every part of the world — are being worshiped, exalted by the media, in a position to take a swing at all that is loveliest about this earth and what’s left of our precious freedoms.

When I got home from church, I drank a bunch of water to metabolize the Dove bar and called my Jesuit friend, who I know hates these people, too. I asked, “Don’t you think God finds these smug egomaniacs morally repellent? Recoils from their smugness as from hot flame?”

And he said, “Absolutely. They are everything He or She hates in a Christian.”

I have been in a better mood ever since, and have decided not to even say this woman’s name anymore, because she fills me with such existential doubt, such a sense of impending doom and disbelief, that only the Germans could possibly have words for it. Nor am I going to say the word “lipstick” again until after the election, as it would only be used against me. Or “polar bear,” because that one image makes me sadder than even horrible old I can stand.

I hate to criticize. And I love to kill wolves as much as the next person does. But this woman takes such pride in her ignorance, doesn’t have a doubt in the world about her messianic calling, that it makes anyone of decency feel nauseated — spiritually, emotionally and physically ill.

I say that with love. As we say in Texas. (Also, we say, “Bless her heart.”)

We felt this grief and nausea during the run-up to the war in Iraq. We felt it after the 2004 election. And now we feel it again.

But since there are still six weeks until the election, and since the stakes are as high as the sky, which should definitely not be forced to endure four more years of the same, we have got to get a grip. There are millions of people to register to vote, millions of dollars to be raised. We really cannot go around feeling flat and defeated, with the need to metabolize the rotten meat that this one particular candidate and the media have forced upon us.

One of the tiny metabolic suggestions I have to offer — if, like me, you choose not to have her name on your lips, like an oozy cold sore (I say that with love) — is to check out a Web site called the Sarah Palin Baby Name Generator. There you can find out what she and her husband would have named you if you had been their baby. My name, Anne, for instance, would be Krinkle Bearcat. John, her running mate, would be named Stick Freedom. George would be Crunk Petrol. And so on.

First of all, go find out what your own name would be. Then for one day refuse to use the name of these people who are so damaging to earth and to our very souls — so, “I don’t have to understand anything, it’s all fuzzy math. Trust me. I’m the decider.” From now on, when working for Obama, talk about Obama, talk about his policies, the issues, the economy, the war in Iraq, poverty, the last eight years, Joe Biden. You don’t have to mention Crunk Petrol, or his sidekick, Shaver Razorback.

And you sure as hell don’t have to mention Claw Washout — she is absolutely, hands-down the most ludicrous person ever to be nominated. She’s a “South Park” character. There was a mix-up. Mistakes were made.

Everything you need to know about how to bear up during these two months is already inside you. Go within: Work on your own emotional acre. Stand still, and hurt, and feel crazy. Then drink a lot of water, pray, meditate, rest. Rest is a spiritual act. Now, I am a reform Christian, so it is permissible for me to secretly believe that God hates this woman, too. I heard God slam down a couple of shooters while she was talking the other night.

Figure out one thing you can do every single day to be a part of the solution, concentrating on swing states. Money, walking precincts, registering voters, whatever. This is the only way miracles ever happen — left foot, right foot, left foot, breathe. Right foot, left foot, right foot, breathe. The great novelist E.L. Doctorow once said that writing a novel is like driving at night with the headlights on: You can only see a little ways in front of you, but you can make the whole journey this way. It is the truest of all things; the only way to write a book, raise a child, save the world.

As my anonymous pal Krinkle Bearcat once wrote: Laughter is carbonated holiness. It is chemo. So do whatever it takes to keep your sense of humor. Rent Christopher Guest movies, read books by Roz Chast and Maira Kalman. Picture Stick Freedom in his Batman underpants, having one of his episodes of rage alone in one of his seven bedrooms. Or having one of his bathroomy little conversations with Froth Moonshine. (Bless their hearts.) Try to remember that even Karl Rove has accused him of being a lying suck.

Reread everything Molly Ivins and Jim Hightower ever wrote. Write down that great line of Molly’s, that “freedom fighters don’t always win, but they’re always right.” Tape it next to your phone.

Call the loneliest person you know. Go flirt with the oldest person at the bookstore.

Fill up a box with really cool clothes that you haven’t worn in a year, and take it to a thrift shop. Take gray water outside and water whatever is growing on your deck. This is not a bad metaphor to live by. I think it is why we are here. Drink more fluids. And take very gentle care of yourself and the people you most love: We need you now more than ever.

Woman Fucked So Hard She Has a Stroke; Boyfriend Seeks Career in Porn Industry

“But zomgz it was totally worth it!” 

Ah, but I jest.  Strokes are serious business, and an orgasm did cause her stroke, but the 35 year-old was treated soon enough that she dodged all but very minor brain damage. All her symptoms were gone within 12 hours of treatment aside from a sore vag and a little lost dexterity in her left hand which wikipedia tells me should return with time. Sadly, I could find no data on how good the orgasm was, but I suspect it was fucking awesome, the kind where half your body goes numb.  (If find you that offensive, just remember that stroke and joke rhyme for a reason).

Now, I am trying to avoid writing posts that are little more than a reiteration/commentary of some other article (i.e. the “Blogosphere” a.k.a. redundancy, internet flotsam and shitsam repository), but this one was too good to pass up and two things in the article proper caught my attention.

The hilariously ironic part is that the initial symptoms of the stroke (which onset mid-orgasm) were the same as those exhibited by women (at least the ones in porn) during an incredible (or fake) orgasm; namely loud moaning, screaming, inability to speak or slurred speech.   I actually feel kind of bad for the guy – he probably felt proud until he realized what had happened. Then his dick fell off, because that’s what happens when you find out your dick damaged your girlfriend’s brain.

The second part, which is actually pretty fucked up, is that the woman DID suffer minimal brain damage in a situation where it could have been prevented.  The general rule of thumb in a stroke caused by a blood clot (as in the woman’s case) is that once blood flow stops, brain cells start shutting down in about a minute, but it can take several hours before a meaningful number of them start dying.  The stroke occurred 6 hours before she arrived at the hospital.  What the fuck?  How do you fuck up missing stroke symptoms? It doesn’t even matter if you know what they mean, when someone tells you in slurred speech that their shit is going numb, you get the fuck to a hospital.

My guess is either the boyfriend is just straight up stupid or they inexplicably live 6 hours from the nearest hospital.

However, I have a theory.  I think what happened was he misjudged his partner’s symptoms and pegged them not as a result of a stroke, but that he was giving her the best sex of her life.  The woman, due to the confusion caused by parts of her fucking brain fucking shutting the fuck down, was unable to alert him to the seriousness of her condition or that frankly, he could never hope to give her the best sex of her life.  Not until hours of one-sided sex later, as her symptoms worsened to the point that only half of her face was moving, did the boyfriend realize that something far more sinister was up and he should probably get the hell to a hospital.

Read the full story for details on how a heart defect 25% of people have allows for an orgasm or pooping to cause a stroke.  That’s right, shit with fear, my friends. Shit with fear. CBS News

He did to his girlfriend what I want to do to this Snorg Tees model.