In case anyone comes here, because this clown sent you. And, you are too lazy to scroll, here’s my public service:

ARM-WRESTLING LINK

It should get you right to the battle.

But, look around, I’m only half as moronic as some people we know.

FUCK! Sometimes I feel like a mother of infants, but infants who talk and walk and are endlessly needy and aggravating. (OK, I guess the needy part is a stupid reference in apposition like that, because, fucking duh, infants (and like, not “but,” all of my co-workers) are both needy.)

In the middle of maximum “I can’t fucking finish this deadline is a-coming like a trackless, deadly freight train” I asked for some help for something. Very mature, managerial, don’t you know, because I’m all about the effective management deal. Anyway, I asked for help, was told “no problem” and somehow I’m still the fucking go-to guy for answers.

Next time, I think I’ll just get a shot gun and a rocking chair. Then, when I need to be left alone, I’ll just show visitors the business end of “Ole Bessie,” and they’ll skedaddle from my porch, metaphorically speaking. I guess shooting would be more effective than just threatening to stab my co-workers.

By the way, the other reason I’m in a more hopeful mood today — The best reason to work for in the vicinity of the ivory towers of the academy. For the most part, no one is in a position to comment about my sartorial choices. Today I opted for Buffet (as in Parrot-head douchebag), khaki shorts, sandals and a Hawaiian print shirt. And I’m kind of, sort of in “management.”

My browser crashed while I was writing some bullshit about the chain email exhorting people not to buy gas on May 19. I didn’t get any of the emails myself, but they buried our email system at work today.

Here’s the brief version: ineffective emails equal ineffective boycotts, actual change, urban legend link, newspaper story, malaise, sweaters and solar panels, wood stoves, 1979, Carter, deregulation, Reagan, convertibles, hybrids, decrease use, blah, blah, blah.

It ended with me denouncing my left liberal leanings and all people of all races, creeds, sexual preferences and whatnot, especially friends who fit into any groups.

Other than that, I can now celebrate the racism of programming “Kung Fu Fighting” into my phone to be the ringtone when M. calls.

It is right now taking all of my strength not to cross post to my favorite group of Catholic do-gooders, worrying and worrying and praying for the souls of what one calls the “Sodomy State.”

The best comment: “Between this and the abortion laws we no longer are a Christian nation.”

Amen to that sister, and bring on the anarchy, if that’s what it is. Because, a world with kindness, acceptance and FUCKING REASON is damn better than what your church has brought.

Meanwhile, I have to chuckle at the two sides of one aspect of this coin. I wrote below that the folks getting married are some of the more low-key, average folks in the scene (a scene, I might add where I actually know some people and call them friends). I think of the man I work with who likes college football and home-cooked meals. There is nothing flamboyant or threatening about the man, and he is one of the faces people have seen in the media. He’s front and foremost at the protests and in City Hall, because he wants to be there, not because his face is media friendly. He happily emailed me that he and his partner were #10 at Boston City Hall, while asking to confirm my address and boyfriend’s name for the invite.

However, on the flip side, one of the ardent Catholics makes a remark that the media is essentially hiding the freaks and putting the normal-looking people forward (and I am using the word “normal” to follow the suit of the moralists). Apparently, to this one guy, the leather boys will all be lining up soon (or already are), but the media ain’t taking their pictures, because they are spinning reality.

I guess that hidden line is because that even amongst us most sick and twisted folks marriage is the cool thing to do. Funny, most of the truly out-there freaks, leather boys and teddies I ever met weren’t what you would call the “marrying kind.”

It’s official, the Commonwealth is letting people get on with their lives. And, despite all the dire hand-wringing, so far no deity has smote us down for the evil sinning ways of ordinary people living ordinary lives. I think that’s what cracks me up the most about all of the bullshit surrounding gay marriage — the folks who are looking to adopt that staidest of staid traditions are pretty boring.

Maybe, in some hugely hypothetical construct, I could give the Christian right, various Catholic groups and all sorts of horrible “moralists” some teenie weenie bit of credibility if their target were tranny prostitutes, leather boys and uber-fabulous queens (and that is all a very thin-threaded hypothetical argument, since I, in fact, concede no credibility to those assholes touting their superior “morals”). I mean, I can see where the image of a guy in nothing but leather chaps, cock ring and handle-bar mustache may provide a dicey learning moment with your little brood of rugrats. But, worrying about a couple of middle-aged lesbians who have been together for 27 years? What else threatens you, puppies and rainbows?

Right now my only issue with gay marriage is the guy at work who’s taking his partner’s last name. On the name change issue, his radical political statement is clashing with my radical feminism. I am in a quandary, what should a lefty do? Maybe I’ll just call him the old ball and chain.

By the way, it ain’t no accident I live in a city that
made it a point to be the first one ready with the legal bonds.

By the way, I have spent a good part of today alternating between Leonard Cohen’s “Hallelujah” and Jeff Buckley’s cover of Leonard Cohen’s “Hallelujah.” There’s something about Buckley’s version where I can’t decide whether to cry, make love or both. I need to burn a CD and send it off to California (or better yet present it in person).

There is one kind of man to which I have never been attracted (and by one, that isn’t really hyberbole, because, of course, I likes the menfolk). It’s the bully. The red-faced, ex-frat boy looking for a fight or telling me to shut up and get in the car just never had an allure. If I wanted to be told how to live my life, I would never have moved out of my mother’s house. (That’s actually an unfair statement to my mother. After all, rather than telling me how to live my life, she was much more likely to say “It’s not my life, you do what you want.” The tone really telegraphed the sincerity of that statement, too.)

Actually, the more I think about it, it’s damn lucky for me that I don’t cream for the abusive, dominant, alpha-dog types. With my stubborn streak, it’s unlikely I would shut up or otherwise acquiesce. Backing down is not something I’m great at, if you are telling me what to do. (And that trait is clearly a direct, unwavering line from mother to daughter. All of Pat’s crowning moments I think resulted from someone making the tactical error of telling her what to do.) So, if I perchance ended up with someone of the alpha-dog frat, certainly a Lifetime movie would be made to tell how that story worked out with a bad end, headlines and news at 11.

Did I mention that I am, instead, hung up on a kind and cool man? Yeah, not only is his ass simply phenomenal, but the most he is ever impatient with me is to stop me from self-deprecation. Yup, he makes me stop the abuse. Much better dynamic, I think.

Yesterday I was at a cookout. The reason for the cookout (apart from the beautiful warmth of the day)? So that a group of comics could videotape an epic battle — Sally and Thibbb arm wrestling with the winner to kick sand in the face of the loser.

Here’re my pics from the bout taken with a phone cam, so pardon the low quality (I forgot to adjust the image size for better quality and I wasn’t sure what the phone memory could handle):

THE REF: MIKE WHITMAN
THE CONTENDERS READY THEMSELVES: DAN SALLY (background, striped shirt), GREGG THIBODEAU (foreground, back to camera, light blue shirt)
THE START
THIBBB TAKING THE UPPER HAND
RED-FACE THIBBB PRESSES HOME VICTORY
POST BOUT INTERVIEW WITH THE WINNER
TOOL OF RETRIBUTION
SALLY PREPARES TO TAKE HIS PUNISHMENT, DONNING SAFETY HELMUT AND GOGGLES
KICK OF VICTORY, THIBBB’S FOOT ON LEFT KICKING SAND AT PROSTRATE LOSER SALLY
BITTER TASTE OF DEFEAT LITERALLY ENCRUSTED ON SALLY’S TONGUE (editor’s note: close your mouth if someone is kicking sand in your face)
BRAVELY SALLY STANDS SMILING PAST THE AGONY OF DEFEAT