Tonight we went out for a romantic dinner in a nice French restaurant down the street. Better yet, if we don’t finish the bottle of wine, they will jam a cork in it, throw it in a paper bag and let you get it to go.

I realized recently that we kind of have a sweet thing going on here. M. and I generally have dinner and a movie or dinner or dinner and TV come a Friday night. It’s a fine way to wrap up the week.

When I’ve mentioned to a couple of people that we have kind of a standard, standing engagement going on, their reactions told me it was notable. I figured that’s what couples do come a Friday night. But, I guess the good part is we don’t tend to take it for granted.

Now, with that sweet set up, you can realize what I maroon I am. For me, dinner, wine, M. and atmosphere meant the perfect forum to discuss my obsession with online fighting. In other words, see the cunt post below.

Apart from this here weblog, I thought I had largely exorcised any desire I might have to argue pointlessly in virtual reality.

As I mentioned yesterday, some hump got my righteous flaming anger juiced. Of course, I am solely responsible for what I did with that anger. I’m not proud, but I am unapologetic.

Here’s the thing, in the midst of an arrogant prick pontificating on what language he finds acceptable, I found myself needing to type “Your mother and your sister are both hairy cunts.” I realize that this statement might be the height of sophomoric (or a lesser grade) wisecracking. Still and all, I thought it funny, and I still do.

I mean you got a guy dictating (oh wait, as he took pains to point out “requesting”) the world do away with that which offends HIM particularly. Right there, you got a seed. But, then all of these dudes were posting in a pussy-footing (pardon the pun) kind of way partially because of this winning quote from the guy who started the argument:

You see, when you call me a cunt, you call my mother a cunt, you call my sister a cunt, you call my niece a cunt, etc.

The thoughtful thing to do would be to apologize.

Short of that, I “strongly suggest” that you not call me a cunt again. If you do, you will put me in an even more difficult position.

It’s the fucked up part of my brain, which is the same one that has had the need to go on stage and talk into a microphone, that couldn’t let that slide. It’s too stupid. The whole construct of that which you call me you call my family, the implied sisterhood, the sensitive new-agey, post-modern yearning guy of it. I couldn’t let it slide.

Better yet is the implied threat at the end. Violent testosterone surging to protect the ladies.

Someone had to call someone’s mom out, don’t you know. I nominated myself.

Foolishly, I don’t actually use the word myself that much. It would be pretty damn unlikely I would ever say it on stage. I sometimes swear on stage, but it’s more conversational tic than trying to get all edgy. It’s kind of fake edgy.

I can think of one guy who pulls its use off in a truly effective comedic thang. You get the sense the word is one he uses in the real world, and he’s fucking funny in the hands of Louis CK.

In other words, I do think shitty, stupid slurs are best avoided on stage, so I kind of agree in some way with the anti-cunt guy. But, he was such a jackass in the discussion, my trigger finger squeezed out a few rounds.

The ending (so far, but I think for awhile) has been the most satisfying. Tonight he wrote:

[dee-rob] i would really like to have a dialogue with you. i think you’ve made some great points, including your most recent post.

the fact that “pussy” and “cunt” offend you and your friends to the same degree is a lesson to me, and something that matters to me. i, myself, would never use “pussy” in a derogatory way, but mostly in a “romantic” way as myq described. of course, only following the lead of the woman i was with.

but, still, you’re the only one on this thread that has called my mother and my sister “cunts”.

and, i politely and respectfully request an apology.

(oh, and please identify yourself, since i don’t know you.)

thanks,

REAL NAME AND PHONE NUMBER REMOVED [I’m not a big enough douche to publish]

Sweet. A dialog with a man who wants to discuss which gynelogical references HE finds acceptable. I’ll get right on that.

I have actually met the guy, and I revealed my identity so he’d know. But, my stupid pills have all been taken, and I plan to no longer engage. Nor apologize. Nor use euphemisms.

Maybe it’s the headache. Or the weather. Or too much work. Or too little imagination. But, I got nothing at all in my fucking head.

Maybe I could write about how someone recently told me about Googling me. It’s a post search engine world, and I am accumulating a pile of bits and bytes that belie any attempt at anonymity I might fancy.

It’s alright, but Miss Manners better get on the stick when it comes to modern day etiquette. How does one answer when a stranger has read your weblog and told you as much?

Maybe I could write about the big writing time sink, giant, wasteful sinkhole, I sunk myself into earlier today. A ridiculous douchebag of an asshole started a vapid wasteland of internet conversation over here.

Lately, I’ve been successful in completely avoiding the urge to throw myself into web inanity. I’m proud of my distance. But, I fell off the wagon.

The upshot is some guy arrogantly asking everyone to stop using the word “cunt,” ‘cuz he don’t like it. Predictably, a chorus dumped on his ass way past my ability to stay interested. The central figure, the instigator, acted his delusional part beyond all reason as the keeper of some kind of true insight.

The downside of any group communication like a bulletin board on the web, or just about any kind of quote-unquote social networking is humanity’s limitless capacity to produce epic douchebaggery, arrogance and pettiness. You throw on that a good dollop of the reality that the prose of most people is inelegant and poorly written, and it’s a bit of a shit stew.

The comedy boards I’ve checked out are no different than any other hobby sites. And, every hobby site I have ever read (including most recently some bicycle sites) includes pointless aggression and arguments.

I can dig when political or religious or even adult sites can get a little spicy in the dialog. These are your standard hot buttons in society.

But, what the fuck? People are insulting each other on any average day in webworld about stuff that tryly shouldn’t hurt. On the bike bulletin boards, you get lambasted for recommending the wrong set of Shimano shifters. Quoting rec.bicycles.misc, in response to someone describing a header on their bike, someone opines “You’re a lying troll or the lousiest cyclist in the world.”

Pretty typical in the interwebs.

In conclusion, what the fuck is wrong with people? And, the guy on the comedy website is a complete and total cunt.

Nah, seriously I doubt it. Somewhere a lesser demon might be giggling, but by and large the universe will go on without Jerry Falwell.

When a “religious” man (note ironic quotes) separates from our mortal coil, I kind of wish I had a little of that faith they preach. Something that would have me believing that he’s ended up at the Gates of Heaven and right about now someone is asking, “Um, sir, you said what again?” Followed by Jesus himself stepping out, letting lose with a few dope slaps and then suggesting he re-read a few parables or so.

I just can’t believe a guy with quotes like these, you know like the ones about the fags and the rest of us deserving AIDS, would slip right into Jesus’ domain. Remember that whole hanging with the prostitutes, tax collectors thang? And, the loving the least of your brothers? Cool, hippie, loving shit, from the supposed one true son of the creator.

Yeah, that guy, he might have something to say about Falwell’s church. And, it wouldn’t be at the right side of the Father, I’m guessing.

Without faith, though, I roll with a kind of pseudo-karma. Somewhere the energy of the world is letting Jerry know about negativity.

Shit long day at work and came home to a dearth of Walshes. They left to the wonders of the road. Kerouac and Kesey and Cassady and Forrest Gump without the running.

Work wore me out, only because while I’m great at meeting planning it’s partially a product of my utter neuroses. I worry about details and shit gets done. But, man oh man you worry too much and it tuckers you the fuck out.

But, love is good friends visiting my good life with my great guy. Humor is where they left their thank you note.

I fiddled with the title of this post, opting not to go with the cutesy, pretentious “weekend des Walsh.” They ain’t French after all, and they ain’t from the French-speaking part of Boston, which I guess might be Au Bon Pain.

I think we hosted fairly well the Northern Cali transplant show and tell. Golden Gate, China Town, hiking a bit in the nature and M. picking out all the food. I’ll say this about having guy friends and a live-in beau as compared to hanging with the fairer sex, food time is pretty easy. It’s more of a volume proposition, I think.

In a vaguely maternal, no, fuck that, older sister-like, nurturing moment, I did kick in some fresh fruit from the farmers’ market. A fiber and nutrient-rich antidote to a wide variety of cooked flesh.

Best of all, we ended the weekend and their visit in a full-circle gesture. (Yes, tear in one eye while my cheek is dampened with the trail of another, the Brothers head south manana.)

Anyway, not long after meeting M., maybe a month or two, I tried to entice him to join the roving band of zombies who ended up watching a midnight show in Boston. He was skeptical of the cinematic joy that was 28 Days Later. We caught up the next day.

While the Walsh Brothers organized that original zombie field trip, this time around we took them to our neighborhood theater to see 28 Weeks Later.

Yeah. Zombies.

For Dot, here’s my album covers (front and back) for the next boy band:

For bourbon lovers, here’s today’s wild turkey:

For a full glance at the Walsh visit, I, of course, took way to fucking many pictures, which are here, and here.

Please feel free to comment or question any of the photos.

I could write more, but I should sleep to go to work tomorrow.

But, I’m awake. Why? Because there’re some special boys in the house. The Walsh Fellas, or somesuch.

Seriously, the Walsh Brothers have FINALLY made it to the opposite side of the country. Maybe you’ll read about it here, where they better not write no ‘blog posts about me. I’ll sue, I tell you what.

I’m letting these people into M.’s home.

I seriously don’t know when exactly our collective national soul eased back into the U.S. of A. circa 1925, when Clarence Darrow mostly convinced some foks that Darwin was onto something.

If it’s the mid-1920s, I’m gonna get me some bathtub gin to ease myself into senselessness. Why the fuck not drink the moonshine and risk the brain damage, given the state of the world.

Of course, I’m referring to the Republican presidential debate of the other day, when Senator Sam Brownback, Governor Mike Huckabee and Representative Tom Tancredo raised their goddamn hands to salute their lack of faith in reality.

For me, I ain’t actually looking for a president of any kind of faith. Someone with some planning, leadership, basic civics skills, now that would be a nice change of pace.

If I’m like open-minded or something, and someone with some religiousity is going to have the job of leader of the free world, I would be cool as long as they could comprehend what should be basic junior high science. They, and by they, I mean right-thinking people everywhere, call it the THEORY of evolution, because it’s science talk. Like the theory of relativity. Rhetoric, ya dig?

Scientists have this thing where they like postulate and junk and test against a theory. Some theories get a lot more tests over time and, what with scientists lacking the crystal clarity of faith, they never really get around to declaring ultimate truths. It’s actually what I like about the scientific method.

It was a pretty safe bet that I wouldn’t be voting for a Republican. But, jesus fucking hell in a handbasket, I can’t even consider it remotely viable. I’m about one rifle and a Che Guaevara T-shirt from calling for a revolution.