So, after silencing Senator Elizabeth Warren because apparently it’s really, really mean to read a letter from Martin Luther King Jr.’s wife that points out that a racist is indeed a racist, Montana Senator Steve “It’s Short For Steven, But Not That Short” Daines is appealing for campaign donations because he was brave enough to tell a lady to shut up.
I can only imagine the plea for donations goes something like this: “Donate to me, Steve Daines! I’ll keep those uppity women and black people in their places!!”
I keep getting this spam in my work e-mail that says: “What did Trump have that Hillary didn’t?”
And I’m like: “Uh, duh, a penis?”
In the local paper this weekend, there was an advertisement placed by a “church” celebrating Trump’s election and reading, in part, “We are very thankful and rejoice that the Obama nightmare is no more.”
By the way, if you’re interested, you can purchase the minister’s book on demons.
And in today’s paper, there was a letter to the editor from a woman identifying herself as a “proud” member of the “basket of deplorables” who is horrified at the hatred in the hearts of the people marching for human rights.
So I just had an immense feeling of déjà vu, which means, of course, that I am trapped in a time loop.
I don’t usually review books on this blog, because I’ve been mostly reading biographies of silent movie stars and Depression-era criminals, so why would you guys care, right?
But I decided to delve into Japanese literature, except, you know, translations, because the only word I can read in Japanese is “bizu,” which means bead, and looks like a guy sitting down throwing a ball to a guy running with his arms behind him.
So I read Audition by Ryu Murakami. It’s a short book, around 127 pages or so, which means it’s not like I wasted more than a couple hours of my time (I read really fast, and by the end, I was skimming because I was like UGH WHEN IS THE NARRATOR GOING TO GET MURDERED ALREADY).
But I still wasted my time.
The gist of the story is that this jerk-ass piece of crap Aoyama has been widowed for seven years. He cheated on his wife, but she was a real classy lady, so she didn’t mind. Then she died, but, being a real classy lady, she died quickly and without complaint. So obviously she was A CARDBOARD CUTOUT AND NOT A REAL PERSON AT ALL. Like, Jesus, Murakami-san, I get that she’s not all that relevant to the plot, but she was so obviously fake.
Anyway, this cheating asshole Aoyama has this wonderful teenage son (whom he never spent time with before his wife’s death, but then he does, and they totally bond and whatever) who says: “Hey, dad, why don’t you get married again?”
So then Aoyama and this friend of his decide to fake a movie and hold auditions for the role of the main character, who coincidentally has all the traits Aoyama would want in a wife (those traits being 1) classically trained in some art or another; 2) being cool with his cheating; 3) dying without complaint).
So he finds this chick whose name I’ve already forgotten, and Aoyama falls head over heels for her because she is 1) like, 20 years younger than him; 2) the most beautiful woman he’s ever seen; 3) seems to match all his criteria for spousedom.
So they start dating, and everybody’s like, “I don’t know, there’s something odd about this chick,” even though she never does anything odd, it’s just this vibe they pick up on, but Aoyama’s like, “whatever, guys, she’s HOT,” and then finally in the last couple of pages she stalks him and tries to cut off his feet.
BUT SHE DOESN’T KILL HIM. She kills the dog.
Then his damn son comes home and rescues him by stabbing her in the throat. And then the book is over.
So I guess if you like a long, dull buildup to a jerk WHO DOESN’T EVEN HAVE THE DECENCY TO GET MURDERED and two-dimensional female characters and male characters being all, “Jeez, why aren’t there more beautiful, classy women for us sexist pigs to cheat on our long-suffering wives with?” then this is the book for you.
So I’ve been looking for the perfect notification alert. The one that encapsulates, you know, me. My essence.
I started with Gunter’s “wenk wenk” from Adventure Time.
I tried the opening from Cowboy Bebop’s Tank!. (No, the exclamation point is really in the song title.)
I gave the Knights Who say “Ni” saying “Ni!” a go.
Anyway, now I’ve got the sound of Pacman dying.
My former favorite coworker recently related to me a story of her brother-in-law in Texas.
“After he voted for Donald Trump,” she tells me, “he had to go have a stiff drink to clear the bad taste out of his mouth.”
“Well, it’s not like he had to vote for Trump, you know,” I said. “He had options.”
“Yes, but if you want to keep your party in power, you have to vote for Trump,” she replied.
“Gross,” I said.
Because, seriously, how do you take a song as awesome as Warren Zevon’s Werewolves of London and combine it with the classic southern rock of Lynyrd Skynyrd’s Sweet Home Alabama and make something that sucks?
(P.S. I linked to the two good songs, but if you want to listen to Kid Rock, you’re going to have to find him your own damn self.)
Omigod, you guys, I am having the hardest time coming up with post titles anymore. I swear, I’m just going to start calling things Random Post 1, Post about Anime 17, Indiana Jones is the best and Here’s Why 83.
Historically [women] tend to take every sick day that’s available with them, and that’s a gender thing. They look at how many sick days you get in a year. Say you get 12 sick days a year. If they go for two years and they’ve only taken three sick days, they’re going to cash in the remaining 21 sick days.
He further goes on to say that women are using these sick days for frivolous things:
Women in the workforce traditionally take a disproportionate amount of their sick days off for other reasons than sick days,” he said. “They take Junior to the hospital or go see Johnny’s soccer game.”
Because damn those bitches for not just letting Junior die at home, I guess.