Five Questions

I don't usually participate in chain-questionnaire-linky-meme junk, but I like Tiff (who doesn't?), and she asked for participants (a week ago.) That and my muse was recently run over on Route 66 somewhere near Kingman, AZ.

The idea is to answer 5 questions of your host's choosing, then answer them in a post, creating 5 different questions for anyone who begs "interview me" in the comments. Apologies in advance for boring prick that is Kingfisher. (Heh, heh. Bore. Prick. Heh, heh.) (And for all these stupid-ass parantheses.)

1) What does the acronym IKWYDLS mean to you?
Normal answer: I Know What You Did Last Summer.
My answer: Incredible Knockers! Would You Dare Lemme See?

2) If you could rule the world, who would be the first three people in line for the guillotine?
Al Sharpton, Ann Coulter, and the Raider Nation (there's only one brain among them, so it counts as one).

3) Marshmallows and fire - crispy or barely cooked?
A perfect puffy squat cylinder of melty sweetness, poised on the tip of a found campground stick, rotated slowly 6" away from orange embers with no flame, toasted to a coppery crust, a warm viscous mantle, and a cool-warm core, transported between two halves of cinnamon graham crackers, married to four broken squares of a Hershey chocolate bar, consumed after a meal of Vienna sausages or Dinty Moore beef stew, while seated on a log under a starry sky after a long day of hiking, light sunburn, sore muscles, laughter, and mosquito bites.

Wait...maybe that's sex.

4) Of these smells, which one appeals to you the most, and why? freshly cut grass, coffee, a pile of new 2 x 4s, or clean hair.
Although a pile of new 2x4's is a tempting option: Freshly cut grass. Because I was born in April under Aries the Ram. The smell of growing things makes me happy, peaceful, antsy, contemplative, curious, awed, pensive, scholarly, carefree, melancholy, hopeful, friendly, anticipatory, giddy, and horny. Spring fever is my favorite emotional state. Especially with coffee.

5) Kingfisher is going on vacation, but the airline loses his luggage. What's in his carry-on to tide him over until it can be found?
The following documents: airline tickets, hotel and rental car confirmations, and Mapquest printouts. Plus my laptop, a book or two, reading glasses, pen and paper, a deck of cards, and Prozac (keeps me from including the fingers of the luggage loser.)

If you care to continue this lunacy, type "interview me" in the comments just like I did. You pathetic attention whore loser.

Nigger

There. I said it. And 99.9% of us, including me, are offended.

You know what? Fuck you.

"Looking back on when I
Was a little nappy headed boy..." Stevie Wonder

"Cant turn a ho into a housewife

Hos dont act right...Cmon, nigga why..." Ludacris

"That's some nappy headed hos there..." Don Imus

Don Imus is a jackass. And so are you.

- - - - - - - - - - - -

As sure as I live and breathe there is a supreme human right: The right of free speech, the right to express thought, the right to make our ideas heard, the right to be heretical, the right to listen to ideas and learn from or discard them, and THE OBLIGATION TO IGNORE ANY IDEA EXPRESSED.

You may be offended. You may agree. You may not care. But my words are MY WORDS. You have no right to censor me, no matter what I say.

I'm willing to bet all of us have a list of 100 words that offend us, or would rather not hear. Does that mean those words are patently offensive? Does that mean those words should not be used? Does that mean those words are heresy?

Nigger.

Is that word more offensive than faggot? or cunt? or kike? or cracker? or Satan? or Nazi? or asshole?

If you believe "Yes, there is a difference. 'Nigger' is an abomination of a word, a reminder of hundreds of years of degradation, dehumanization, evil!" You are correct. But it is still a legitimate word.

Does that mean "Christ Killer!" should not be used? After all, the history of Jewish subjugation out-performs African slavery by thousand of years. If you disagree, then you have imposed your indignation and elevated your perceived sense of wrongdoing above everyone else's experience. And that makes you as wrong as the words you rail against.

Words are powerful.

And that is the beauty and wonder and aggravation of human communication.

BUT THE WORD IS NOT THE THING.

Words are only as powerful as you allow them to be. The more you invest energy in decrying a word, the more power that word has.

Listen all you faggots, cunts, niggers, and motherfuckers: turn down the sensitivity knob, and grow the fuck up.

Jesus, Mohammed, Confucius, Galileo, Aristotle, Hitler, Shakespeare, Machiavelli, Rand, Dante, Falwell, Sharpton, YOU. They all said controversial and perhaps heinous things. But their WORDS made us THINK.

- - - - - - - - - - - -

The rest of us are waiting.

When you evolve, so will the HUMAN race.

Jenny

He was a high school senior, alternating between vociferous and pensive, always memorable, always utterly annoying. After graduation, we all remembered him as the first flaming queer we ever knew at close quarters.

No one remembered Jenny. She had braces, thick glasses, anemic blonde hair, and was skinnier than a hard winter's coyote. As a freshman, she lived in the long surreal shadow cast by her flamboyant brother.

I was a lead in the band's brass section, a lead in the theatre group, a lead in the Honor Society. I was surrounded by likewise superior youths. We were aware of our priveleged position, but did not thrust it at others. We just knew we were the cream of the crop. The stoners hung out near auto shop. The gangers hung out in the parking lot. The other ne'er do wells hung out in their respective spots of choice. But we went everywhere. We were sometimes reviled, sometimes exalted, sometimes ignored, but we never stayed still, never feared to break barriers, never apologized for our talents, smarts, or abilities. We knew that high school was temporary, but character was forever. There were hangers-on in our elite circle of artistic intelligentsia. We accepted them all. Jenny was one.

I think she played clarinet, somewhere in the bottom third of a line of twenty or so. She was a good student, as I recall. I do have a clear picture of her huddled within her jacket, no matter the season, sitting at the end of the bench, or two seats ahead on the bus. She was quick to laugh at our jokes. She listened, attentive to our philosophical discussions. At parties, she agreed with our taste in music, movies, culture.

Somehow, I don't remember her brother's name. But I remember Jenny.

Years after high school, I saw her. She was making a business call at the television station where I worked. I was stunned.

Jenny was beautiful. Her teeth flashed a brilliant smile. Her face was intelligent, sans glasses, and burned with curiosity. Her hair was a cascade of luxurious sex. She was tall. Her figure was the envy of Hollywood starlets.

But she carried herself a little crouched, as if still huddling her blossoming womanhood in her jacket, unsure if her presence was worthy of those around her. Her words were assured, but her countenance timid. Jenny the woman had grown, but Jenny the girl still haunted her eyes.

I was filled with uncomfortable questions.

What is our Jenny?

Who made her?

Are we responsible?