Hollywood Mimbos and Bimbos

With all the dastardly things going on in the world, the denizens of Hollywood continue to believe that they are very, very important. They are helped by the media, all of them working in unison to make money, money, and more money. Today's Wall Street Journal, once a dependable source of serious news, devotes three full pages to the upcoming Academy Awards, "Hollywood's most prestigious awards ceremony." 

Yes, despite the pandemic and continuing police brutality and rioting in the streets, this year there will be Oscars handed out. And a Red Carpet upon which the decked out stars will strut their stuff. And many more nominees in all categories, just to be sure that Blacks and Chinese and Japanese and Germans and Koreans and who-knows-who-else will be included, God forbid too many white people win. (What, no Native Americans? Get ready for some protests.)

Who cares? Once upon a time I did. But then I grew up and suddenly which designer's dress Glenn Close is wearing seems like a bitter bad joke. America now has bigger fish to fry, and hopefully dismal ratings of the always overblown telecast will deliver that message to the mimbos and bimbos of Hollywood.

What's So Great About That?

                                                                            Chandan Khanna/Getty Images

THIS MORNING, EVERYONE is jubilant over the verdict regarding the white cop convicted of murdering George Floyd, especially among the black community. They are almost as jubilant as they were when O.J. Simpson, a black man, was found innocent of murdering two white people, which he most assuredly did. Apparently justice is blind, but for many people it's not color blind.

I consider the finding that a policeman in the United States murdered a citizen in cold blood on a public street while onlookers stood by and watched a cause for deep sadness, not joy.

Why is George Floyd Dead?

Street mural in Chicago.

Imagine how nice life would be if everyone just minded their own business. Instead, they mostly mind everyone else's and feel entitled to evaluate it, as if they actually know what's going on, which they don't. 

Right now the focus of our attention is a white policeman on trial for killing a black man. Most awake adults know every detail of the death of George Floyd almost a year ago. The cop kneeled on Floyd's neck for nine minutes and 29 seconds. Not nine and a half minutes, but nine minutes and 29 seconds. This resulted in a lack of oxygen and ultimately caused his death. 

What nobody seems to know or at least talk about is why the cop did it. I would be interested in hearing his motive but the trial is over, the cop never said a word, and now the jury is deliberating. The verdict threatens to blow the country apart. Buildings in several major cities have already been barricaded to protect them from rioters.

I am not excusing the cop. He is evil and should be eliminated from not only the police force but the human race, if you ask me. Still, what was he thinking? Was he delusional? Did he think Floyd was the Devil? Did Floyd remind him of someone from his past who hurt him? Was he getting back at someone? Did being a policeman make him go crazy? Are there other equally crazy cops out there, running around free with weapons at the ready?

Since I know so little I can't speculate. But that doesn't stop most people, who have concluded the white cop must hate all black people. If so, he did a pathetic job of showing it: Just one black man dead, whereas Hitler, who hated the Jews, managed to kill six million of them. Now that was hate.

My Least Favorite Way to Die

Here at the beach in Florida, with so many people frolicking in the waves, it's hard not to think of the movie Jaws. At least it's hard for me, as I am quite impressionable and the image of human legs dangling enticingly like tasty hors d'oeuvres from the shark's point of view has stayed with me since I first saw the classic film in 1975. This keeps me from fully enjoying my time in the surf; getting eaten by a shark is the worst way I can think of to go.

I shared this thought with my husband, who disagreed and insisted that it would be, "a noble and honorable death, part of the grand scheme of life." We then embarked on a conversation about what's the worst way to die. Morbid, yes, but hey, it's good to plan. Mitch thinks getting eaten by a predator is far superior to getting shot by a terrorist or suffering in a hospital ICU, hooked up to tubes on a ventilator. "Predation is the way of the world," says Mitch. And since we have been predators all our life, especially Mitch for whom no day is complete without eating some kind of animal, for us to become prey is "karmically fulfilling."

I countered: Getting shot is over in a flash and likely painless, and in the hospital scenario at least you are in a comfy bed being cared for by professionals. The shark death is almost too gruesome to envision, yet annually in the United States there are 16 such attacks per year, with a fatality every two years.

Forget karma. When I die I want to be in one piece.

Fly the Unfriendly Skies of Covid

If you want to see just how silly the rules for this pandemic are, fly somewhere. 

From the minute we entered the airport in Maine until we finally reached our destination in Florida several cancelled flights later, we were subjected to constant announcements telling us to wear our masks, wash our hands and stay six feet apart from everyone else. This, we learned, was a FEDERAL MANDATE and failure to do so could cost us up to $500, and possibly get us banned from ever flying again.

Once on the plane we were, as usual, packed in like sardines but still reminded over and over about wearing a mask. (So much for social distancing.) 

You couldn't get a drink of water. In fact, one time my husband pulled his mask down to sip from his water bottle and a flight attendant RUSHED OVER and told him "he'd better" put his mask back on.

We were upgraded to First Class, which gave us absolutely nothing. Like flying wasn't already terrible enough.

The Lucky Queen

I haven't written a post in days because I am not the Queen of England, or of any country for that matter, and so I have to do everything for myself, and this week it's been getting ready to go on a trip. And it's on an airplane, which I have not done in a year and a month. Since I'm out of practice packing has been more exhausting than usual, and makes travel barely worthwhile if you ask me, especially since it involves  many hours of being not only squashed into a tiny seat but also face-masked!

If I were Queen of Anywhere, I could just wake up in the morning and get dressed, or be dressed by one of my servants, and go off confident that all my special needs had been seen to by my underlings. They would have packed everything and I could have relaxed all week. But alas, not in this life.

The Queen of England is greatly on my mind because I just finished watching The Crown on Netflix. Then the day after seeing the last episode, Prince Phillip died, her husband of 74 years. I'm pretty sure the Queen did not have to sit on the phone on hold, calling various funeral homes to arrange for his burial. That's another perk of royalty.

I wonder what I forgot.

 

Netflix Series Review: THE CROWN

The Queen flanked by her sister and husband. (Real men don't wear tiaras.)

Halfway through the fourth season of The Crown, a mawkish soap opera with a dash of history thrown in just to make you feel like it's not a total waste of time, I have come to the following conclusions: 1. The Royal Family sucks. 2. The British people are insane. These two facts become evident somewhere around the start of Season 3, but by then you are hooked.

Hooked on what? Seeing the gorgeous sets and fantastic scenery, hearing the very cool music, and gaping at the the outlandish wealth and opulent lifestyle you could not imagine having in your wildest dreams. The acting is pretty good too, in fact some of it is so great that you start hating a lot of the characters.

Having never paid attention to all that stuff, I was shocked to learn how absolutely awful the daily lives of the Royals are. Sure they have 26 different homes (castles and palaces would be more accurate) to live in, and about 50 Rolls Royces, maybe more, to ferry them from one to another when the mood strikes. When it's raining, servants dressed in ridiculous uniforms hold umbrellas over them. They have people who dress them from top to bottom, as they stand motionless like the dummies they are. Servants meet their every need, except for brushing their teeth and wiping their butts on the toilet. (We did have the honor of seeing the Queen on that particular throne two times just to make the point.)

We also get to see the beautiful Princess Diana shoveling food down her gullet like a Christmas goose, then vomiting it all up into the toilet. Yes, she was pretty, but this show highlights her clearly moronic side. Still my husband and I hurry through dinner to see what's next for the Royal Family. It's an addiction for sure, but at least we don't vomit after watching it.

First Chew, Then Swallow

In Fresno, California, admittedly a state populated by half-wits and lunatics, an 18-year-old man is suing, meaning seeking to make money from, after his 41-year old father died from choking as a participant in a taco-eating contest held at a minor league baseball game in 2019. According to the suit, the father "was not told of the risks beforehand" and "no steps were taken by the event organizers to protect him."

Gee, I'm no lawyer and I don't even like tacos, nevertheless I am fully up to speed on the risks of shoving as many tacos down my throat as fast as I can, one after another, in hopes of winning some sort of dumb prize. And I do wonder what steps might have been taken to protect him. Duct tape over the mouth? An IQ test beforehand? 

The fact that a licensed lawyer has taken on this case is further evidence that not only is the general population losing the ability to engage in critical thinking, but today's lawyers are scummier than ever and will do just about anything for a buck. I wonder who I can sue about my debilitating nausea every time I hear that insane cackle emitted by Kamala Harris, her go-to response for every question lobbed at her. Or the sharp pains in my head whenever I see or hear Joe Biden attempt to make sense. Surely some California lawyer will take my case.

America the Insane

Here in America if you are planning on getting a job, boarding an airplane, driving a vehicle, buying alcohol, buying cigarettes, owning a dog, getting married, getting a COVID vaccine, donating blood, opening a bank account, taking a book out of a library, being admitted to a hospital or staying in a hotel, you will have to be prepared to show some sort of personal identification.

However, if you want to vote in a national election you are good to go with the shirt on your back and the flip-flops on your feet. Is this a great country or what?

Facebook Lies

The insidious and rampant falseness of most Facebook posts is incredible. I certainly never write anything remotely near to how I am feeling, this blog post being the exception. Because of my inner darkness I avoid posting anything personal, but many of my friends, or especially former friends, declare sentiments that are so far from how they really feel, or how their lives are really going, it's shocking.

Certainly I would never name names but I'm thinking of people who have terrible marriages and toxic family relationships who post photos of their big, happy families enjoying a wonderful holiday dinner, day out in the country, or whatever. Knowing the real dynamics of who despises who and which characters haven't spoken to one another in months, or even years, takes most of the enjoyment out of it.

If ordinary people who lack important roles in society feel it necessary to put on a false front, I can only imagine the lies presented to us by our politicians and community leaders. There's no punchline here, just an observation that's not at all funny. Sorry for that. But enjoy the cartoons below, some of my favorites!

The Roots of Fat Phobia

Recently I received a note from my friend Ted saying, "You worry way too much about your weight." All I can say to him in response is, "No kidding, tell me something I don't know."

By way of explanation, let me put things this way. Suppose when you were a child your family had a pit bull, or maybe a German shepherd dog. And suppose that every day the dog bit you or terrorized you in some way, and your parents told you to "stay away from the dog" and "don't aggravate the dog," yet did nothing to deal with the dog's aggressive behavior. 

Naturally you would not invite friends to your home for fear they would encounter the dog. And every day and night you could hear your parents arguing about what to do with the dog, how to handle the dog, what to feed the dog, and bought the dog toys to make it happier, but they never got at the root cause of the dog's aggression so nothing changed and in fact got worse as the dog grew larger and got angrier. 

Supposedly you lived with the dog since birth until the age of 19, and finally moved away. Do you think you would like dogs after that? Would you be comfortable around them? How about if your parents warned you constantly, daily, that aggression was a really bad trait to be avoided at all costs? Would you worry about them, or perhaps spend too much time dwelling on how not to become "a dog" yourself?  

Actually we had a really sweet boxer when I was growing up, so I love dogs to this day and have owned several as an adult. In my story, the dog was my older sister and she wasn't only aggressive, she was obese, morose and miserable, and still is. And there you have it.