Connie Schultz, white female version of The Giggler

I don’t like her her crazy eyes.

I don’t like her douchebag taxocrat husband, who invoked Godwin’s Law on the Senate floor.

Her sentimental drivel in PARADE magazine is a dull spoon.

Normally I just roll with it—-like reading Marmaduke as a knee-jerk reflex when I know it will create absolutely no mirth at all—-but this column stuck in my craw. I understand not liking Mitt Romney, I recognize the right to vote against him, but I HATE intellectual dishonesty, and painting Romney as a callous buffoon who has “written off” 47% of the nation is dishonest.

The column romanticizes the hard work of the wait staff, which is self-defeating, because Romney wasn’t talking about people who work hard.

I ask you also to consider what it must have felt like to be a server in that room. Imagine what it must have felt like to be those hourly wage earners listening to a presidential candidate depict them as lazy. Now multiply them by millions.

Schultz knows Romney isn’t talking about hourly wage earners; he wasn’t referring to retirees living on Social Security or people collecting Unemployment and temporary welfare.

Everyone knows someone–usually at the periphery of their circle–engaged in welfare fraud and faking disabilities. When I went to jury duty, a woman who worked for a company which sold motorized carts described ‘sick’ people literally springing into the dealership to get a taxpayer-funded cart. Everyone I know has at least one story of some vermin in line at the grocery, buying hundreds of dollars of steak and salmon with an EBT card, then hopping into a brand-new Caddy. Don’t get me started on the fucktards at the IRS, who sent refund checks to inmates in prison, and in one case, 2,300 people living at one address.

I shouldn’t have to resort to watching Charles Bronson kill The Giggler to calm down.  But that’s where we are as a nation.

Email to a potential suicide

Dear ____,

I read your ‘have a potato’ email.

If the specter of suicide is that close, I respectfully request you please put in your will a gift to me of US$1000. I promise I will use the money to fly to visit ______, then onward to San Diego, where I will cross the Mex-Sicken border and drain balls as many times in the whorehouse with whatever of the $$$ is left.

Setting aside a little dough for me is more important than leaving it to bald, sick kids who will die anyway or some hippie nature preserve that will use the dough to buy weed. My happiness is more important than Mother Earth’s, and though I’ve suffered long and you have suffered longer, if you end it now, I’ll STILL be suffering while you’ll be at peace.

At least for a little awhile.

You probably don’t know or care about God/the gods, but THINK: with as much trouble and hassle as life is, do you really think death will be an escape? Would the Gods of Torment, IRS and DMV really allow such an easy escape route, like an unguarded vent cover in the secret base in a James Bond movie?

All right, you have my two cents. In exchange I would like US$1000 in the will, please. It will give you something to do, and you can leave the earth knowing you passed along some hope and courage and bought vagina. Good karma, man! You will be happy one day in this life or the next but it’s up to you.