We recently had a senseless murder in the park up the street from me where I take my dogs every day to run. When it happened, fifteen city police cars showed up, all frantic to lock the barn door now that the horse had run away. Note I say "cars" showed up, not policemen. For "cars" is all we know of our police here, and I think many of you probably have a similar situation in your communities.
Well, Solomon got his dander up and began a letter to his Councilman with a lengthy run-down of the problem and a common-sense approach to making things better. Now, Solomon realizes that changing the direction and nature of a government entity is tantamount to changing the course of a glacier with a hair dryer, so he has little hope that anything other than a fire bombing of my home by the union will occur. However, I strongly believe that the police as currently constituted in most places in this country are really rotten and despicable.
So, friends, please feel free to use this tome in your own approach to your own police department. Friendly plagiarism is the sincerest form of flattery for a blogger.
Dear Councilman—At our Fourth of July picnic, the subject came up of the San Bernardino Police Force, and the resulting conversation gave a very unflattering (and unanimous) view of this organization. When so many respectable people have such a negative perception of such an important civic branch, I think the powers that be must sit up and pay close attention. Not only should the police be informed of the low esteem in which they’re held; they should be required to demonstrably make changes in the way they do business.
The perception of the SBPD is that they are an arrogant, anonymous, invisible, and ineffective (possibly corrupt) cadre of men and women who only pay lip service to their commitment to the safety of San Bernardino. Their only real commitment seems to be ensuring that they can retire early with a full pension and receive an additional disability benefit. Their union’s constant whining about contract issues and the union’s infantile response to every demand put on them show that this group of men and women has no allegiance to this city. Every time the union gets its feelings hurt, policemen begin sending out flurries of applications for new jobs. One has only to recall that airplane banner being flaunted over the Route 66 festivities last fall to get the real picture of SBPD. It’s all about THEM.
Councilman, I want you to know that I fully share in this negative view of the SBPD, and I am not some drug-dealing malcontent who’s got a bone to pick over some perceived slight. The police have never “picked” on me, stopped me, ticketed me, or in any way personally offended me. However, I feel the police in this city are particularly ineffective in those areas that are most important (explained below) and are, by their present operating methods, actually encouraging a lawless, out-of-control city.
First, let’s address the issue of “anonymity.” The fact that I have never, in my twenty-two year residency here, known a single policeman galls me. At the party, I found out that I am not alone in not knowing the name of a single policeman. No one at our party knew one policeman. Further, if the police were questioned about me, not one of them could say who I was or would know anything about me. Why, the SBPD might as well be Secret Service operatives the way they keep from having anyone know them.
Now, when a person goes to a school, medical office, restaurant, auto dealer/repair, bar, veterinarian office, post office, barbershop, etc,--in other words, when we interact with any place that provides us services large and small—we want to be recognized. Recognition is a sign of respect on the part of the service provider. Nonrecognition is a sign of arrogant disrespect or, at best, lack of concern.
The police are removed from those they serve, and they do everything to keep it that way. They are NEVER out of their precious cars; when they drive by (always at high speeds), the windows are always up; when they have occasion to get out of their cars, they talk only to each other and only the necessary witnesses, but they never go beyond themselves or just the job. In short, they avoid the law-abiding citizens at all costs. And this is because their whole mind-set is to chase perpetrators, not to patrol streets to make a presence that prevents crime.
Areas that are patrolled regularly by police are almost entirely crime free, so failing to patrol regularly is a statement to the public that the police care more about actually having crime than in having a peaceful city. Crime is their adrenaline rush; peace is boring and routine. Well, we want to live in a peaceful city that operates in a routine and perhaps boring way. But that’s not what we have.
To solve this really bad situation, the police need to stop spouting “community policing” and actually start policing the community. They can do this by actually patrolling every area of the city regularly and religiously. The city should be divided into ten precincts with six officers assigned for three years to a particular precinct. No able-bodied officer will be sitting in the office. They’ll be on the streets, getting out of their cars, talking amiably to people in their areas, driving slowly with windows down, getting to know who’s who and what’s what.
It is no laughing matter that ice cream vendors know more about areas and people of San Bernardino than do the police! That there is never a presence in areas until a crime is committed (think about the recent murder in Blair Park, for example) actually encourages crimes to occur! Do you think that the Blair Park murder would have happened as it did if everybody involved knew that the police came by periodically?
But they don’t come by anywhere periodically. The only time they come by is when they’re headed to something that interests them more than the lives of ordinary San Bernardino residents.
Now, if the police don’t like being part of full-time patrol and want more excitement, by all means let them leave and let’s not plead with them to stay. There are too many qualified men and women who can do this kind of police work whom we can hire. We don’t need any policeman who fancies himself some elite member of a band-of-brothers, thinks of himself as a hot-shot, or sees himself as Dirty Harry-in-Berdoo.
Second, to end the anonymity of police, the officers assigned to an area should be well known to the citizenry by means of periodic fliers with their pictures, access numbers, and bios. These fliers should be delivered door-to-door, by the actual police, every six months to every residence and business within their purview.
Third, having police who are associated with and connected to particular areas will act as a crime deterrent by allowing and encouraging the police to use their competitive spirit to see that their particular areas is the most peaceful. People who go into law enforcement are, by their very natures, highly competitive individuals—but their most satisfying glory should not come from using guns and force and high-risk chases but rather in how few crimes are actually committed on their watch.
I’m afraid that the police will give every excuse they can conjure to avoid going this route [“We know more about crime that you citizens do.” “You don’t understand the nature of the jobs we do.” “We’re required to do paper work.” “We have to respond to emergencies.” “This isn’t the way it’s been done in this city. It won’t work in San Bernardino.” “You people don’t appreciate what we do for you.” “We lay our lives on the line every day for this city.” The excuses will be impassioned and legion, but they will be just that—excuses. Certainly, we do appreciate it that they catch criminals when they have to and we do appreciate the bravery they must exhibit in the face of dangerous situations, but these things don’t have anything to do with 95% of the citizens of San Bernardino.]
What they are doing isn’t working well in preventing crime, and what they’re doing certainly isn’t going down well with the majority of the respectable people in this community. No one knows or likes the police, and isn’t that a terrible situation?! Perhaps they are doing a respectable job after crimes have been committed (and there is some doubt here, as well), but the SBPD have a terrible PR problem.
Now, Councilman, I think it’s the city’s elected leaders that must force change upon the police department and make them start answering some hard questions. I believe a place to get started is to have a survey given to the people concerning attitudes toward their police. I believe that the results will startle everyone into a rude awakening.
Then, I believe a citizens’ commission should be formed and empowered to force changes upon the police to provide a more responsive and a more effective organization and to provide a safer city—but that does not mean having the police go on more crime pursuits. It means having them become a quotidian presence in everyone’s lives. One can go days, weeks, without ever seeing a policeman (actually, a police car); this should change to the point that everyone should see a policeman every day, perhaps several times a day, near his/her home/business.
The police and the people of the city must share the same vision of the mission of the police department, but as it is now, the police have one view (catching wrong-doers) and the public another (feeling secure in their daily lives). It seems as if the police believe that fear of policemen will stop crime, but I’m afraid it is a contemptuous fear, engendered and inflamed by such things as seeing police sitting at the Sons of the Golden West Parlor to play “gotcha” with people making right turns on red, not promoting safety but helping the city extort money from its citizens. When a policeman goes up to talk to a group of young people, you can bet they feel (probably correctly) that they’re about to be hassled and suspected of plotting wrong-doing.
The teachers with the best-controlled classes are not those who are the most intimidating, not the loudest, not the most threatening. They are ones who are calm, consistent, and constantly in contact with their students. Friendly, approachable, but ultimately in perfect control. That’s what police can and should be.
Common Sense: We treat strangers much worse than we treat acquaintances. Our police force are strangers to us all, as are we to them. This situation can and should be changed.
Sincerely,
Solomon Slade
Wednesday, July 15, 2009
Thursday, June 25, 2009
When Fourth Place Isn't Bad Enough
Well, this past week Chastity Bono changed her sex. From what to what, Solomon does not know, but apparently she is going to go under the knife to be a man. The results, I am sorry to tell her, will not fool anyone. Better to be a manly lesbian with all her parts than to be a manly lesbian with parts unrecognizable.
But it is not Chastity, who seems to be (or at least before her decision to mutilate her body) a nice enough person, about whom I want to speak. No, I wish to speak of another identity change that really shows how disgusting self-mutilation really is.
It is the News Media that has gone through a sex change—from manly, aggressive pursuers of truth to unmanly, vindictive pursuers of an agenda. And that agenda is being pursued with a vicious zealousness that can only be understood if one equates them to Islamic terrorists. And like Islamic terrorists, the media is pursuing an agenda that they perceive as religious and holy.
What has happened to this once virile profession? There have always been women in journalism, but the profession wasn’t politically correct and whiney and dripping with estrogen “Feelings.” Oh, those “feelings,” those easily hurt and sensitive and intuitive and contemptible “feelings.” When and why did this replace “Logic,” “Intelligence,” “Patriotism,” “Common Sense,” and “Toughness”?
All the male parts of journalism began to be snipped off with Watergate. Woodward and Bernstein, those hankie-clutching vermin, found that by relentlessly pursuing Nixon they could become darlings of the Inside-the-Beltway types who can slice and dice with their eyebrows and nasally-intoned words.
They wanted to buy good opinion for themselves, and they could and DID this by assassinating Richard Nixon—a man whom Solomon did not like but who was treated incredibly badly by the scum like W&B. Now, Solomon knows words and uses them judiciously, maliciously, and correctly. Nixon’s was the first assassination of an American president by journalists. And as every murderer will tell you, “Murder is the ultimate high.”
And so began every copycat journalist to reach the rush that W&B got—assassinate, and don’t worry about facts, fairness, or results. Intimidate and make them kiss your ass or you will destroy, by omission or by commission. Words used properly and without morality can destroy people, careers, reputations, political parties. We, in the post-Watergate era, the journalists, are gods.
Ah, but it wasn’t enough to simply go frothing with blood in their mouths after their enemies—aka anyone with balls and a spine. No, it was not enough to destroy good people and moral conduct. They needed something more for power.
To achieve full power and control, they needed to prove that they were able to shove down the throats of America, that vile cesspool of freedom and achievement, the most repulsive slimebag who ever slid out of a birth canal—Barack Obama. Shove black in America’s face (they’re all racists, aren’t they?; shove stupid in America’s face (they really can’t really call a black intellectually inferior, can they?); shove a venom-spewing black bitch as their First Lady and call the fashion-challenged mean one a fashion icon; shove down America’s throat a guy who can’t speak or think as the greatest orator and thinker in their history; shove down America’s throat a humorless, ruthless, cold-blooded, compassionless coward as the wit and wisdom and pater famalias of the nation; shove down America’s throat the most vile Marxist/Fascist since Stalin/Hitler and let him sit where Lincoln and Reagan sat. Humiliate America. Debase her. Shove her face in filth. Then, oh then, journalists will have proven that they can do anything!
They created their God in their own image! And they will worship him. And the American people will have no other god before them. And journalism and journalists will do nothing but support him and allow nothing be said or seen that will show the out-and-out Evil of this Antichrist.
The Fourth Estate has become the Fifth Column!
Universities and colleges pulled in aspiring journalists, and winnowed out those who thought you had to be a good objective writer. No, to be in journalism you had to be a good zealot for the cause. W&B have ordained it thus.
That which is vile, glorify. That which is ugly, deify. That which is unholy, worship. And if you don’t, you won’t get a good job.
And who better to sell their souls than young mindless girls who are always willing to trade their souls for flattery and security.
Of course, journalism is doomed, but what the hell. Papers are dying. News operations are scoffed at and held in contempt by anyone with half a brain. But journalism today is betting that not enough people will really wake up until they have created the scorch earth, irretrievable mess that they are creating.
So what if their creation is a shit heap? At least, they will have shown everyone what REAL power is. We can bring down ANYthing. W&B brought down a president. We are going to bring down America and Freedom! Put that in your pipe and smoke it, you old Potomac queens.
But it is not Chastity, who seems to be (or at least before her decision to mutilate her body) a nice enough person, about whom I want to speak. No, I wish to speak of another identity change that really shows how disgusting self-mutilation really is.
It is the News Media that has gone through a sex change—from manly, aggressive pursuers of truth to unmanly, vindictive pursuers of an agenda. And that agenda is being pursued with a vicious zealousness that can only be understood if one equates them to Islamic terrorists. And like Islamic terrorists, the media is pursuing an agenda that they perceive as religious and holy.
What has happened to this once virile profession? There have always been women in journalism, but the profession wasn’t politically correct and whiney and dripping with estrogen “Feelings.” Oh, those “feelings,” those easily hurt and sensitive and intuitive and contemptible “feelings.” When and why did this replace “Logic,” “Intelligence,” “Patriotism,” “Common Sense,” and “Toughness”?
All the male parts of journalism began to be snipped off with Watergate. Woodward and Bernstein, those hankie-clutching vermin, found that by relentlessly pursuing Nixon they could become darlings of the Inside-the-Beltway types who can slice and dice with their eyebrows and nasally-intoned words.
They wanted to buy good opinion for themselves, and they could and DID this by assassinating Richard Nixon—a man whom Solomon did not like but who was treated incredibly badly by the scum like W&B. Now, Solomon knows words and uses them judiciously, maliciously, and correctly. Nixon’s was the first assassination of an American president by journalists. And as every murderer will tell you, “Murder is the ultimate high.”
And so began every copycat journalist to reach the rush that W&B got—assassinate, and don’t worry about facts, fairness, or results. Intimidate and make them kiss your ass or you will destroy, by omission or by commission. Words used properly and without morality can destroy people, careers, reputations, political parties. We, in the post-Watergate era, the journalists, are gods.
Ah, but it wasn’t enough to simply go frothing with blood in their mouths after their enemies—aka anyone with balls and a spine. No, it was not enough to destroy good people and moral conduct. They needed something more for power.
To achieve full power and control, they needed to prove that they were able to shove down the throats of America, that vile cesspool of freedom and achievement, the most repulsive slimebag who ever slid out of a birth canal—Barack Obama. Shove black in America’s face (they’re all racists, aren’t they?; shove stupid in America’s face (they really can’t really call a black intellectually inferior, can they?); shove a venom-spewing black bitch as their First Lady and call the fashion-challenged mean one a fashion icon; shove down America’s throat a guy who can’t speak or think as the greatest orator and thinker in their history; shove down America’s throat a humorless, ruthless, cold-blooded, compassionless coward as the wit and wisdom and pater famalias of the nation; shove down America’s throat the most vile Marxist/Fascist since Stalin/Hitler and let him sit where Lincoln and Reagan sat. Humiliate America. Debase her. Shove her face in filth. Then, oh then, journalists will have proven that they can do anything!
They created their God in their own image! And they will worship him. And the American people will have no other god before them. And journalism and journalists will do nothing but support him and allow nothing be said or seen that will show the out-and-out Evil of this Antichrist.
The Fourth Estate has become the Fifth Column!
Universities and colleges pulled in aspiring journalists, and winnowed out those who thought you had to be a good objective writer. No, to be in journalism you had to be a good zealot for the cause. W&B have ordained it thus.
That which is vile, glorify. That which is ugly, deify. That which is unholy, worship. And if you don’t, you won’t get a good job.
And who better to sell their souls than young mindless girls who are always willing to trade their souls for flattery and security.
Of course, journalism is doomed, but what the hell. Papers are dying. News operations are scoffed at and held in contempt by anyone with half a brain. But journalism today is betting that not enough people will really wake up until they have created the scorch earth, irretrievable mess that they are creating.
So what if their creation is a shit heap? At least, they will have shown everyone what REAL power is. We can bring down ANYthing. W&B brought down a president. We are going to bring down America and Freedom! Put that in your pipe and smoke it, you old Potomac queens.
Monday, June 15, 2009
"Revolutionary Road" Needs Resurfacing
Ah, Sam Mendes. The man who believes emptiness and profundity are one and the same.
Solomon had the misfortune to watch the second of Mendes’s snide and snooty slapdowns of American exceptionalism the other night, a snoozefest called “Revolutionary Road.” His other piece of sophomoric crap that I am familiar with is “American Beauty,” a work that was given the Best Picture award by the Oscars, and has since proved how totally embarrassing anti-Americanism can be.
This man has absolutely NO understanding of American culture! He’s not one of us, but he feels he has the duty to comment on us because, oh, I don’t know, he’s read "Catcher in the Rye" or some such drivel. He sees all of us Americans as adult Holden Caulfields—yearning (not to be free--simply yearning, because there's nothing else to do) stifled artists, put down and kept down by America’s capitalist system.
We lead pointless lives, have joyless sex, indulge in even more joyless affairs, speak only of mindless things, never laugh other than cynically and bitterly, plod aimlessly toward death—but, oh yes, have an occasional but ever-so-brief moment of enlightenment that shows a glimmer of hope of breaking this cycle. This moment of clarity, of course, is subsumed by the suffocating thing we know as conformity. Mendes knows it as "America."
Great writers such as Sinclair Lewis long ago dealt with this concept of people running into a midlife crisis, reaching for an escape, and then in a bittersweet moment returning to what they escaped from. Works such as "Main Street," "Babbitt," and "Arrowsmith" resound with humor, truth, and wisdom. Above all, though they make fun of many Americans and American institutions, they do not blame or belittle America. The nation is larger than life itself and is the backdrop for stories of individuals. Mendes and his films, however, are bores who put cardboard characters in crisis so that America, not the characters, can be blamed and belittled. There is no, and I mean zero, nada humor in "Revolutionary Road," so you know you are being hit with a heavy hand. It's as enjoyable and light as a Puritan damnation sermon.
Mendes's wife, the vacant smokefest Kate Winslet, is showcased here doing her imitation of Sylvia Plath, the boring neurotic “writer” of the fifties who eventually does herself in by sticking her head in an oven. In "Revolutionary Road," she does herself in by sticking a rubber-hose-thingamajiggy up her twat to induce an abortion that doesn't seem to sit too well. Free of her unwanted unborn child, she gets less than one minute's joy before she begins dripping blood on the living room carpet--and then she dies. (It's as if Mendes is saying, "Damn you, America, if only we had Roe vs. Wade back then, this woman could have reached her potential, but no, she had to resort to 'back alley' methods and see where it ended." Solomon believes that abortion should be allowed only if it guarantees to end a stupid movie and a stupid character early.) Kate’s character here is simply a moronic female who hasn’t the ability to appreciate or to love—yet we are supposed to empathize with her. Puhleeze!
My friend Paco Ramirez has a theory about women: All women are crazy, so if they’re noticeably crazy, at least you know what you’re dealing with. If they don’t appear crazy, you should be well advised to remember that they are and that their insanity is only lying doggo and will manifest itself in even more insidious and more terrifying ways. So, better to get a woman whose craziness is up front. It makes dealing with them easier. I bring this up because Winslet’s character is a perfect example of this. She seems normal, but she is deep-down nuts—with no reason except that she is a woman. And any man understands this. But not Sam Mendes. Mendes naively assumes that the character’s craziness is because of big bad America. This is his great mistake—he blames America when he should have had the maturity and honesty to recognize that the woman is the victim of her own inherent craziness.
I do not find Kate Winslet to be a beautiful woman nor a fascinating actress. She seems to have turned her unplucked, monumental eyebrows toward making “sullen” her trademark acting style. Now, men who are sullen have about them an air of sexy mystery; women who are sullen, on the other hand, have about them an air of stupidity and cuntiness. Kate also seems to have become the mistress of another repetitive action besides taking off her clothes and spreading her legs and simulating orgasm—more than these, she spends her every acting assignment dying. She has become the Absolute Queen of Death in movies—if Winslet’s in the movie, you can lay unbeatable odds that she will expire before the final credits roll. (I also guarantee that you won't shed a single tear when she does!)
That Mendes seems to fancy himself the expert on American Culture is arrogant and ignorant and insulting. He’s not an American, didn’t grow up in the culture he holds up to the lens, and doesn’t have a scintilla of knowledge about it except what he learned from reading such run-down works as those written by Eastern seaboard malcontents and sociopaths such as Salinger. And possibly hobnobbing with despicable liberal members of the New York and Hollywood entertainment world.
A person who was not raised in a culture cannot, despite all his intense desire to do so, truly understand that culture. Period. True knowledge of a culture is the sole province of a born-and-bred insider. Mendes is practicing jejune imposture—his are the actions and reactions of a wannabe who thinks that only an insider could know so much about a culture that he is able to show how truly horribly flawed it is.
Unfortunately, the flaw with Mendes is that his films show how utterly he MISunderstands America and its unique culture. And I personally resent some outsider pretending to understand me and my life by showing how empty and invalid it all is. I think that I, and all Americans (boobs though we may be), are able to judge our existence without the assist of outsiders like Mendes and his wife Winslet, thank you very much.
Mendes has his characters yearn to chuck a fairly lucrative but despicably American life (that is, of course, nothing but quiet desperation—honestly, you’d think they were starving physically the way they carry on) to go to Paris, for God’s sake! It’s the only place where people are really alive, don’t you know. New York City and environs contain no shreds of honesty and fulfillment.
Whew! For a minute there, I thought this movie was supposed to be about adults. But I forgot that it is a Mendes movie, and these are cartoons that make Speed Racer look like Shakespeare by comparison. Nobody has extended families. Every family and every member in that family is a separate, suffering island. And as if this point hasn’t been made perfectly clear to the audience, Mendes brings in a mentally deranged mathematician, son of Kathy Bates, to provide hard, bring-em-to-Jesus scrutiny of their meaningless lives and their fear of facing this fact.
When this element was introduced into the movie, I knew that this “message” was going to be beyond redemption, and I was right. Nothing rings true after this, especially not the joyless sexual couplings that are obligatory in a Mendes movie. Mendes, like Monty Python’s pedantic teacher of sex, makes sex actually uninteresting. If sex were as Mendes portrays in his films, the human race would have ceased to exist right after the Garden of Eden experience.
It has been fair game to knock America and its culture for a long time, and American literature includes satires, analyses, and critiques of this people and place-more-than-a-place that rank as first-rate entertainments and thought pieces. But all these things were produced by insiders, not some outsider who wears a pseudo mantle of sophistication embroidered with the words “You’re too stupid to see how awful you really are” writ large.
Ah Europe. You’ll never understand us. And a word of advice: Don’t write (or make movies) about those things you don’t understand. You end up looking like a fool—and being hated to boot.
Solomon had the misfortune to watch the second of Mendes’s snide and snooty slapdowns of American exceptionalism the other night, a snoozefest called “Revolutionary Road.” His other piece of sophomoric crap that I am familiar with is “American Beauty,” a work that was given the Best Picture award by the Oscars, and has since proved how totally embarrassing anti-Americanism can be.
This man has absolutely NO understanding of American culture! He’s not one of us, but he feels he has the duty to comment on us because, oh, I don’t know, he’s read "Catcher in the Rye" or some such drivel. He sees all of us Americans as adult Holden Caulfields—yearning (not to be free--simply yearning, because there's nothing else to do) stifled artists, put down and kept down by America’s capitalist system.
We lead pointless lives, have joyless sex, indulge in even more joyless affairs, speak only of mindless things, never laugh other than cynically and bitterly, plod aimlessly toward death—but, oh yes, have an occasional but ever-so-brief moment of enlightenment that shows a glimmer of hope of breaking this cycle. This moment of clarity, of course, is subsumed by the suffocating thing we know as conformity. Mendes knows it as "America."
Great writers such as Sinclair Lewis long ago dealt with this concept of people running into a midlife crisis, reaching for an escape, and then in a bittersweet moment returning to what they escaped from. Works such as "Main Street," "Babbitt," and "Arrowsmith" resound with humor, truth, and wisdom. Above all, though they make fun of many Americans and American institutions, they do not blame or belittle America. The nation is larger than life itself and is the backdrop for stories of individuals. Mendes and his films, however, are bores who put cardboard characters in crisis so that America, not the characters, can be blamed and belittled. There is no, and I mean zero, nada humor in "Revolutionary Road," so you know you are being hit with a heavy hand. It's as enjoyable and light as a Puritan damnation sermon.
Mendes's wife, the vacant smokefest Kate Winslet, is showcased here doing her imitation of Sylvia Plath, the boring neurotic “writer” of the fifties who eventually does herself in by sticking her head in an oven. In "Revolutionary Road," she does herself in by sticking a rubber-hose-thingamajiggy up her twat to induce an abortion that doesn't seem to sit too well. Free of her unwanted unborn child, she gets less than one minute's joy before she begins dripping blood on the living room carpet--and then she dies. (It's as if Mendes is saying, "Damn you, America, if only we had Roe vs. Wade back then, this woman could have reached her potential, but no, she had to resort to 'back alley' methods and see where it ended." Solomon believes that abortion should be allowed only if it guarantees to end a stupid movie and a stupid character early.) Kate’s character here is simply a moronic female who hasn’t the ability to appreciate or to love—yet we are supposed to empathize with her. Puhleeze!
My friend Paco Ramirez has a theory about women: All women are crazy, so if they’re noticeably crazy, at least you know what you’re dealing with. If they don’t appear crazy, you should be well advised to remember that they are and that their insanity is only lying doggo and will manifest itself in even more insidious and more terrifying ways. So, better to get a woman whose craziness is up front. It makes dealing with them easier. I bring this up because Winslet’s character is a perfect example of this. She seems normal, but she is deep-down nuts—with no reason except that she is a woman. And any man understands this. But not Sam Mendes. Mendes naively assumes that the character’s craziness is because of big bad America. This is his great mistake—he blames America when he should have had the maturity and honesty to recognize that the woman is the victim of her own inherent craziness.
I do not find Kate Winslet to be a beautiful woman nor a fascinating actress. She seems to have turned her unplucked, monumental eyebrows toward making “sullen” her trademark acting style. Now, men who are sullen have about them an air of sexy mystery; women who are sullen, on the other hand, have about them an air of stupidity and cuntiness. Kate also seems to have become the mistress of another repetitive action besides taking off her clothes and spreading her legs and simulating orgasm—more than these, she spends her every acting assignment dying. She has become the Absolute Queen of Death in movies—if Winslet’s in the movie, you can lay unbeatable odds that she will expire before the final credits roll. (I also guarantee that you won't shed a single tear when she does!)
That Mendes seems to fancy himself the expert on American Culture is arrogant and ignorant and insulting. He’s not an American, didn’t grow up in the culture he holds up to the lens, and doesn’t have a scintilla of knowledge about it except what he learned from reading such run-down works as those written by Eastern seaboard malcontents and sociopaths such as Salinger. And possibly hobnobbing with despicable liberal members of the New York and Hollywood entertainment world.
A person who was not raised in a culture cannot, despite all his intense desire to do so, truly understand that culture. Period. True knowledge of a culture is the sole province of a born-and-bred insider. Mendes is practicing jejune imposture—his are the actions and reactions of a wannabe who thinks that only an insider could know so much about a culture that he is able to show how truly horribly flawed it is.
Unfortunately, the flaw with Mendes is that his films show how utterly he MISunderstands America and its unique culture. And I personally resent some outsider pretending to understand me and my life by showing how empty and invalid it all is. I think that I, and all Americans (boobs though we may be), are able to judge our existence without the assist of outsiders like Mendes and his wife Winslet, thank you very much.
Mendes has his characters yearn to chuck a fairly lucrative but despicably American life (that is, of course, nothing but quiet desperation—honestly, you’d think they were starving physically the way they carry on) to go to Paris, for God’s sake! It’s the only place where people are really alive, don’t you know. New York City and environs contain no shreds of honesty and fulfillment.
Whew! For a minute there, I thought this movie was supposed to be about adults. But I forgot that it is a Mendes movie, and these are cartoons that make Speed Racer look like Shakespeare by comparison. Nobody has extended families. Every family and every member in that family is a separate, suffering island. And as if this point hasn’t been made perfectly clear to the audience, Mendes brings in a mentally deranged mathematician, son of Kathy Bates, to provide hard, bring-em-to-Jesus scrutiny of their meaningless lives and their fear of facing this fact.
When this element was introduced into the movie, I knew that this “message” was going to be beyond redemption, and I was right. Nothing rings true after this, especially not the joyless sexual couplings that are obligatory in a Mendes movie. Mendes, like Monty Python’s pedantic teacher of sex, makes sex actually uninteresting. If sex were as Mendes portrays in his films, the human race would have ceased to exist right after the Garden of Eden experience.
It has been fair game to knock America and its culture for a long time, and American literature includes satires, analyses, and critiques of this people and place-more-than-a-place that rank as first-rate entertainments and thought pieces. But all these things were produced by insiders, not some outsider who wears a pseudo mantle of sophistication embroidered with the words “You’re too stupid to see how awful you really are” writ large.
Ah Europe. You’ll never understand us. And a word of advice: Don’t write (or make movies) about those things you don’t understand. You end up looking like a fool—and being hated to boot.
Monday, April 27, 2009
A Cut Below
A Cut Below
Let’s call male circumcision what it really is—genital mutilation. It is a perverse evil that is done in the name of a lot of things—religion, tribal loyalty, hygiene (that’s a big HAH!), enlightenment—but all the reasons are subordinate to one: Sexual perversion.
That some old man in ancient days whacked off his foreskin in some kind of demented sexual masochism in the deserts of Israel—and then had to explain his mutated pecker to his wife, so he chose to tell her that God had told him to do this—is nothing more than laughable.
It’s like the guy who went into the emergency room with a flashlight up his ass who said that he was putting on his underwear and he fell on it, and voila, flashlight up the ass.
But Abraham turned his nasty act into a religion, and we wonder why people hate Jews and Muslims. They are incomplete men who take out their sexual frustration on the rest of us, who throw every other tenet of their religion overboard but keep this one. And isn’t it just lovely that they take perfectly healthy boys and, when they can’t defend themselves, cut off the most important part of them. Real manly stuff, this circumcision.
Anyone with half a brain recognizes a truism of life—circumcised penises are markedly shorter than intact penises. The cut dick is permanently and irrevocably shortened—and also made aesthetically unpleasing and unnatural.
Far from improving the penis, circumcision takes a marvel of flexibility and masculine beauty and turns it into a “thing” of no loveliness and unnatural, stunted movement. I tell you, it’s a crime! And any adult who forces this on a boy, and especially without anesthetic, out to be stoned.
Instead, what do we have. Some perverse 20th Century horror of routinely mutilating our boys. No wonder the 20th Century will go down as the nighmare it really was.
Fortunately, America is becoming more enlightened in this area, but there are still some parents who think that circumcising their sons is “just the thing that everyone does.” I mean, isn’t that what were SUPPOSED to do? No, my friends, it is just what NOT to do. It is a sin. And I don’t use the word “sin” very often.
Judaism and Islam are predicated upon the sin of the corrupt deviant Abraham, and it is why these religions deserve the contempt of every right thinking person in the universe. Circumcision also explains why these two religions have been at the center of all the evil in this world.
Every reason speaks against it and none for it, yet it still persists among otherwise intelligent people. But any parent who circumcises his baby son deserves my everlasting contempt and anger.
Whether I will ever speak that anger, the wounding of any innocent will always be in my mind, and I will mutter contempt for the evil that you have perpetrated. Circumcision is an unforgivable sin. It is a form of murder. Murder of innocence and joy—and there is nothing to be gained.
Using the same logic that people use for male circumcision, I believe we should begin practicing breast removal in infancy of all our baby daughters. Without anaesthetic, of course. Think of all the benefits!
Oh, right. That’s funny. I can’t think of any benefits to that practice either.
Circumcision is a repugnant practice that must be stopped completely. It is ungodly and speaks of brainless contempt for God’s gifts to man.
Let’s call male circumcision what it really is—genital mutilation. It is a perverse evil that is done in the name of a lot of things—religion, tribal loyalty, hygiene (that’s a big HAH!), enlightenment—but all the reasons are subordinate to one: Sexual perversion.
That some old man in ancient days whacked off his foreskin in some kind of demented sexual masochism in the deserts of Israel—and then had to explain his mutated pecker to his wife, so he chose to tell her that God had told him to do this—is nothing more than laughable.
It’s like the guy who went into the emergency room with a flashlight up his ass who said that he was putting on his underwear and he fell on it, and voila, flashlight up the ass.
But Abraham turned his nasty act into a religion, and we wonder why people hate Jews and Muslims. They are incomplete men who take out their sexual frustration on the rest of us, who throw every other tenet of their religion overboard but keep this one. And isn’t it just lovely that they take perfectly healthy boys and, when they can’t defend themselves, cut off the most important part of them. Real manly stuff, this circumcision.
Anyone with half a brain recognizes a truism of life—circumcised penises are markedly shorter than intact penises. The cut dick is permanently and irrevocably shortened—and also made aesthetically unpleasing and unnatural.
Far from improving the penis, circumcision takes a marvel of flexibility and masculine beauty and turns it into a “thing” of no loveliness and unnatural, stunted movement. I tell you, it’s a crime! And any adult who forces this on a boy, and especially without anesthetic, out to be stoned.
Instead, what do we have. Some perverse 20th Century horror of routinely mutilating our boys. No wonder the 20th Century will go down as the nighmare it really was.
Fortunately, America is becoming more enlightened in this area, but there are still some parents who think that circumcising their sons is “just the thing that everyone does.” I mean, isn’t that what were SUPPOSED to do? No, my friends, it is just what NOT to do. It is a sin. And I don’t use the word “sin” very often.
Judaism and Islam are predicated upon the sin of the corrupt deviant Abraham, and it is why these religions deserve the contempt of every right thinking person in the universe. Circumcision also explains why these two religions have been at the center of all the evil in this world.
Every reason speaks against it and none for it, yet it still persists among otherwise intelligent people. But any parent who circumcises his baby son deserves my everlasting contempt and anger.
Whether I will ever speak that anger, the wounding of any innocent will always be in my mind, and I will mutter contempt for the evil that you have perpetrated. Circumcision is an unforgivable sin. It is a form of murder. Murder of innocence and joy—and there is nothing to be gained.
Using the same logic that people use for male circumcision, I believe we should begin practicing breast removal in infancy of all our baby daughters. Without anaesthetic, of course. Think of all the benefits!
Oh, right. That’s funny. I can’t think of any benefits to that practice either.
Circumcision is a repugnant practice that must be stopped completely. It is ungodly and speaks of brainless contempt for God’s gifts to man.
Wednesday, April 22, 2009
Disposing of Trash--an Earth-Day Proposal
The Bard is Back! And he is angry!
It’s gotten much worse than even this doom-sayer thought it could get. The urine-soaked face of Hillary Clinton, soaked with the drippings of some twat like Janet Reno with whom she played dinosaur (of the Liksalotapus variety) the night before, had the audacity to snarkily malign Dick Cheney’s veracity.
Madam, it is YOU whose veracity has been tried and found wanting—or wanton, as the case may be. You are a lesbian with fat, unshapely, and unsightly ankles who has given new immediacy to the need to enforce retroactive abortions! If ever witch trials were warranted it is now!
Janeane Garofalo, who wins the trifecta for stupid, ugly, and visible, maligned on MSNBC (quelle suprise!) every veteran and enlisted man and woman. She gives new immediacy for the change of laws that prevent violent rape. We should allow, under certain circumstances—and surely Garofolo (an actress who can’t and doesn’t act and a comedian who doesn’t and can't amuse or entertain) qualifies—the forcible rape in, in all orifices, by convicts. Since this act is so repugnant--for the convicts, of course—they would be rewarded with immediate commuting of their sentences for service above and beyond the call of duty. The one requirement is that Janeane Garofalo be rendered incapable of ever walking or talking or peeing or shitting ever again. However, this would not prevent her from being a guest on Keith Olbermann's show.
Eric Holder. Well, what can be said except that his forehead was made for a cross-hairs and his skull for a receptacle for lead. Come on, now, wouldn’t it be delightful to see this bum taken out while he was standing on a stage, ranting against my NRA, thinking he has the world at his command, and then be taken out by a sniper, like Angela Lansbury having her head splattered by Lawrence Harvey at the end of the first, and only great, Manchurian Candidate movie?!
And now for the President. It is sort of an on-going, juvenile joke that the French are incapable of truly brave, macho, courageous acts, but that is not true. As someone of French extraction, Solomon has a particular fondness for the French. And their incredible accomplishments.
If you want something done brilliantly, give the project to the French. Of course, you will have to tell them that no one can do it, and their perverseness will ensure that it will be done—but beyond anything that has ever been done before. The defeat of Islam, the concept and construction of the Eiffel Tower, the beauty and pageantry and elegance of Versailles, the pure brutality of Devil’s Island, the insane pleasure of crème brulle, and the impossible artistry of the Paris subway. Note to anyone who has visited or will visit Paris: If you don’t find the Parisian subway the most perfect blend of technology, engineering, art, efficiency, and French logic, then you have no business reading the Bard Cage! That creation (and Solomon modestly purrs, the Bard Cage as well) is pure brilliance!
Well, the most incredible thing the French ever did was the way they got rid of their oppressive aristocracy—oh, yes, Solomon believes the French Revolution to be a work of blood-soaked high art a la Grand Guignol that instructed the world into how to REALLY have a revolution. The French didn’t go half-assed. They went the fully Monty.
No atrocity in the name of wiping out the ancien regime was too depraved for the Jacobins and the revolutionary fervor of that time. Oh, sure, people in English drawing rooms (and, Solomon shame-facedly admits, himself--though at a much earlier, less-evolved point in life) could wince at the atrocities, while wiping their oh-so-proper lips with silk hankies, but if you don't think that watching someone’s blood spurt twenty feet into the air when his/her head has been lopped off quickly is a mighty gratifying revenge, then you don't know true hatred!
And we Americans are learning what HATE is all about--the destruction of the American dream by a black dimwit. The price, M. Obama--just your head and your blood. And the head and the blood of everyone who has stood with you (oops, there goes NBC!).
Blood was what the French people needed. And that’s what we Americans need now.
So I say, “Bring back the guillotine!” We need it for all the people in the Obama administration, and the piece de resistance will be the Man Himself. Solomon, you can bet, will be there knitting furiously! When Obama's smug monkey face has no teleprompters to turn to, he will have to lie down on the board, look long and deep into the basket, and wince as the blade severs his ugly, empty head from his frumpy fish-wife body.
Solomon will shout, "Allez!"
Because of the shortness and nature of his hair, the official will not be able to raise the head for the orgiastic crowds to cheer, but with today’s video technology, we will get the thrill of seeing the death of the Antichrist in living and glorious high definition television—from seventeen different angles! Oh, the fantasy does me good!
Nothing satisfies the need for revenge like the guillotine. And no place would be better suited for it than on the eastern steps of the Capitol. Wouldn’t you love to see his blood running down, step by step, into the water of the pond wherin stands the equestrian statue of what is truly a great American, Ulysses S. Grant?
I don’t know about you, but I would certainly contribute to a fund to buy Barack Obama a ticket to Ford’s Theater to see a production of Our American Cousin. On one condition, of course. And that is that security be as lax as it was in 1865 when another president went there.
It’s gotten much worse than even this doom-sayer thought it could get. The urine-soaked face of Hillary Clinton, soaked with the drippings of some twat like Janet Reno with whom she played dinosaur (of the Liksalotapus variety) the night before, had the audacity to snarkily malign Dick Cheney’s veracity.
Madam, it is YOU whose veracity has been tried and found wanting—or wanton, as the case may be. You are a lesbian with fat, unshapely, and unsightly ankles who has given new immediacy to the need to enforce retroactive abortions! If ever witch trials were warranted it is now!
Janeane Garofalo, who wins the trifecta for stupid, ugly, and visible, maligned on MSNBC (quelle suprise!) every veteran and enlisted man and woman. She gives new immediacy for the change of laws that prevent violent rape. We should allow, under certain circumstances—and surely Garofolo (an actress who can’t and doesn’t act and a comedian who doesn’t and can't amuse or entertain) qualifies—the forcible rape in, in all orifices, by convicts. Since this act is so repugnant--for the convicts, of course—they would be rewarded with immediate commuting of their sentences for service above and beyond the call of duty. The one requirement is that Janeane Garofalo be rendered incapable of ever walking or talking or peeing or shitting ever again. However, this would not prevent her from being a guest on Keith Olbermann's show.
Eric Holder. Well, what can be said except that his forehead was made for a cross-hairs and his skull for a receptacle for lead. Come on, now, wouldn’t it be delightful to see this bum taken out while he was standing on a stage, ranting against my NRA, thinking he has the world at his command, and then be taken out by a sniper, like Angela Lansbury having her head splattered by Lawrence Harvey at the end of the first, and only great, Manchurian Candidate movie?!
And now for the President. It is sort of an on-going, juvenile joke that the French are incapable of truly brave, macho, courageous acts, but that is not true. As someone of French extraction, Solomon has a particular fondness for the French. And their incredible accomplishments.
If you want something done brilliantly, give the project to the French. Of course, you will have to tell them that no one can do it, and their perverseness will ensure that it will be done—but beyond anything that has ever been done before. The defeat of Islam, the concept and construction of the Eiffel Tower, the beauty and pageantry and elegance of Versailles, the pure brutality of Devil’s Island, the insane pleasure of crème brulle, and the impossible artistry of the Paris subway. Note to anyone who has visited or will visit Paris: If you don’t find the Parisian subway the most perfect blend of technology, engineering, art, efficiency, and French logic, then you have no business reading the Bard Cage! That creation (and Solomon modestly purrs, the Bard Cage as well) is pure brilliance!
Well, the most incredible thing the French ever did was the way they got rid of their oppressive aristocracy—oh, yes, Solomon believes the French Revolution to be a work of blood-soaked high art a la Grand Guignol that instructed the world into how to REALLY have a revolution. The French didn’t go half-assed. They went the fully Monty.
No atrocity in the name of wiping out the ancien regime was too depraved for the Jacobins and the revolutionary fervor of that time. Oh, sure, people in English drawing rooms (and, Solomon shame-facedly admits, himself--though at a much earlier, less-evolved point in life) could wince at the atrocities, while wiping their oh-so-proper lips with silk hankies, but if you don't think that watching someone’s blood spurt twenty feet into the air when his/her head has been lopped off quickly is a mighty gratifying revenge, then you don't know true hatred!
And we Americans are learning what HATE is all about--the destruction of the American dream by a black dimwit. The price, M. Obama--just your head and your blood. And the head and the blood of everyone who has stood with you (oops, there goes NBC!).
Blood was what the French people needed. And that’s what we Americans need now.
So I say, “Bring back the guillotine!” We need it for all the people in the Obama administration, and the piece de resistance will be the Man Himself. Solomon, you can bet, will be there knitting furiously! When Obama's smug monkey face has no teleprompters to turn to, he will have to lie down on the board, look long and deep into the basket, and wince as the blade severs his ugly, empty head from his frumpy fish-wife body.
Solomon will shout, "Allez!"
Because of the shortness and nature of his hair, the official will not be able to raise the head for the orgiastic crowds to cheer, but with today’s video technology, we will get the thrill of seeing the death of the Antichrist in living and glorious high definition television—from seventeen different angles! Oh, the fantasy does me good!
Nothing satisfies the need for revenge like the guillotine. And no place would be better suited for it than on the eastern steps of the Capitol. Wouldn’t you love to see his blood running down, step by step, into the water of the pond wherin stands the equestrian statue of what is truly a great American, Ulysses S. Grant?
I don’t know about you, but I would certainly contribute to a fund to buy Barack Obama a ticket to Ford’s Theater to see a production of Our American Cousin. On one condition, of course. And that is that security be as lax as it was in 1865 when another president went there.
Saturday, March 28, 2009
Michelle's Pyrrhic Victory Garden
It’s somewhat unsettling to see Michelle Obama ripping up the White House lawn to plant a garden, for I fear the place is going to start resembling one of those places that in Solomon's youth was called "Reform School."
Just writing those dreadful words sent a cold chill from the past coursing through my veins.
Once a year, every year we drove to my paternal grandparents’ place on the opposite end of the state. This being long before the government in its demented wisdom took to building interstate highways, we always drove ever so slowly through the myriad of wonders of our state. One of the highlights that never failed to impress was the grim, and I mean unbelievably grim, stone walls of the state penitentiary where the electric chair did its handiwork. We drove extra slowly past these stones.
After that, though, came the piece de resistance in my father's continuous commentary of demonic morality by which he terrified us and amused himself. We drove past the state reform school for boys, and there they’d be, male miscreants, out in the fields silently and sullenly cultivating the vast gardens that would feed them through the winter without heat or comfort.
Cabbages--ever requiring to be weeded by the shuffling teens who moved like robots--miles and miles of cabbages and angry eyes looking at cars that went by--escape ever on the mind.
This grim scene was never passed without humorless comments from my parents in the front seat--from here, it was only a small step to that horrible stone wall. The implication was also always made that my brother and I would end up there for—well, the infractions were left to our minds, the better to cause us dread.
So the scene from 1600 Pennsylvania Avenue is, I am pretty certain, a prelude to more and more grass being ripped up by the First Lady’s chilling commands. Until there is no grass left. Just “garden.”
And then “garden” planted in—you guessed it—cotton!
And the workers in the “garden” will be all white people, stupid liberal white people who will think it actually a privilege to be able to work for the Dark Lady and Laddie. And the overseers, er, excuse me, "attendants" will all be black.
Those that don't find her garden to be to their liking will find themselves studying grim gray stone walls--from the inside. And they shouldn't be surprised if the lights mysteriously and often flicker and fade.
And Miss Michelle Herself will spend many a precious moment, sitting up on the Truman Balcony, sipping venom and cackling, and always savoring watching the debasing spectacle of America humiliating itself in front of her, and for her, and because of her.
“Here’s a little reminder to all you whities. What we got here is REPARATIONS!” you’ll hear her screeching at odd hours.
Venezuelan tourists, specially transported here from that workers’ paradise to the south, will marvel at what a determined and implacable hatred can really accomplish, so long as you have a media that thinks just like her. And which thinks that they will never be ensnared by the rotten system they've created.
Yes, Miss Michelle be livin’ large in Tara (it’s only a matter of time till all the black servants in that big house are required to wear white face makeup an step lively, REAL lively when they approach Big Mama)!
And it starts with a simple, oh-so-sweet, little garden.
The Children's Garden.
The Garden Sinister.
You jes' wait.
Some "victory," eh?
Just writing those dreadful words sent a cold chill from the past coursing through my veins.
Once a year, every year we drove to my paternal grandparents’ place on the opposite end of the state. This being long before the government in its demented wisdom took to building interstate highways, we always drove ever so slowly through the myriad of wonders of our state. One of the highlights that never failed to impress was the grim, and I mean unbelievably grim, stone walls of the state penitentiary where the electric chair did its handiwork. We drove extra slowly past these stones.
After that, though, came the piece de resistance in my father's continuous commentary of demonic morality by which he terrified us and amused himself. We drove past the state reform school for boys, and there they’d be, male miscreants, out in the fields silently and sullenly cultivating the vast gardens that would feed them through the winter without heat or comfort.
Cabbages--ever requiring to be weeded by the shuffling teens who moved like robots--miles and miles of cabbages and angry eyes looking at cars that went by--escape ever on the mind.
This grim scene was never passed without humorless comments from my parents in the front seat--from here, it was only a small step to that horrible stone wall. The implication was also always made that my brother and I would end up there for—well, the infractions were left to our minds, the better to cause us dread.
So the scene from 1600 Pennsylvania Avenue is, I am pretty certain, a prelude to more and more grass being ripped up by the First Lady’s chilling commands. Until there is no grass left. Just “garden.”
And then “garden” planted in—you guessed it—cotton!
And the workers in the “garden” will be all white people, stupid liberal white people who will think it actually a privilege to be able to work for the Dark Lady and Laddie. And the overseers, er, excuse me, "attendants" will all be black.
Those that don't find her garden to be to their liking will find themselves studying grim gray stone walls--from the inside. And they shouldn't be surprised if the lights mysteriously and often flicker and fade.
And Miss Michelle Herself will spend many a precious moment, sitting up on the Truman Balcony, sipping venom and cackling, and always savoring watching the debasing spectacle of America humiliating itself in front of her, and for her, and because of her.
“Here’s a little reminder to all you whities. What we got here is REPARATIONS!” you’ll hear her screeching at odd hours.
Venezuelan tourists, specially transported here from that workers’ paradise to the south, will marvel at what a determined and implacable hatred can really accomplish, so long as you have a media that thinks just like her. And which thinks that they will never be ensnared by the rotten system they've created.
Yes, Miss Michelle be livin’ large in Tara (it’s only a matter of time till all the black servants in that big house are required to wear white face makeup an step lively, REAL lively when they approach Big Mama)!
And it starts with a simple, oh-so-sweet, little garden.
The Children's Garden.
The Garden Sinister.
You jes' wait.
Some "victory," eh?
Friday, March 27, 2009
Disney Dog Crap
How can you tell when a culture has truly become debased?
Come on. It’s a fair question. Most of us believe this, but we don’t have a specific hook to hang our “Debased” hat on.
Well, Solomon is here to tell you that is when children’s entertainment has been perverted to support an unholy agenda. And that is what has happened in the land of the formerly free. Proof? Beverly Hills Chihuahua, from the poisoned minds at Disney.
I have to tell you, Solomon was actually looking forward to seeing this trifle as a Friday evening divertissement featuring dogs. Solomon, who usually prefers his entertainments to be somewhat challenging to the intellect, can occasionally cotton up to mindless nonsense occasionally.
But he didn’t think that such simple thing as a Disney dog movie would provoke such a visceral spasm of rage in him. For what he saw was not an entertaining dog movie, but proof of how low the cultural thieves have sunk to destroying what was once good.
Now, any Disney animal movie is going to have a degree of anthropomorphism involved—there would be a heckuva lot fewer cartoons if this were not so. So, we are all acculturated to accept this concept.
But within bounds. BHC went WAY over the line and plunked down solidly into Stalinist/Nazi Propaganda Land. It is actually telling kids how evil America and white people and capitalists are, for God’s sake! It is trying to turn our kids against the greatness that is America!
Lest you think Solomon himself has perhaps suffered a mishap to the “Proportional” side of his brain, let me walk you through this most problematic of movies.
Brush aside silly inconsistencies and unrealities as dogs tolerating booties and people being able to take dogs back and forth across the Mexican-American border. Plot exigencies sometimes requires us to swallow such things.
And we know from the get-go that the animals are, since they are going to speak, going to be anthropomorphized. OK. But are we going to totally remove their dogness in the process? That is exactly what happens here. These are NOT!!!! dogs. Though they wear the outward form of too-cute Chihuahuas (Solomon must fondly confess to owning a Chihuahua, but she is one who, because of slipshod breeding, is really a Chalupa, not a full-blooded Chihuahua), these Disney "dogs" do not display one bit of canine thinking or behavior. They think and behave—are you ready?—like human beings! Totally!
So we must analyze them as human beings, and not dogs. This movie is not going to teach you anything about dogs. It’s not going to produce any “How precious” moments, for those moments have been manipulated with CG effects. No, there’s no real dog story here at all. The dogs were the misused vehicles to promote a Leftist agenda.
What we are faced with is a young white American girl who, despite having been raised in a privileged environment, has absolutely no social class or dignity at all. Everything about her is insulting and, more important, demeaning to American white women. She looks down on all people of color or the working class with an insensitivity that even an ancien regime French aristocrat could not have pulled off.
She is the ugliest of Ugly Americans. Her aunt, a mindless mogul of millions, who does not a scintilla of real work, paper or otherwise, creates endless acts of animal cruelty and human cruelty and fauna cruelty, subjecting everything near her to be twisted out of its intended shape and destiny and into something that only a mindless moron at Disney (or a sinister apparatchik at the Overlord Simian’s bunker) could find airy and amusing.
This is not amusing. This is horrifying. This is Dr. Mengele making brown eyes blue with painful ocular injections. This is EVIL!
Oh, but it’s just for kids, for God’s sake! Of course it is.
The two Chihuahuas represent the humans. The female Chloe is white; the male Papi is brown. Gee, and the American girl is white and spoiled and contemptible, and the Mexican “landscaper” is (well, not brown, but could maybe be Hispanic) down-to-earth, hard-working, creative, honest, noble.
No stereotypes here, are there? Well, not exactly stereotypes unless you are a full-blown Stalinist who subscribes to the idea that all Capitalists are manipulating and marauding harridans, that all American whites are Nazi Supremacists, and that all people from other countries are down-trodden and worth all the rest.
Of course, white girl has to come to her senses (Chloe, the dog, when she drops her spangly booty off the train; white girl, when she realizes that Mexican guy might be a good lay—Hey! I didn’t write this script—that’s what it’s all about—white girls have to find third-worlders to fulfill their sexual fantasies). When she does, Mother Theresa would have looked cruel by comparison.
Message: Americans must throw off their addiction to capitalism and racial cruelty and they will be liberated, just as Che Guevara liberated so many (alas, liberated them from the land of living) to lead truly ennobled lives of selflessness.
Cue the twinkling birds of Cinderella.
This movie was written by and produced by people who have an agenda to subvert America and your kids. They promulgate that whites, capitalism, and America are bad, bad, bad, and that third-world poverty is oh-so-blessed and ennobling.
This movie is bad entertainment but even worse in its subversive subtext. Don’t buy into the crap that this is just a Chihuahua representation of Paris Hilton goes third world. There’s nothing satirical about this movie.
It is sinister.
Don’t let your children watch it. Unless with you, and let them hear you loud and clear scream against the Commie Marxists Who Betray Us All!
Come on. It’s a fair question. Most of us believe this, but we don’t have a specific hook to hang our “Debased” hat on.
Well, Solomon is here to tell you that is when children’s entertainment has been perverted to support an unholy agenda. And that is what has happened in the land of the formerly free. Proof? Beverly Hills Chihuahua, from the poisoned minds at Disney.
I have to tell you, Solomon was actually looking forward to seeing this trifle as a Friday evening divertissement featuring dogs. Solomon, who usually prefers his entertainments to be somewhat challenging to the intellect, can occasionally cotton up to mindless nonsense occasionally.
But he didn’t think that such simple thing as a Disney dog movie would provoke such a visceral spasm of rage in him. For what he saw was not an entertaining dog movie, but proof of how low the cultural thieves have sunk to destroying what was once good.
Now, any Disney animal movie is going to have a degree of anthropomorphism involved—there would be a heckuva lot fewer cartoons if this were not so. So, we are all acculturated to accept this concept.
But within bounds. BHC went WAY over the line and plunked down solidly into Stalinist/Nazi Propaganda Land. It is actually telling kids how evil America and white people and capitalists are, for God’s sake! It is trying to turn our kids against the greatness that is America!
Lest you think Solomon himself has perhaps suffered a mishap to the “Proportional” side of his brain, let me walk you through this most problematic of movies.
Brush aside silly inconsistencies and unrealities as dogs tolerating booties and people being able to take dogs back and forth across the Mexican-American border. Plot exigencies sometimes requires us to swallow such things.
And we know from the get-go that the animals are, since they are going to speak, going to be anthropomorphized. OK. But are we going to totally remove their dogness in the process? That is exactly what happens here. These are NOT!!!! dogs. Though they wear the outward form of too-cute Chihuahuas (Solomon must fondly confess to owning a Chihuahua, but she is one who, because of slipshod breeding, is really a Chalupa, not a full-blooded Chihuahua), these Disney "dogs" do not display one bit of canine thinking or behavior. They think and behave—are you ready?—like human beings! Totally!
So we must analyze them as human beings, and not dogs. This movie is not going to teach you anything about dogs. It’s not going to produce any “How precious” moments, for those moments have been manipulated with CG effects. No, there’s no real dog story here at all. The dogs were the misused vehicles to promote a Leftist agenda.
What we are faced with is a young white American girl who, despite having been raised in a privileged environment, has absolutely no social class or dignity at all. Everything about her is insulting and, more important, demeaning to American white women. She looks down on all people of color or the working class with an insensitivity that even an ancien regime French aristocrat could not have pulled off.
She is the ugliest of Ugly Americans. Her aunt, a mindless mogul of millions, who does not a scintilla of real work, paper or otherwise, creates endless acts of animal cruelty and human cruelty and fauna cruelty, subjecting everything near her to be twisted out of its intended shape and destiny and into something that only a mindless moron at Disney (or a sinister apparatchik at the Overlord Simian’s bunker) could find airy and amusing.
This is not amusing. This is horrifying. This is Dr. Mengele making brown eyes blue with painful ocular injections. This is EVIL!
Oh, but it’s just for kids, for God’s sake! Of course it is.
The two Chihuahuas represent the humans. The female Chloe is white; the male Papi is brown. Gee, and the American girl is white and spoiled and contemptible, and the Mexican “landscaper” is (well, not brown, but could maybe be Hispanic) down-to-earth, hard-working, creative, honest, noble.
No stereotypes here, are there? Well, not exactly stereotypes unless you are a full-blown Stalinist who subscribes to the idea that all Capitalists are manipulating and marauding harridans, that all American whites are Nazi Supremacists, and that all people from other countries are down-trodden and worth all the rest.
Of course, white girl has to come to her senses (Chloe, the dog, when she drops her spangly booty off the train; white girl, when she realizes that Mexican guy might be a good lay—Hey! I didn’t write this script—that’s what it’s all about—white girls have to find third-worlders to fulfill their sexual fantasies). When she does, Mother Theresa would have looked cruel by comparison.
Message: Americans must throw off their addiction to capitalism and racial cruelty and they will be liberated, just as Che Guevara liberated so many (alas, liberated them from the land of living) to lead truly ennobled lives of selflessness.
Cue the twinkling birds of Cinderella.
This movie was written by and produced by people who have an agenda to subvert America and your kids. They promulgate that whites, capitalism, and America are bad, bad, bad, and that third-world poverty is oh-so-blessed and ennobling.
This movie is bad entertainment but even worse in its subversive subtext. Don’t buy into the crap that this is just a Chihuahua representation of Paris Hilton goes third world. There’s nothing satirical about this movie.
It is sinister.
Don’t let your children watch it. Unless with you, and let them hear you loud and clear scream against the Commie Marxists Who Betray Us All!
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