Sh, Don't Tell the Principal

My dual-credit student who's researching gays and lesbians recently wrote me this, as part of a research journal on a source she found:

...I found this page searching through the yahoo search engine on our school computers. I was searching for the homosexual choice. I clicked on this link except it was blocked so I had to go around it through a proxy. Sh, don’t tell our principal. I picked it because it has a professional view on the homosexual choice. It was very difficult decision to use it or not I didn’t want to but I thought it would be good to use this article...

Just reading this causes me to smile and resolve to cease my customary cynical outlook -- for at least a day.

The Things They Learn These Days

Anyone here ever live in Idaho? Ever visit the place? I just wondered because of this

Excerpt:

...Whoolery and his wife couldn't believe it when their second and third graders got off the bus last week and told them what other students were saying.

"They just hadn't heard anything like this before," said Whoolery. "They were chanting on the bus, 'Assassinate Obama. Assassinate Obama'...

The Whoolery's explained to their kids what assassinate means then contacted the school about what was happening. "I think the thing that struck us was just like, 'Where did they get the word and why would they put that word and that person together?'" said Whoolery...

The Secret Service must be wondering likewise.

Impaled: Confessions of a Groupie

I've written some unkind things about Sarah Palin lately. However, I’ve taken time to re-think my position. Day after day, Palin’s name is persistently in the news. Will she run for president in 2012? Will she appoint herself senator? Will she leave politics for show business? Will she do this, will she do that? Why just yesterday, Matt Lauer and the Today Show invaded her kitchen just to watch her make a halibut and salmon casserole. Is she gearing up to replace Martha Stewart?

On a strictly personal note, I should have seen where all this was leading; but I guess it was inevitable. At last, the constant drip, drip of Palin's face and voice on my TV screen has become like some monstrous variation of Chinese water torture. As a result, my internal resistance to her gibberish has been shattered. And I am like a junkie with neither a prayer nor hope. I can no longer assume responsibility for myself or my actions. In short, I have become a Sarah Palin groupie.

How did this transformation come about? Let me try to explain: Remember that scene in The Music Man where Professor Harold Hill is deciding how and when to put the make on the unsuspecting Marian the Librarian? He commences with a song -- “The Sadder But Wiser Girl for Me” -- and vows that “no bright-eyed, blushing, breathless baby-doll baby” will ever put her hooks in him. He only has eyes for the smartest gal in River City, Iowa: Maid Marian. Well, as far as I’m concerned, Professor Hill can have her.

With apologies to “sadder but wiser girls” everywhere, allow me to state the following facts. Men are not interested in sad women. Men are not interested in wise women. Men want girls who are happy and dumb. The less complicated they are, the simpler to get along with. The less intelligent they are, the fewer arguments to put up with. Believe me, I know. I’ve had smart, and I’ve had dumb; and dumb is incomparably better.

I realize some of you are thinking that this is, to use the new cant, "objectification" of gender, that all this is yet again some sordid male-fantasy vision of women perpetrated by a disciple of Ian Fleming or Hugh Hefner. Well, Sarah Palin is no fantasy; she’s for real. Sarah Palin is the original Stepford Wife – nice, simple, pleasant, devoted, always impeccably dressed and groomed, a nice hostess, great in the kitchen -- AND always available. She’s the Playgirl of the Year who teasingly complains that she wants to be appreciated for her mind and not her body. Well, maybe she does have a little something up there. After all, who else could think up such clever names for her children -- names like “Piper” and “Trig” and “Bristol?” I don’t know about you, but it turns me several shades of chartreuse.

As far as politics goes, Sarah’s job isn’t to put on airs in a public forum and make herself look smart. Oh, no. You see, part of Sarah’s charm is her authenticity. And in that respect, she is authentically clueless. And for that reason alone, I have fallen for her -- and in a big way too. The way one loses their heart and mind to a rising rock star. She was – and is – the new American Idol; I am now 100% behind her. And the view is terrific!


The Lady With Glasses and a Gun

Smoking in the Men's Room

Second only to a monastery during a prayer vigil, the men’s room is the most silent place on God’s green earth. Men go there solely to take care of business and then leave -- quickly. They don’t talk, they don’t look about, and they rarely hang around long enough to preen themselves in the mirror. Sometimes they’re in such a hurry to exit the premises they don’t even bother flushing. Often, they don’t wash their hands either. Zip down, zip up, and out the door. Finished. In that respect, the proceedings inside a men’s room are as streamlined as a Wall Street stockholders’ meeting, minus the acrimony.

In fact, the men’s room is so quiet that occasionally some go there just to catch up on their newspaper reading. This is especially advantageous for those frequent cases where the custodian has neglected to re-stock toilet paper. That way, the editorial pages of the Corpus Christi Caller-Times can finally be put to good use.

It’s been observed that the highest concentration of bacteria in any public facility is found on the inside handle of the bathroom door. (For reasons why, see paragraph 1 above.) It is highly recommended, therefore, that one use a paper towel for the following two purposes: (1) To dry hands after washing them and (2) to use towel to open privy door when exiting. Hygiene problem solved. But naturally this presents another problem; once you have safely opened the door and made your exit, you discover there is nowhere to dispose of the towel. Solution: Drop the towel on the floor and make your getaway while feigning innocence. It might even do to whistle a tune. “She Came in Through the Bathroom Window” is regarded as most appropriate.

Some may ask whether any of this is important. After all, we spend at least a third of our lives in bed, and a considerably lesser percentage of time in the toilet. Why not point out the cleanliness of changing the sheets once a week, or the necessity of beating and airing out mattresses each season?

Such people should be reminded that this is a family blog, and we don’t discuss what people do -- in, on, with, or even under their beds. It is strictly up to the individual as consenting adult -- just as long as the bed doesn’t mind. We beg not to go into such questionable activities here. And that’s all we have to say on the matter.