The Horror...The Horror...

You know what? If the children are so fucking fragile, maybe people who have them should stuff their underdeveloped ears with earthquake wax and leave the little tykes tied up in the living room and covered with plastic like my granny used to do to her couch. (I don't think granny's living room couch saw ass once.)

Anyway, the way the FCC nitwits play it, if The Children hear the word "shit," they have no choice but to immediately run over to sell crank to first graders outside the elementary school and pimp unwitting fourth graders to feed their own habits. (Yeah, right -- like it takes one of the most benign banned words out there to make them do that.)

Back here in the real world, The Children don't need TV to "corrupt" them. No, they're much too busy teaching classes in teabagging on the playground -- when they aren't too busy having some hot back door fun behind the gym. In Bill Maher's words, from his Salon piece I posted once before:

New Rule: Abstinence pledges make you horny. A new eight-year study just released reveals that American teenagers who take "virginity" pledges of the sort so favored by the Bush administration wind up with just as many STDs as the other kids.

But that's not all -- taking the pledges also makes a teenage girl six times more likely to perform oral sex, and a boy four times more likely to get anal. Which leads me to an important question: where were these pledges when I was in high school?

Seriously, when I was a teenager, the only kids having anal intercourse were the ones who missed. My idea of lubrication was oiling my bike chain. If I had known I could have been getting porn star sex the same year I took Algebra II, simply by joining up with the Christian right, I'd have been so down with Jesus they would have had to pry me out of the pew.

Meanwhile, back at Advice Goddess Acres, I had Dish Network set to record Boston Legal, a show I love, lately guest-starring my witty talented, playwright and screenwriter friend David Bottrell as the judge's creepy peeping neighbor.

When Dish is about to record, it flips to the correct channel about two minutes early. In this case, a show with Ted Danson, Help Me Help You, was on. Looked like a bunch of people in group therapy -- one of whom described a woman as...get this:

"Bat-poop crazy."

Bat-poop crazy? Bat-POOP crazy? How does the writer sleep at night? I was especially offended by this horror, as, along with "assclown" and, more recently, "sugartits," "bat-shit crazy" happens to be one of my favorite terms -- one, by the way, that's extremely helpful in accurately describing every tenth person in large gatherings of psychotherapists.

And I know we're not supposed to ask this, but what, exactly, would happen to all the precious little enfants...if somebody just said the actual word "shit"? Well, nothing...but think of all those nice thousand dollar bills from fines for shit dissemination that must be snuggling up together in the FCC's coffers.

Oh yeah, and while we're on the phony baloney sanctity of words, the other day, a commenter trying to dance around the fact that he has no proof of god's existence intimated that there were class issues around my mention of the word "vagina." In his words:

Love the vagina analogy, by the way. Classy.

To be fair, it was a giant purple hovering vagina. I'd written:

Personally, I see no evidence there is a god, just as I see no evidence, as I believe I posted elsewhere, that there's a giant purple vagina hovering over my house. Until there's proof of either Hover Pussy or God, I'll go on my merry way, writing, blogging, and preening...until I'm worm kibble.

We've already solved the one on whether there's a god (no evidence, dears!) This is great, because now we can move on to a really thorny question about genitalia and class: If there is such a thing as a giant purple hovering vagina, do you think it can be excluded from country club membership?

photo by Gregg Sutter outside the downtown L.A. Laemmle theater.