Browse Category: Social Commentary

Je suis Charlie


Remembering the victims of the Charlie Hebdo massacre:

Frédéric Boisseau, Franck Brinsolaro, Jean Cabut, Elsa Cayat, Stéphane Charbonnier, Philippe Honoré, Bernard Maris, Ahmed Merabet, Mustapha Ourrad, Michel Renaud, Bernard Verlhac (Tignous), Georges Wolinski.

I urge you to read Open Letter: On Blasphemy, Islamophobia, and the True Enemies of Free Expression by Charb (Stéphane Charbonnier).

Criticizing a religion is not racist.

Criticizing religious zealots and terrorists is not racist.

Islam itself is not a problem.

People who want to silence others are the problem.

People who want to kill others in the name of a religion are the problem, be that religion Islam or Christianity or Judaism or vegetarianism.

(The above drawing is my response to an attack at an exhibit featuring cartoons of Muhammed. More information can be found at this Wikipedia page.)

Written By Some Perverty Bum

On the back of a pew in the balcony of a church

While I was walking up the stairs, though, all of a sudden I thought I was going to puke again. Only, I didn’t. I sat down for a second, and then I felt better. But while I was sitting down, I saw something that drove me crazy. Somebody’d written “Fuck you” on the wall. It drove me damn near crazy. I thought how Phoebe and all the other little kids would see it, and how they’d wonder what the hell it meant, and then finally some dirty kid would tell them – all cockeyed, naturally – what it meant, and how they’d all think about it and maybe even worry about it for a couple of days. I kept wanting to kill whoever’d written it I figured it was some perverty bum that’d sneaked in the school late at night to take a leak or something and then wrote it on the wall. I kept picturing myself catching him at it, and how I’d smash his head on the stone steps till he was good and goddam dead and bloody. But I knew, too, I wouldn’t have the guts to do it. That made me even more depressed. I hardly had the guts to rub it off the wall with my hand, if you want to know the truth. I was afraid some teacher would catch me rubbing it off and would think I’d written it. But I rubbed it out anyway, finally.
I went down by a different staircase, and I saw another “Fuck you” on the wall. I tried to rub it off with my hand again, but this one was scratched on, with a knife or something. It wouldn’t come off. It’s hopeless, anyway. If you had a million years to do it in, you couldn’t rub out even half the “Fuck you” signs in the world. It’s impossible.
I was the only one left in the tomb then. I sort of like it, in a way. It was so nice and peaceful. Then, all of a sudden, you’d never guess what I saw on the wall. Another “Fuck you.” It was written with a read crayon or something, right under the glass part of the wall, under the stones.

That’s the whole trouble. You can’t ever find a place that’s nice and peaceful, because there isn’t any. You may think there is, but once you get there, when you’re not looking, somebody’ll sneak up and write “Fuck you” right under your nose. Try it sometime. I think even, if I ever die, and they stick me in a cemetery, and I have a tombstone and all, it’ll say “Holden Caulfield” on it, and then what year I was born and what year I died, and then right under that it’ll say “Fuck you.” I’m positive, in fact.

Holden Caulfield in “The Catcher in the Rye,” Chapter 25

Take a Look at This

Maybe dad is the one who needs the braille here. He’s not looking where mom and child are looking. Or maybe it’s not dad. Maybe he’s some creep who is checking out mom.

I know you’ve been keeping an eye out for a blog post from me. This one doesn’t appear to be much. But take a look.

This package has braille on it. It was the only package I saw as I wandered around this store. It was somewhere near the center of the store. All I could think was, if a blind guy came in here trying to find this particular item, which is highly likely since this product is specifically marketed to those who consume braille, how would he find it in the middle of this store? He would have to touch every other item up and down the aisles until he found this one. He would undoubtedly knock some products on the floor. If he put them back on the shelf, how would he know they were right side up or not? The store would potentially be a wreck by the time he got to this one pack of crackers that was thoughtful enough to provide braille for sightless shoppers.

That’s how I see it.

All My Ducks In A Row

Does the phrase, “I got all my ducks in a row,” have significance if you only have two ducks?

If you only have two ducks, aren’t they in a row by default? The shortest distance between any two ducks is a straight row, right?

So, automatically, everyone has some of their ducks in a row.

Unless, of course, you only have one duck. Then your duck is just lonely. That’s a different problem.

I have two ducks. Two’s company. Three’s a crowd. I’ll keep it simple with two and tell you, “I got ALL my ducks in a row.” As long as you don’t delve into my ducks you’ll never know that things look orderly merely because I’m operating with only two ducks.

Quack. Quack.