2012 RNC Protest Awards

As with every major event, some self-satisfied schmuck comes along and deigns it his or her distinct honor to decide who were the best dressed, worst dressed, most improved, most likely to, most popular and funniest. In the case of The March on the Republican National Convention (RNC), that self-satisfied schmuck would be moi.

Most Likely To Be Shot By A Vigilante Neighborhood Watch Member 

It’s A Good Thing George Zimmerman Can’t Leave Orange County

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Most Likely To Have Thought Black Bloc Was A Fashion Trend

“Are We Supposed To Wear The Bandana As A Mask Or As A Scarf? It’s Cuter As A Scarf.”

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Most Likely To Think The March Ends At A Shelter

“GOP Farts Need To Give The Homeless Shopping Carts!”

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Cycling Zookeeper Regime Leads March On Republican National Convention

By Wearing Bicycle Helmets, The Zookeepers Ensured That Police Couldn’t Arrest Them For Failing To Follow Bicycle Safety Laws.

Perhaps the most prominent and organized group of protesters at Monday morning’s March on the RNC, which began just over a mile north of the Tampa Bay Times Forum, ground zero for this year’s convention, was the Cycling Zookeeper Regime. Dressed from neck to knees in khaki to honor their slain leader, Steve Irwin, a.k.a. The Crocodile Hunter, the members of the CZR (pronounced seize-her) were determined to thwart law enforcement’s plans to arrest them en masse after the organization threatened – in a YouTube video last week – to release Animals of Mass Destruction within the secure areas of the RNC’s Clean Zone. Though the March was attended by hundreds of protesters representing over a dozen causes, CZR members had clearly organized and orchestrated the entire event, as evidenced by their constant and silent presence on the sidelines. Even the most unruly protesters seemed to respect the CZR’s control, waiting patiently and holding their banners, while CZR members repositioned their bicycle-wielding bodies into a human chain along the March route that would prove so daunting to law enforcement, they refused to attempt to break it.

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A Humor Blog For Horrible People

I’m A Horrible Person And I Endorse This Blog. (Paid For By The Association Of Horrible People And Vladimir Putin)

A Humor Blog For Horrible People

That’s my new tagline – and one that will take up residence on my newly-designed website in a month or so after all of my Paltry Meanderings’ readers have caught on. You may have noticed that I’ve got a new name and look. It was time for a change or, as David Bowie would put it, it was time to turn and face the strange.

However, my blog makeover is only one of several metamorphoses I’ve undergone recently. In fact, during my brief August sabbatical:

1) I’ve Become A Vegan:I know…I may as well have just confided to you that I’ve moved to Oregon, stopped shaving my legs, taken to rubbing a chunk of crystal under my arms instead of deodorant, started wearing Birkenstocks, and sold my televisions in order to donate the money to my local farm co-operative. Of course, that’s ridiculous. I don’t even use deodorant. For the record, although I love all critters, I decided to eschew meat and all animal-based products because I had some addiction issues to conquer – namely my lifelong enslavement to one particular substance – not because I wanted to have an excuse for wearing the fugliest shoes ever created. Breaking this dependence was critical to my relationship with my husband, my parents, my friends and my waistline.

Stop! Take Them Off, Mommy. They Burn, Mommy. The Birkenstocks Burn My Feet.

They say, Admitting you have a problem is the first step.So here I am to announce to all of you today that I, Miss Snarky Pants, am an addict. I can’t remember not drinking. I suppose whole milk was my gateway drug, but then my mother further mired me in the Swamp of Dependency by introducing me to Nestlé Quik. Within days, I was a chocolate milk junkie. Mom enabled my new addiction by permitting me to slug down a glass every Saturday morning – as long as I woke her first and asked permission. Of course, I scored half pints of the stuff in the school cafeteria; you’d be amazed what you can get in trade for an apple, half a Twinkie and a bathroom stall blow job.

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Letters To Mitt

Mitt Romney – Will Gaffeing Be The Next Olympic Sport? (Image via google.com)

Dear Mitt:

When you have gazillions of dollars and no job, you aren’t “unemployed.” You’re “retired.”

xo

CCL

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Dear Mitt:

London is an international,  financial hub with a port, the first underground rail system and nearly 8 million people. Salt Lake City is dot on a map with a lake, a genealogical library and less than 200,000 people. Don’t get them confused again.

xo

CCL

London – This Is What A Real City Looks Like (image via AP)

Dear Mitt:

I know the trees in London look like they’re exactly the right height, but don’t say that out loud.

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Don’t Be Such A Ratcist!

Most People’s Opinion Of Rats (Image via hamamori.com)

“At the heart of ratcism is the religious assertion that God made a creative mistake when He brought some critters into being.” – Friedrich Otto Hertz’s rat

Most people dislike rats. For some, it’s the misplaced belief that today’s domestic rats are the same critters that spread the Bubonic Plague throughout Europe during the Middle Ages. Of course, this is absurd. Any historian worth his salt – like Mel Gibson, for example – will tell you that there was no Bubonic Plague, just like there was no Holocaust or 1969 moon landing. And even if there was a Plague – and I’m not saying there was – the poor rats were mere pawns manipulated by the true perpetrators: fleas, who used the rats as a form of  mass rapid transit with a conveniently-attached dining car.

For others, it’s the fear that rats will chew off their babies faces while they sleep. To those people, I say, “Wipe the friggin’ jelly off your kid’s mouth before putting them to bed.” And why do you have wild rats scurrying through your home in the first place? Have you never heard of Truly Nolan? Could it be that you live in a Hoarders-worthy pigsty and the stacks of newspaper that form the interior walls of your home provide perfect nesting material for vermin? In that case, rats are the least of your worries. Still, others get the willies just looking at a rat’s long, rather scaly tail – and understandable phobia considering how many deaths are caused every year by vicious rat tail thrashings that can leave a person’s skin looking like a slave’s back in Roots.

Whipped By A Racist Plantation Owner Or The Victim Of A Rat Tail Thrashing? (Image via politicalforum.com)

In first grade, my parents bought me a gerbil. Its name escapes me, but it’s demise will be forever ingrained in my memory as one of the most horrifying moments of my young life. This is what happens when your parents entrust the animal care in your home to a person who will eventually become an infamous cat burglar. As our pet sitter was too occupied with stealing jewels from stately Miami mansions to remember to close the gerbil cage properly, we returned from our vacation to discover Whatever-Its-Name-Was in a bloody, mutilated mess – and our cat, Pumpkin, well fed.

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Reggie Reader Profile #8 (Don't Call It A Blogroll.)

Reblogged from Sweet Mother:

Click to visit the original post

Oh, it’s been a cruel, cruel summer.  I started this blog out with such a fervor.  I was in a frenzy.  I was frackin’ dedicated.  I’m still dedicated, but I’ve got the wahs and the blahs.  If this long, hot, cruel, summer doesn’t end soon, I fear I’ll have nothing left to write about, but paper bags.  Don’t think I won’t do it? 

Read more… 725 more words

The Amazing Blog Goddess of the Universe, Sweet Mother, dedicated today's post to praising my Paltry Meanderings blog. The Amazon Amaze-balls Blogger Whom I Most Admire is waxing sentimental about my writing?????? What's next? Is David Sedaris going to show up at my door with an engagement ring? Is Aaron Sorkin going to beg me to join the writing staff for the second season of The Newsroom? Is bacon going to be declared vegan because pigs spend so much time with their noses in the mud? Please read, share and send Sweet Mother every bit of blog love you have. And if you aren't reading her blog and think you're too busy to do so, you're wrong. Brushing your teeth two to three times a day is just a suggestion, not a friggin' law. Sleeping - you can sleep when you're dead (or when both Sweet Mother and I am dead and no longer blogging). Sex - ha! You weren't having sex. Stop being silly. Immediately follow Sweet Mother, then report back to me and tell me how fucking awesome she is! Or how awesome I am. Or how awesome David Sedaris is. Even two out of three would be good.

Headlines From The Fluffington Post

I enjoy reading The Huffington Post. It delivers my news in the crunchy-granola, tree-hugging, Obama-loving, non-homophobic, NPR-listening, organically-grown, Jon Stewart-worshiping, ballet-flat wearing format that makes me feel happy, informed and secure. If The Huff Post editors eat meat, I’m sure they feel guilty about it later. For years now, reading my news online delivered me from the hell that is local, conservative news programming – or worse – vapid, syndicated morning shows, which make me nauseous with their bright, Crest-strip smiles and regular visits from the local zoo. Meet Nagini, the albino python or a hoard of hissing cockroaches. Please – not before I’ve eaten my oatmeal, okay?

Kill Me Now! (Image via msn.com)

But then things changed. AOL came into the picture and acquired The Huff Post. Suddenly Arianna Huffington was in the hot seat on every liberal media program mumbling her way through interviews in a Greek accent thicker than a tub of Chiobani. Despite the fact that AOL is a true bastard bastion of news organizations, up there with The National Enquirer and US Magazine Time, The Economist and The Atlantic, recent headlines have been less than compelling.

Now I’m not going to blow bullshit dust up your ass; I love my pop culture and I pepper my posts with references to the Kardashian Empire (now which one is Anastasia?) just as often as I defend Obama’s birth certificate or my desire to own Vladimir Putin as a guard dog.

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Salt Is The Spice Of Life And Other Tales Of Chef-Induced Woe

Salt And Pepper’s Here And We’re In Effect (Image via Cristy Lewis)

Thomas Edison legendarily tested potential employees by inviting them to dinner. If they sprinkled salt on their food before tasting it, he refused to hire them, viewing their thoughtless salting as a sign that their preconceived mindset would prevent them from analyzing a situation thoroughly before taking action. To be fair, this method of eliminating job applicants has also been attributed to Henry Ford, IBM, and General MacArthur, to name just a few.

And I think it’s bullshit.

I love salt. A dash brings out the subtle flavors of food. Salt is to the beefsteak tomato what Matt Damon is to Ben Affleck – the ingredient that makes it worthy of notice. Though I often taste my food before sprinkling it with salt, I like to think that my decision to pre-salt my bowl of Fly Bar’s truffled macaroni and cheese doesn’t make me incapable of critical analysis, but rather demonstrates that homo sapiens are able to learn and make choices based on previously acquired knowledge. Sure, it’s possible that the restaurant could hire a new chef who knows how to properly season food with what I affectionately call The White Devil, but an extra dash of  salt never hurt anybody.

And pepper – make mine freshly ground and applied as liberally to a dish as Donald Trump’s self-tanner is sprayed onto his Oompa Loompa orange face. Black pepper is fine, but a gourmet combination of black, white, red and green peppercorns is sublime. If I had a dick, fresh ground pepper would make it hard.

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Award Posts Make Me Want To Become A Ward Of The State Penitentiary

What Do Brad Pitt And I Have In Common? As A Result Of Fame Coming So Quickly And Us Being So Attractive, We’re Missing Our Sensitivity Chips. (Image via Wikipedia)

I’m a terrible person. If Jennifer Aniston had married me (which would have been creepy because she doesn’t have a penis), when we finally divorced and I posed for photos with Angelina Jolie (not nearly as creepy because I’m pretty sure she does have a penis), she would have told the press in that whiny manner of hers that I have a sensitivity chip missing. Blog success came early, along with the accolades that often accompany this lowly profession (erm, if profession means something I do to while away the hours after I’ve completely emptied my bottle of Ketel One each morning) and, as a result, I’ve been uninterested remiss in acknowledging and responding to some of the lovely awards that have been bestowed upon me by my fellow bloggers.

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Stealing From Alice

You’re Not Likely To Find A Button Manufactured Extolling The Fact That London Bridge Is Falling Down. Cootie Shots Are Serious Business.

Today, I’m cheating. I’m stealing the book of alice’s format right out from under her, just this once. Why? Because I met the most hilarious 7 year old boy at an Independence Day pool party this afternoon.

Dripping wet and shivering, Freddie was searching for a dry towel.

Me: Do you want to use one of my towels? They’re dry.

Freddie: No.

Me: Why not? I promise, I don’t have cooties.

Freddie: I know, but I don’t want to give you cooties.

Me: Oh, I doubt you have any cooties. Haven’t you had your cootie shot?

Freddie: Huh?

Me: (taking Freddie’s arm in my hand, I draw two circles then poke him with my finger tip twice) Circle, circle, dot, dot. Now you’ve got your cootie shot.

Freddie: (a look of humor mixed with a healthy dose of disdain on his chocolate-smudged face) What is that? Some kind of baby rhyme?

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