SOMETHING somebody said has to be offensive to me!

So, the firing of Don Imus is a "turning point", according to MSNBC.
If this is the direction we're heading after such a monumental turning point, I'd like to go ahead and ask Borat to shoot me in the head -- I AM one-sixteenth Jewish, after all, and so I suppose I could claim emotional scarring from seeing the movie. Instead, I saw it for what it was -- a big freakin' joke on America, and it couldn't have targeted a more deserving group.
The firing of Don Imus is one more setback in this nation's increasingly embarrassing history. Let's set aside the fact that freedom of speech is allegedly one of our protected rights as stated in the Constitution and just focus on the generality of his comment. When I was in high school some fifteen years ago, girls called other girls "nappy headed ho's" when they felt they had to say something but couldn't specifically target any one thing about the other party to comment upon. It was a generic insult. Now, of course, such a comment MUST mean that we're demeaning other races. By firing the man who made such an innocent remark, NBC and now, apparently, CBS are paving the way for different races to sue each other for restitution for something that happened what, nearly 200 years ago? That's what I thought. I call bullshit. Let's wipe the slate clean and remember that nobody is alive now who commented such atrocities then. And please, please stop crying foul over everything that MIGHT be offensive to someone. Otherwise, I'll have a lot of people to put up for firing consideration, starting with anyone who ever told a fat joke (I used to be chubby) and ending with oh, I don't know, anyone who ever called ME nappy-headed when I had my hair extensions in 1993. Boy oh boy, I can almost smell the money!

Cold? What cold?

All right, so Alex Gordon didn't get a hit, but what about that Ross Gload, huh? Unfortunately, the Royals could not mount a win with only one guy hitting the ball, and, although Beckett walked four, the Sox field took care of the baserunners from their end and showed the Royals that they knew how to play the game even in cold weather. Except Lowell, but I always hated third base myself.
The hot chocolate was the best I have had in my life. I don't even like hot chocolate; I prefer my chocolate in large quantities and solid form, but this was some good shit. We met a guy in line at the concession stand (the first time) from Lexington... freakin' Massachussetts! I was trying to get a picture of Shawn and Hunter ordering so I could mentally add a Field of Dreams caption ("What do you want?" "I want people to leave me alone. I want peace, etc." "No, I mean, what do you WANT?" "Oh. A dog and a beer." Hunter obviously would have been the one to say that), and the guy asked if we wanted our picture taken together. Since he didn't ask us to take off our shoes and socks and stand in a fountain, I trusted that he wouldn't take off with the camera... what was that from, European Vacation?... and for once I was right. It was Buck Night, which of course meant that hot dogs were a dollar, so we ordered enough to fill up a small suitcase and managed to save a couple to take my dad (bad idea scheduling Royals-Red Sox in Kansas City during tax season).
One thing I always let myself forget, from year to year, is how basically kind and good people are. The camera guy, the people sitting around us... I'm telling you, baseball is the best spectator sport. Basketball fans are sweaty and indoors, (not to mention often standing up), football fans are more aggressive than I like to see, and the soccer game I tried to watch was much less exciting than I'd been led to believe about the sport.
The hard part was when we were walking to the concession stand (first time) and there was a dark-haired man in a wheelchair in front of me. I didn't think I could stop the rush of tears, but I forced them back (all that practice these last ten months has paid off big time) and tried not to remember.
I don't care who the commentators and coaches attribute the Red Sox win to, Granddad. I know that they realized somehow it was our first game with only three of the four members of our group in attendance, and they wanted to win that game for you.

Only the TRUE fans will...

...watch a freakin' major league baseball game tonight. Weather forecasts and current conditions all but pinky swear that we're in for a ass-biter of a night. It'll be more like "MLB on Ice" than the Red Sox versus the Royals. Still, though, it's opening week, which means summer will be here, and that rocks, because that's my favorite time to bitch about the heat while mopping my shiny forehead with anything nearby, including little children and animals.
Anyway, we're sitting without overhead shelter, about fifteen rows behind home plate, with no guarantee that our multi-layered bodies will fit in the seats. I plan to resemble Randy in "A Christmas Story", and I'm still freaked out by the cold. My nose needs no coaxing to turn bright, alcoholic-red, much like a human Rudolph (the reindeer, not Giuliani).
We leave in an hour, but for now I have to go tell a drunk customer that "25" is NOT "50". As in milligrams. I will not go down for correctly filling a prescription order. I said good day, sir!

Wanna know a secret?

Anyone who already knows me knows that I am disgusted with any woman's actions that, in turn, set the women's movement back at least ten years.
Well, let's meet the latest perpetrator... if she plays her cards right, views on a woman's place in society will continue to slip back, as far as fifty years, if my calculations are correct (they usually aren't).
Name: Rhonda Byrne
Crime: Byrne is the mastermind behind a book called "The Secret".
"The Secret" is a bullshit idea that was first the focus of a movie before someone allowed it to be printed. I had heard a lot of great things about this book, so much so that I was considering reading it. In fact, I read this article about the book this morning simply because I was interested in the book itself.
I love books, but if what this article says has any truth to it at all, I'm ready to start burning. Byrne, baby, Byrne.
It sounded like the same old self-help money-sucker at first. Then I realized that the premise was being explained just so that we could feel the impact when the author imposed her own translation upon the ignorant public. Here it is, summed up in a sentence and a half.
"Wanna lose weight? Don't look at fat people."
Byrne claims that we bring good and bad things upon ourselves by our actions. That's fine, that's karma, and I, too, believe that, to an extent. What I never believed was that karma meant completely avoiding what you didn't want. It makes sense if you avoid, say, an affair because you don't want to have one. Sure, I get it! But to say "Don't look at fat people" brings to mind a response from the great Steve Martin, altered to fit my own point:
"Ma'am, you are TALKING to a fat person!"
I'm not fat right now, but I've battled my weight off and on since I was nine years old. Trust me, Rhonda Byrne, you stupid whore, we feel invisible enough already. No, I'm not fat, but I have been, and when you're walking across campus in your sweats because you've outgrown even your fat jeans, and people pass by you without glancing up, well, I guess they're doing what you instructed, so never mind.
If I look at someone who is homosexual, will I be gay? If I look at someone in stonewashed jeans, does that give me bad 80s fashion sense? If I read your book, will I instantly turn into a brain-drained airhead?
I wouldn't expect you to get back to me on that, but damn you, Rhonda Byrne, you have gone straight to the top of my "Women Who Give Women a Bad Name" list, bypassing the yogurt commercial chicks even.
Wanna know a secret? I'm ashamed to be a dame right now.