God. I still feel like a bowl of reheated ass, cooked too long. I don't get sick often, but when I do, it puts me down like a pit bull that bit someone. Today is my first day back in the office, in fact, though I've been working all week from home. No naps, no nothing, just me, "Rockford Files", and the laptop. I did get to see "Inside Man" with Denzel the other day, though, and may I just say this: Is there any genre of movie better than the heist genre? You know what I'm talking about. Think "The Italian Job". I LOVE a movie that has an intricately planned heist, especially one that makes you say "DAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAMN!" at the end of it. This was one of those flicks. Rent it, see it, love it. Now. Since I DID manage to drag ass into the office, I suppose I should deliver this one day late diatribe to you. But don't worry about it being yesterday's news - it's ALWAYS yesterday's news. So sit back, grab some Cheetos, stretch out, and prepare to be mystified at the stupidity of humanity. I know I am. On with the 'tribe. ----------------------------- (From News of the Weird) In September, police in the Georgia towns of Perry and Americus were investigating incidents probably involving the same unnamed man, who provided an additional dimension to the typical foot-fetishist: religion. An 80-year-old Wal-Mart shopper in Perry reported that the man was sitting on the floor of an aisle and asked her for help with his "religious" ritual. The lady accommodated him by stepping on his hands and then spitting on him, but when he began to lick her feet, she called for help. This type of thing seems to happen every week somewhere: some freak with a foot fetish starts licking heels or sniffing shoes or something, seemingly oblivious to the fact that it's illegal to do that with an unwilling participant. Once again, I question: what part of the brain tells you that this is a good idea? Is it the same part that makes you drive home drunk as a skunk? Is it the same part that makes you diss the girl who is interested in you, even though you haven't had vagina since vagina had you? (Come on, man. You haven't been on a date since the century number started with "19". Don't be all picky now. She's nice. Roll with it.) I can understand having a foot fetish. I have a mild one my damn self. But no part of me would be down with walking up to some random chick at Wal-Mart and asking to handle her feet. Hell, they might be crusty or something. Licking a strange, crusty-footed woman's foot? Damn all that. ----------------------- (From News of the Weird) LaToya Joplin was arrested in July in Ypsilanti Township, Mich., and charged with killing her daughter, Kayla, 3, despite her statements to a sheriff's detective (read in court in an August hearing) that she, and not Kayla, was the real victim. The detective said Joplin told him "she was the one who was abused when she disciplined Kayla, because she would strike her to the point that her hand was throbbing." She was forced to keep hitting her, she said, because Kayla never said "ouch." Remember a few posts back, when I advocated spanking? Well, I still do. Spare the rod and spoil the child. But this shit here ain't spanking, people. This was assault and battery at the minimum, and most likely straight-up murder. This bitch needs to roast for this awful crime. She was forced to keep hitting her because the little girl didn't say ouch? What the fuck kind of BULLSHIT statement is that? And to make herself out to be the victim....she has zero remorse. None. This is the one time that I hope she doesn't get the death penalty (I'm not even sure if they have it in Michigan). I want her to live a long, long life. I want them to convict her, and I want her sentence to be this: convicted felons dig a hole that's about 4 feet in diameter and approximately 25 feet deep, straight down. They then cement the walls and floor of the hole, making a nice, smooth surface, reminiscent of a freshly-waxed 'gina. I want some high-quality JBL speakers mounted about 10 feet from the bottom of the hole, and I want them to play sounds of children laughing and playing, and maybe some Christian rap on a continuous loop. Then I want LaToya gently lowered into her new cell, carefully so as to not injure her. When she gets to the bottom, that's it. I want her food to be thrown in, once a day, and I do NOT want a drain installed in the floor. Every 30 days I want her tranquilized like a wild animal, lifted out, hosed down, and sent back into her smelly hell hole. If she gets sick, I want her treated with the best possible medical care until she's at full health. And I want this to continue in perpetuity. ----------------------- (From News of the Weird) In September, following complaints of diners, the health department in Springfield, Mo., notified restaurants that Debby Rose's "assistance monkey" could not be permitted to dine with her (in a high chair), even though Rose said she suffers from a disabling social phobia that she can accommodate only if "Richard" (a bonnet macaque monkey) is with her. Monkeys are generally permitted under the Americans with Disabilities Act if they perform certain tasks, as capuchin monkeys have been trained to fetch groceries from shelves for wheelchair-using patrons. However, animals that provide only emotional support fall into a gray area, according to a U.S. Justice Department spokesperson quoted by the Springfield News-Leader. Look at these people, all hatin' on poor Debby and her monkey Richard. If I saw a woman in a restaurant, eating with a monkey, I'd just assume that was her date from Match.com or something, you know? And I wouldn't judge her. That monkey might have a lot to offer, maybe even more than her pot-growing ex-boyfriend who CLAIMED to have a job at Home Depot, but never actually went in because "they keep fucking with my hours". This is the same boyfriend who never has money for the light bill, but damn if he can't buy a $150 Fathead.com static sticker of a life-sized Peyton Manning to put on the living room wall. And THEN asks Debby if he can borrow some money from her to pay HIS half of the phone bill. Surely the monkey is a better partner than THAT sour douche. He SAVED her! She was a recluse until he came along, a hermit in her own home. But did the people in the restaurant even ASK about the situation? Probably not. They just judged her and moved on, nevermind the consequences. I bet if THEY had some hot monkey lovin', they'd change their tune. 'Cause you know what they say: once you go ape, you'll never escape. Peace.