(Admonishment: strong adult content, situations, themes, and innuendoes)
I sheepishly confess that I did NOT know what a gender reveal party was, and I foolishly thought the worst. Little did I know it was a party thrown by an expecting couple to bring in all their family and friends, and let them file by the refrigerator to have a gander at the grainy, amorphous, ambiguous, ink-blob that is the ultrasound image of the unborn, to try and determine if it has an inny or an outy.
Just another angle for the couple to shake everyone down for one more gift… and then get drunk. When people get drunk, they either go shoot guns or start dicking around with fireworks. The party cost Californians 7,000 acres of forest and then some. A local man asked to comment on the dire situation responded:
“Oh, dude… this whole thing is like, like, like totally — totally — out of tune, maaan! I totally smelled smoke and like, I went outside and I was like… woah dude; this is totally like, WOAHHHHH!”
Here’s the sad part: we used to always have gender reveals, and they were known as “the births” — everyone there knew the gender. Yeah, you see because before ultrasound you just had to port yourself like a stupid moron until you either saw a penis or did not see a penis, the mystery thereupon solved.
Then we had the era where ultrasound brought us a reveal of the gender months before birth. But gender reveals and all that crap are moot now. There are no gender reveals any more… not until the kid is born and gets socialized to the extent that he/she knows what gender he/she wants to be — then you have the stupid, stupid, stupid gender reveal party and burn down the state.
But I would caution all y’all folks to go on the cheap or at least get unisex gifts for the gender reveal — something like a 10-flavor Whitman sampler of popcorn or some soap. This is because as soon as the kid gets all dysphoric and confused, wanting to be the other sex because he is a boy and saw another boy who made him feel… funny, thinking maybe it would just be better to be a girl instead and even enjoy that much nicer restrooms. I’m spit-balling here, sort of.
Maybe I don’t really know at all what I’m sayin’. Maybe I just want to ask the happy couple if letting everyone they know look at a crappy picture of their kid’s pee-pee — one that he might get surgically removed anyway — is worth 7,000 acres of forest. And is there any way to cryogenically preserve their kids Howard Johnson in case he wants it put back on later?
Mes amis, generation by generation we are becoming a big fat failure as a people — kind of like the French half a century ago. It just seems blatantly clear to me that all this drop-of-a-hat gender-swapping just demonstrates a flagrant lack of commitment and conviction among our emerging generations. We schlepped through the Millennials, I venture the next up will be the Snap-On Generation with the British Naval Connector (BNC) being the answer to the snap-on/snap-off tool for those bouts of gender dysphoria.
Hot Pants Nance at a Happenstance Glance in France
She just wants to dance — like Janet Reno
I want to take a break from bagging on women all the time in this area, the Karens such as they are, and pick on the male version of the Karen — the Stanley. There are just as many brothers out there jettisoning their feces over the mask/no mask Russian Roulette.
But wait! I just got annoyed… if it is “Russian Roulette” then why is it not call “Russian поворот (Povorot)?” Roulette is a French word that essentially means “spin” such as the way a single bullet is put in the cylinder of the pistol and then vigorously “spun.” And say… would you ever consider trying your luck at Russian Povorot with, say, a Glock 17? — you go first!
Anyhoo… the Stanley in this Walmart is refused service and asked to leave the store for declining to wear a mask. And guess what — this is America; we live in America — not communist Russia (where they settle disputes with Povorot). He has rights; constitutional rights, and the store is infringing on the constitutional rights that he is so imbued with as an American citizen… waa-waa-waaaaaa-waa-waa.
Then he shouts a thing that my jury was in accord over as being odd. He shouted:
“Get back on your highway to hell!!”
I think a lot; I thought about what in the negative sea-level marshy wetlands of tarnation that even means? I concluded that, as in the mixing of metaphors, he mixed up several things there trying to sound tough and cool. I believe he was twisting “take the high road,” with “get off your high horse,” and “go to hell.”
Folks still learning English tend to do that quite a lot. It’s actually amusing and endearing if you so allow it. I had a Russian defector physician once assure me thusly:
“George, if you cannot do favor for me, I understand — you are busy frying big fish.”
What he meant, of course, was: “You have bigger fish to fry.” I assured him back with:
“Nonsense, Igor… your fish are the biggest of all!”
A chineez-American friend of mine was at my house jonesing that her oldest daughter had run off with a construction worker abroad. In that, she was very very worried about her. She confided:
“George… very night, I am sitting on a tiny cushion hoping she will call!”
After a baker’s bushel of blinks, I came to the conclusion that she was trying to say that every night she was “sitting on pins and needles,” waiting for her daughter to call. The tiny cushion was a pincushion that you may have in your sewing kit to hold your pins and needles. She was also famous with me for describing how her neighbor’s dog:
“Laid some craps right in the middle of smack of my yard!”
What in the name of craps was I even talking about? Stanley! Stanley has an anger issue. God love him, but I would worship the Holy Trinity for the rest of my wretched life if they would just allow me to punch Stanley as hard as I can in the face. I was just waiting for him to spew a racial epithet. I believe wholeheartedly that if I had been there and he used a racial slur at the woman, I would have tackled him and held him there until the Poe-Poe arrived so she could press a hate-crime charge against our boy Stanley.
Speaking of Poe, I’d like to post a couple of Poe memes I made. I hope they help you forget your shitty shitty past week:
OMG, The chineez!!
The chineez hate our stinking guts, so much so that they would like to nuke our whole country into a molten tritium glass aquarium with no fish or water in it. It is for that precise reason that it makes decent sense to the chineez that they would want to try with every Quark and Neutrino of their being to look and act exactly like us. They want to dress like us and pretend they understand English… and just be as funky-fresh hip-hop groovy as they can be. They even try to match American frivolity, a thing that no country besides Japan has ever managed to achieve.
They still try to match it, right down to the 6,000+ designer COVID masks we sport. The English message T-Shirts are a major fad over there in chiner. But since they all can’t read English, often times the mask’s wearer has no idea what is actually printed on them, and the chineez creator has no idea what to put on them, making for some major comic relief. With that, enjoy some of Ice-G’s Gung Ho Garment Line:
A group of total strangers bought this shirt for Suk Bik Pen because they all unanimously agreed that she, out of the nearly 66,000 people crowed into a Stair Bux coffee shop, looked the most Gansta as Fuck of the crowd. Bik Pen was reported to have graciously accepted the shirt with: “I have always considered myself relatively Gansta with respect to my peers. It is for that reason that I have often struggled over buying and wearing this very shirt. These wonderful people have completely rid me of my vexing inner turmoil, and I am forever grateful to them!”
If you look closely at the left side of Sum Myong Gai’s face you will see a faint but permanent imprint of a hand. It is slightly larger than a chineez hand, yet is smaller than, say, an American male’s hand because it came from a right-handed American female at the Bei Jing International Airport whom he tried to ask out while wearing that shirt.
I once witnessed with my own eyes a chineez man at the Sky Harbor Airport in Seattle ask out an American lass while wearing a similar foul-messaged T-shirt. She slapped the wax right out of the brother’s ears. Looking dazed and confused on the floor, and what with me speaking chineez, I told him: “Congratulations, playuh… in American custom that means she thinking real hard about dating you — just keep persisting and you will score!”
The jokester that gave Ms. Long Dik this T-Shirt told her the English printed on the front was a city ordinance that guaranteed her exclusive executive singleton rides on any elevator in the city. Mind you, she was skeptical at first, but as soon as she made her way onto her first elevator the contents quickly emptied completely and she enjoyed a nice quiet ride, all by her sexy farting self, to the 31st floor!
This poor bugger has been racked by low self-esteem ever since being potty trained as a toddler which is when he got his name. He still lives with his mum at the crisp age of 48. But his mother managed to bootstrap him up out of his self-esteem funk… by giving him this hat! Hu Slung Dung was able to “get his second wind” in his battle with his auto-esteem. Seen here riding in a subway car for the first time in his life, he is putting all those around him in their Goddamned place with his information cap. Way to go, Dung!!
geo’s Classic Art Meme of the Week:
geo’s Tricky Meme of the Week:
geo’s Annoying Meme of the Week:
geo’s Punny Meme of the Week:
This is a new category that I want to try out, based on the Adobe Photoshop prowess of a professional illustrator to whom many people send their problematic photos requesting him to “fix” them with alterations. Being a Photoshop self-acclaimed expert, I really admire the brother’s prowess and am often stumped by how he achieves some of his effects:
Jamies Shopped Photo of the Week:
“Lead me, follow me, or get out of my way.” (General George S. Patton)
By Almighty God and with honor,