Blurgh

Weight: on the south side of 165 (hopefully not due to stomach virus)
Times exercised this week: 0
Times got off the couch yesterday: 2
People apathetic about dieting: 1 (me)

Argh. I hate being sick. I have no energy to work out, and being ill compels me to eat irresponsible things like ice cream and bread. Tomorrow is another day, right?

If food is a crutch, then call me Tiny Tim...

Weight: 165 (But I can see a difference, so...)
Weight loss in first week: 1.4ish. Right on track!
Calories so far today: 843
Girl Scout cookies bought: 0
Girls Scouts I've wanted to shake in my head: 3
Pants I wear regularly that are starting to get saggy: 2 (victory!)
Food mistakes committed today: 0 (so far)
Packs of peanut butter M&Ms I could have bought but didn't: 1 (a new personal best for me!)
Days until I look at least 30% more like Charlize Theron: 124.

Oh my gosh, I had no idea it was Girl Scout cookie time. Once upon a time, I was the kid in the sash hocking delicious, nutritionally derelict cookie abominations to friends, family, neighbors, and unsuspecting strangers.
Now, I am the stranger who tries not to make eye contact with the whippersnappers and attempts to sneak in while they're trying to entice others to the dark side. It helps that I never keep cash on me, and I would love to help them win merit badges and camping trips and whatever else they work towards, but I'm working towards a merit badge in not looking like a manatee, so... not today, little Suzie. Not today.
It's kinda sad that all I think about is food. Since starting this new project, I think less about brownies and more about chicken soup.... so that's good. And I think that, ultimately, I'll save quite a bit of money from this venture, as I now avoid places where I know I'll find something divine that I'll want to stuff my face with. Walmart, your days of luring me with low, low prices are numbered!
Am cooking soup- it's currently just water, garlic and chicken, but it already smells mouthwatering. I've been so hungry lately, though, that even my crappy cooking tastes like a tower of ganache-dipped cream puffs. Desperation can be a powerful tool (just go to any bar on ladies' night and you'll see.)
I didn't exercise today (and probably won't later... I'm tired and headachy and for heaven's sake, it's Sunday and who does anything but nap on Sunday?), and I kinda hate myself for it. I should be happy that even after dinner, my calorie count will be way under my goal for the day. Howevers, I now see every day that I don't go go the extra mile to burn more as a day that won't end in a pound loss, and therefore failure. I'm too hard on myself! I think it'll be easier to be less hard on myself when my jean size is in the single digits, though.
I'm so boring today. No more words.

Rethinking the Treat System...

Weight- 165 (holla) (not strictly true. Weight was taken before glurging on nachos with friends last night. I think I laughed off the extra calories, though)
Calories consumed today- who knows... 900ish?
Minutes spent despairing over money spent on groceries- 42
Things that I bought at the grocery store that I will eventually regret- 0 (That's what I'm talking about!)
Naps taken instead of jogs- 1 (um, deserved)
Days until B-Day- 125

Day 3:
Fun times with old college buddies last night. I served myself a carefully portioned plate of chips, meat, beans, etc. And then another one. And another one. I'm such a food whore. We got into an intense discussion regarding crock pots and chicken verde soup. I finally realized how ancient I was getting when a joyful reunion with friends turned into a discourse about black beans and the nutritional benefits of flax.
I feel, as always, resentful about the money I have to spend on necessary items... gas, groceries. I suppose if I stopped eating and walked everywhere, I'd lose the weight a hella lot faster. I would also probably be a little bit dead or a lotta bit post-Auschwitz.
I am proud to say that I managed to make it through my weekly grocery store assault with minimum casualties. What made it into my cart? Broccoli, black beans, salsa, gross protein crap. What made it into my cart only to be put back? The most delicious looking berry cobbler thing. I know I looked like a bipolar squirrel, hoarding for the winter and then suffering from buyer's remorse.... I would pick up the delectable-looking dessert, fondle it a bit, then put it back into the freezer. Later, passing the aisle, I would ninja back to the freezer case, take it back out, and put it in my cart, then meander away, whistling a merry tune and trying not to look guilty. But I felt guilty. So very guilty. So back to the frozen foods went I, and the berrylicious tart of sin would get shoved back into ice cold purgatory. Not possessing infinite self-control resources, and after a last desperate cycle of longing, retrieving and retracting, I left the store before the yum overrode the common sense.
Here's my issue... I'm like a golden retriever: I will be more than happy to retrieve any stick, perform any trick or accomplish any mundane task as long as there's a treat waiting for me on the other side. Where I get into trouble? Every day features tasks I find myself wanting to bribe my lazier side into accomplishing- laundry, dishes, aerobics, getting up in the morning, putting my shoes in the closet, filling my tank with gasoline, moving... and my treats generally involve food (especially cupcakes. Oh, YUM). One fairly common offender is the cheeseburger... there's nothing more glorious than surviving another week and then celebrating by sinking my teeth into a warm, rare, juicy cheeseburger topped with cheese and bacon, with a sizzling basket of freshly-cooked fries and some Red Robin campfire sauce to dip the whole obscene occasion in (I know that was grammatically inaccurate, but "into which to dip the whole obscene occasion" seemed cumbersome. Also, it always takes me 4+ tries to spell "occasion" correctly). 1600 calories later, I've treated myself into a half a pound of body fat. Mother Nature is an ice cold bitch, people, and I hope that wherever she is, she has morbid obesity, type 2 diabetes, and decaying teeth. And menstrual cramps... but that's not this story.
My new concept is to renovate my treat system for... future rather than immediate satisfaction. That cupcake is oh so very, very, very good, and sinking my teeth into the rich sweet frosting into the flavorful cake below (hopefully with a crunch of nuts or a burst of fruit or a decadent drizzle of chocolate ganache) is a sensation which transcends all human glory and...
NO! REWRITE! Ahem (needed a moment) the cupcake is good, but enough of them and I'm going to look like 50 pounds of christmas ham shoved into a 25 pound sack of lard. So, instead of tasty treats, I'm going to make looking hot in a pair of size 8 skinny jeans my new treat. (Isn't it sad that my thinness goal would be someone else's idea of morbid obesity? In print, size 8 doesn't look that fantastic. Oi.) From now on, I'm going to visualize being able to wear a short skirt without my thighs rubbing grotesquely together instead of nachos smothered in queso sauce. I'm going to picture a swimsuit season free of embarrassment, hip fat overhang and necessary cover-ups instead of stuffed crust pizza smothered in cheese and sausage.
And I'm pretty sure every time I institute this treat system, I'm going to be AS ANGRY AS I AM RIGHT NOW. A. that food is tasty, B. that eating it makes me feel like an orca, and C. that naturally skinny people seem to eat enough for four grown men and a buffalo and never gain so much as a bloated toe.
UGH. Well, off to eat some broccoli. And fantasize about finding whomever it was who discovered fat and beating them to death with a carrot stick.

20x30, Day 1

Now that we've waded through the impossibly long introduction, let's just jump right into day 1:

Days until the end of this goat rodeo of fat burnage- 127

Weight- 165

Calories- 1625

Minutes spent exercising- 65

Muscles that may never function normally again- anything south of the knees

Chances I'll wear heels tomorrow- <10%

Alcoholic beverages- 0 (but the night is young)

I'm tired of typing, so I'll make this quick. Stayed the course mostlyish today, but it's just day 1. I would have put my measurements and body fat %, but I can't find my frickin tape measure, and searching for it would involve moving my poor, sore calves.

So, more tomorrow. Happy day one!

20x30, ridiculously long and overstated intro...

I have a confession: I don’t like the way I look.

In a few short months, I will bid my twenties a… fond?
farewell, squeeze my eyes shut, and swan dive into the yawning abyss of my
third full decade on this soggy blue capsule that we call our home planet. My
life thus far has had its blessings, and its curses. There have been scary
times, and moments of joy. There have been nights of crippling loneliness, and
afternoons of rib-bruising snickers with loved ones. There have been moments
when I’ve contemplating harvesting my internal organs for money, and weeks
spent in luxurious splendor in some exotic, unpronounceable location. There’s
been humiliation, exhilaration, exasperation, perspiration, mitigation,
capitulation, and… well, utter confusion. There are times when I’ve looked
forward to the next moment, and moments when I’ve wanted to take a long drive
off a very short bridge. One thing always remained the same, however, whether
the ships had come in or had gone belly up and floundered like my dead goldfish
as it swirled down the toilet to an inauspicious burial at sea….

People, there was always a whole lot of food.

My parents always made sure we had plenty of nutritious food
to eat. One time, at a restaurant, when a young mother handed me a baby bottle
and asked me to put more coke in it (when I got back from getting her kid more
ranch for the chicken tenders and fries, thanks), I was suddenly filled with
warm, fuzzy gratitude to my parents for always making sure we had enough to
eat, and ensuring that what we were eating was nutritious. In fact, the times
we protested the food (because what 8 year old enjoys eating broccoli
casserole?) and refused to eat it… well, that’s when Mom got the steel in her
chin and the glinty hellcat look in her eye, and no matter how long the hunger
strike lasted, she never backed down. And we sat there at the table, until we
finally broke out of boredom or shame, and we ate our vegetables, and we went
on with our evening. And MAN, do I appreciate that now. I also appreciate that when
my parents pulled us out of public school, we were, from that moment forward,
compelled to make our own lunches. It wasn’t laziness on my parents’ part, oh
no… it was home economics class, and no one who has ever tasted anything my
brother has baked, sautéed or deconstructed could ever second guess that
decision.

As I got older, we travelled more and more, and our tastes
broadened. I was taught to appreciate steak, and pasta, and Cornish game hens,
and to at least try the foods I wouldn’t have ordered, given the choice
(although I never even tried with the haggis, I won’t lie to you). I was taught
to experiment, and to take risks, and to never order chicken nuggets when there
was something new to try. And, I was training horses at the time, so I could eat
every exciting bite and not reeeeally worry about the ramifications.
And then, there was college, and the dream was over.
Suddenly, there was no sleep, and there was MacDonalds, and
every morning meant a new opportunity to stuff myself with biscuits and gravy.
First there was one, then two, then three, and there was sweet tea at every
meal, and there was no time for exercise. Freshman 15? PLEASE. Try the freshman
45. And it didn’t end there.

By the time I was 24, I looked like the Stay Puft
Marshmallow Man, and eventually, I had enough and lost 60ish pounds. And then I
gained some of it back. Then I lost some… and gained it back. In the game of
fat, I was a loser and a winner.

And then, suddenly, I was 29. I was living a cycle of
glutiny and famine, of praise for inches lost and shame over back bulge. And
one day, it hit me...

I don’t like the way I look.

Why do I live with it? Why do I allow myself to fail,
knowing that I’ll subject myself to the same snide, self-degrading comments I
always snark when I feel fat? Why do I look at every window I pass, hoping I’ll
see a pudgy profile so I can make a horrible face, which I will also see? Why
do I ask loved ones if I look fat, hoping they’ll say yes so I can punish
myself even more?

Welp, the cycle ends here. I have 19 weeks until I turn 30,
and I want to make every last minute count, which is why today? I kick off
20x30… in which I attempt in my last, grasping moments of twentydom to shed 20
pounds of fat ass and stride triumphantly (and with thighs that don’t rub
together) into the next era of my life.
My rules for engagement:
1. No crash diets.
2. No substance assistance (pills, etc)
3. Exercise daily. BUT NO GYMS! (Sore subject.)
4. No pizza or cupcakes. Fight the true enemy.
5. No buying of clothes until the weight is lost.
6. Daily weigh-ins and blog updates.
7. Lose the traditional evening cocktail.
8. No whining about being hungry,
9. AND NO GIVING UP!

I’m sticking with the simplest diet on earth. One pound of
fat= 3600 calories. To lose one pound of fat, you have to burn 3,600 calories
that you don’t put back in. Easy, right? I’ll have to expend about 570ish extra
calories a day.

I believe in a woman’s right to choose… not to look like
Flossie the Heifer. And this is where you come in- because the only thing more
miserable than being on a diet is having to read about someone else’s
experiences while on one! Thanks for sharing this journey with me. I only hope
that one day, you can look at me and say, “Wow, Liz… you look like you lost a
toddler.” The journey is long… and I’m dragging you along with me. Because that
burns extra calories too.

Pandora's Box

Funny thing- I've been thinking a lot about Pandora's Box. It's lovely in a savage way... an innocent girl, curious as a kitten, is told to never, under any circumstances, open a box (actually, it would have been more of a storage jar, called a pithos. Kind of like an amphora, or a grecian urn. What's a grecian urn, you may ask? Well, it depends on if we're speaking union or non-union. But I digress.)
Anyway, this poor girl is told to never open the box but, like those of us who were told to never peek under the Christmas tree or turn on Cartoon Network late at night... she did. Of course she did. How couldn't she?
What follows is a scene of horror and devastation not just to poor Pandora, but to everyone (and don't the ancients luuuurve to blame the problems of humanity on a woman? Eve ate the fruit, therefore she is responsible for all of the sorrow that follows. Pandora peeked into the box and is, therefore, to blame for the nightmares that come flying out of it. Pandora, like Eve, was made for the gods as companionship and possessed only the skills and traits bestowed on her by them. However, when those women acted upon emotions granted to them by the gods- curiosity, desire- the woman is blamed for the destruction to come. Always the woman at the center of the ancient blame game.) What comes flying out is straight out of a nightmare- hate, anger, sickness, despair, poverty, war... this one woman's "foolish" curiosity has gotten the better of her and now there will be hell to pay.
But this legend has a twist, a seemingly tragic one. Underneath all that evil, there shimmered hope, there, at the bottom, waiting for the evil to fly away but LO! Pandora, realizing her error, slams the lid shut and traps that last thing inside. She, foolish girl, had released evil, but trapped hope. Silly woman. Silly, sad, culpable woman.
I wonder, though. Picking through the variations and translations and speculations, I do wonder. The gods had made that... well, we'll call it a box because I'm too tired for complicated words in italics just now... they had formed that box to hold all the evil that was to be kept from humanity. War, death, sickness... it would have been helpful indeed to keep that mess locked away forever. But it makes me wonder- what was hope doing with such a motley crew of evil tidings? Was it that they designed it to be the one foil to the destruction within? Or did the gods realize that hope can sometimes be the cruelest thing of all and strive to keep it locked away, as a safeguard against its box-mate, despair?
I wonder about this. Maybe it wasn't the solution. Perhaps it was simply another problem. Perhaps man would be better served without hope to skew their perspective and raise them to impossible and unsustainable heights. Perhaps trapping hope doomed a race now swarmed by misfortune, but... maybe they were spared from worse by the absence of an emotion that can alternately raise you up and then let you fall again, just as unexpectedly.
So, Pandora, foolish, foolish plaything of the gods, did you fail mankind by trapping hope, or did you attempt to save us from a worse despair?

Split ends and wobbly bits

So, the summer is over (thank the gods) and honoring the great and terrible cycle of life, I'm back on my parents' couch with my laptop melting the tops of my thighs and endless episodes of Dr. Who on the television. I suppose it's a bit strange for me to have walked so far and still ended up exactly where I started.



This summer was one of great personal awareness and awakening. I daily rode on a rollercoaster that slammed me from the heights of self-worth and pride then plummeted me to the familiar, comfortable dips of self-loathing and regret. I think, if anything, it made me hope the ride would come to a complete stop so I could walk calmly to the nearest exit and find a ride that would leave me a little less queasy.


So, how do you wrap an iconic 10 weeks into a tidy little blog package? I have no idea. But I've left this poor page idle for so long and I have so many things in my head right now. Let's make a list. I love lists:

1. Everyone deserves to be loved. There are so many kinds of love and no two people need the same thing.

2. At the crossroads of life, some people go left, and some people go right, and some people curl up against the large oak and wait for someone who will make the decision for them to come along.

3. I should shower before going out for German food with my parents, but I don't wanna.


4. I have wobbly thighs. So freakin' what? I'm so tired of telling myself that I'm ugly.

5. Epiphanies are rather unsettling. And now, I'm seeing the world through newer, clearer eyes, and I'm both enchanted with and struck by the tragedy of everything I see. How melodramatic.

6. It's funny how I've sung so many songs in my life but never bothered to listen to the words or understand the meaning before. But I think I kinda get it now.

7. I'm dying for the next part of my life to begin. Hickory feels like a concentration camp. It's time to grow up and I'm so content with that but I mostly just want to crawl into a pumpkin and die for a while.

8. Time moves more slowly at home. MUCH more slowly. Like, cryogenically frozen slowly. I know time is just a wibbley, wobbley, timey-wimey ball, but still... I've been napping for a very long time.

9. Friends help you move, but real friends help you move the bodies... no, but seriously, I have some of the most amazing friends ever, and they truly showed their glorious true colors this week. Thanks, guys.

10. It is a truth universally acknowledged that any single man in possession of a large fortune must be in want of a wife.

11. Without the bad times, the good times would have no meaning and no value. That doesn't, however, mean that being an adult doesn't utterly suck sometimes.

12. After all the hemming and hawing and rules and semantics and power struggles and other ridiculous blather has quieted, the only thing that matters is to believe. Everything else, the unimportant crap, will eventually take care of itself.

13. After Pandora opened the box and all the ugliness released itself upon the world, the only thing she found in the box was hope, shivering in a corner, waiting to be discovered. I kind of think it's been like that with me... so much chaos in my brain, and the one thing I needed the most was waiting, patiently, until the rest cleared out and I could let it glow uninhibited.

Yikes. Not my most brilliant post. There's just too much going on to try to make sense of any of it. More to come later.

Opinions

It doesn't matter who expresses them... opinions are like porn to me.
Sometimes it's cheap, low-budget porn- the kind you download for free and erase almost immediately afterward coz it makes you feel a little sick inside.
Sometimes it's high quality porn, with lavish costumes and and an actual script (well, as much of a script as you can hope for) and stars that don't look like they'll never see thirty again (or aren't old enough to legally smoke)...
Either way, I live for opinions. Giving them, receiving them... even if they piss me off I'm always glad I know more than I did before.
So, it annoys me that people get so irked at me for simply expressing a damn opinion!!! Why do we have to live with secrecy and disingenuity? Why are we so much more concerned with not offending people and therefore live in terror of speaking the truth and having it spoken to us? Why is conflict so much shinier and more attractive then lies?
I am mad as HELL, and I'm not putting up with it anymore.
I have decided to enter a kinder, gentler era of just not speaking my mind AT ALL. I'm tired of the criticism, I'm tired of the resentment, I'm tired of feeling like I am offending people when I'm just being true to my nature.
So, from now on, I'm blogging. I'm putting my opinions here. If you give a frick what I have to say and promise not to give me unneccesary attitude for simply letting a little of the chaos out of my head, then welcome! And don't ever hesitate to leave your opinions, too...
I'm so close to putting this era of shallowness behind me... thank God.
First opinion- so, I'm currently glurging on literature involving eugenics, and I'm mad as hell.
Preface- I tutor once a week at a community college, in the Basic Skills department in which my mom serves. So, we're there on Friday, and a lad with obvious (but clearly not prohibitive) developmental disabilities approaches us and tells us excitedly that the "cheerleaders" are performing in the gym at 1. Mom tells him we'll be there like shareware, and he bounds off excitedly to invite another member of the staff.
My mom goes on to explain that the CompEd class had mastered a cheerleading routine and was taking it to some competitions, and that she wanted to go to their performance and cheer them on. Of course I agreed, and at 1, they performed a highly entertaining cheer and dance to an enthusiastic crowd. Did it matter to the cheering fans that these kids were developmentally disabled? Hells, no. They were enthusiastic, and they were having fun so infectiously that we all laughed along with them. Afterwards, they hugged all of the spectators and a girl excitedly told us that they were going to the beach! For two days! And there was a pool! At the hotel!
It would have melted a heart of ice. One like mine, actually. They held my icy, dead heart like a shiny, rustly pompom in the palms of their hands.
So, I went to collect my belongings to leave, and as I held my tome on the history of eugenics, I was suddenly hit with kind of a rush of emotions. I was nauseous, I was angry, and I just wanted to shield every last one of those kids from anyone who would be heartless and evil enough to ever trouble them.
A brief explanation- eugenics was a medical and philosophical study in the late 1800's-early 1900's. Eugenicists posited that detrimental traits- such as learning disabilities, handicaps, homosexuality, alcoholism, feeblemindedness, inferior racial status, etc- were hereditary deformities and could be, quite simply, bred out of civilization given aggressive tactics. Eugenicists in the United States forcibly sterilized about 60,000 people legally (supported by legislation in 30 different states) in the heyday of eugenics. Then, the Nazis took the movement as their baby and wiped out the handicapped communities of occupied Europe, Wiped them out. Euthanized them, if you will... these "undesirables" in no way furthered a superior Aryan race and therefore were exterminated, like so many ants or mice or cockroaches. No matter that each one of these people had a story, and special gifts, and a heart, and a right to live given by their simply being on this earth... no, they were inferior, and had to go.
Turns out, euthanasia was pondered by American eugenicists as a "humane" method of eliminating these non-flowering branches from the healthy, stately tree of American life. Thankfully, the full extent of Nazi atrocities at last came to light, and eugenics advocates in America quickly hush-hushed any damning evidence that America lit the match that made the Holocaust burn so brightly in Europe.
It makes me a little sick, honestly, that these sweet, kindhearted innocents, enthusiastically swinging their pompoms and jiving along with Metro Station, would have been crammed into buses and gassed, or submitted to anaestheticless vasectomies, or been cut open awake and laid there in pain while their tubes were tied because they were simply not good enough to be allowed to procreate. Why is that? Why is a girl with her hearing more deserving to be a mother than a deaf girl? Why is someone with Huntington's chorea forced to be the last to bear their family's name, because of a condition they're born with?
It seems like the distant past, but we're entering an age where genetic engineering is the Newgenics. Why are we suddenly given the superiority to determine what will make a child more appealing to the race? It makes me crazy. And angry.
As I was sitting there, waiting for the cheerleaders to shake shake, shake shake a-shake it, a woman who was on crutches struggled by me. A young man with Down's Syndrome got to his feet and, in a friendly and non-intrusive way, helped her to a bleacher, plopped down beside her and chatted with her animatedly until the show started. It occurred to me that there I was- blond-haired... blue-eyed... built like a German hausfrau... in good condition and rather sharp of intellect... I wouldn't be the eugenecists' ideal but I would certainly be encouraged by them to breed, breed, breed. But for all my genetic cleanliness, did it ever occur to me to hop up and help that girl to her seat, let alone have a cozy chat with her? No. But a "disabled" kid served with distinction where I would never have the courage.
And we, the genetically pure, want to breed that out.
Anyway, I could say more but I'm so angry... I just need to wind down and stop thinking for one night. That's my opinion! What's yours?

Like a poor lonely child...

Oh dear. My poor blog has been all alone for MONTHS. The months I happened to be jobless and wretchedly depressed... but I make this promise to you, dear blog, those days are nigh upon over (the blogless days, not the jobless. Obviously, I have no idea when I'll get a job). I shall post again soon. Hurrah!

Oh no! I have a blog!
Not that I don't love my blog, mind you... but it's clearly not writing itself and it's time to get busy again! Between work, singing sentimental platitudes about the Oklahoma territory, trips to the City of Sin with my family and lusting outrageously after Dr. Cox for several hours a night, I've been far too busy to blog my ever so important thoughts and feelings. However, an erstwhile and pitiful plea from a good friend with lunch hours to kill brings me back to my cranial lovechild. Here we go.
I don't really have a theme this time. Who cares?

Da plane, boss! Look at da plane!: I learned an interesting fact this week. I hear presidential candidates, politicians and celebrities carp, carp, carp about the oil situation and the gas prices and save the Earth and blah dee blah dee blah. It amuses me that these same celebrated figures of our Great Nation travel not on the bus, or cramped in a seat in coach with their knees knocking against their tray table (the tray table that holds the drink and snack they had to PAY for because by the way? Beverage/food service is no longer complimentary on domestic flights) and with a chatty Floridian granny on their left, a sweaty fat man by the window and a shrieking child beast with an array of musical toys just behind, or in a small but comfortable, gas-conservative car like us mere mortals down below. Oh no. They fly in private jets. They ride in limos and own SUVs. They cajole us with attractive promises of lower gas prices (although god forbid we drill... we must protect the environment at all costs! Although, I'll let them tell that to the people who can't afford to drive to work/school with current gas prices) and serve only to suck down more precious natural resources themselves. I am SO TIRED of them.

Anyway, that was a side road I will probably take later and much more violently. Back to being amused. SO, a little bit of trivia: Which politician began the tradition of flying from city to city during a campaign, and thus being able to reach a broader audience in a shorter period of time?

The answer? Adolf Hitler! That's right... In 1932, when Hitler ran against Hindenburg for the presidency, he traveled through much of his campaign in an airplane, which enabled him to speak in more than one city in a day. His campaign slogan was "Hitler uber Deutschland" or, Hitler over Germany. It was a clever play on words, you see? That guy. It's refreshing to see our good politicians following dear old Adolf's ways. Maybe if we're lucky, they'll bring back the Wehrmacht! Won't that be swell?

And speaking of Hitler, I am reminded of the next person who wrung a reluctant snicker and a reluctant, coup-d'etat posthumous mental high-five from me this week-

Martin "Zyklon B" Luther: Now, some of you might know him as both the paterfamilias and sergeant-at-arms of the early Protestant church; the challenger of the papacy; the upholder of the infallibility of the Bible and the concept that salvation is through Christ and unmediated by Mother Church; the lone voice that encouraged the ignorant peasants of the Dark Ages to partake of something healthier than a Diet of Worms (hyuk hyuk hyuk).

And me? I tend to think of him as the Great GrandPappy of the Final Solution to the Jewish Problem in Europe.

Oh, yes. Martin Luther was a raging anti-Semite. In fact, his work, "On the Jews and Their Lies" was reprinted five times within the three remaining years of his lifetime. Poor Mr. L had little luck converting Jews to Christianity. When they chose to resolutely stick to their beliefs and not stray from them for the radical teachings of one man, that one man snapped and bitterly railed against them. He wrote that they were a "base, whoring people", that "we are not at fault in slaying them." and encouraged his followers to burn Jewish synagogues, destroy their prayerbooks and seize their money. Whoa there, big fella. Strong words... but you have to respect the moxie of a man who is so sure that he's right that he advocates the slaughter of those who don't flee belief systems that predate his and flock to his side...

Anyway, many historians agree that ML's caustic and relatively successful campaign against the Jews (in addition to stirring up hatred amongst his flock- you know, Christianity... the "Love thy neighbor as thyself" religion- his works would compel riots that led to the expulsion of the Jews from many places in Germany) was a heavily contributing factor in the spawning of anti-Semitism in Germany. And what did anti-Semitism lead to in Germany? Only the annhilation of 6,000,000 European Jews. Many of the Nazis' anti-Jewish books and speeches alluded to Luther's writings; Himmler was said to be a big fan and Luther's text was declared by the Nazis (admiringly, of course) to be the most radically anti-Semitic tract ever published (and it had some competition, too, such as "The Jewish Plague" and "The Toadstool", a charming children's book.) Well played, Martin. They don't want to be Christians? Whatever. Let's genocide them up, then... shall we?

Moving on- Our next contestant is someone who accomplished something I never thought possible: they are in actuality the reincarnation of someone who isn't even dead yet! This is REALLY spooky:

Rachel Ray: The PREreincarnation of Jerry Lewis?





Believe me or don't, people... all I'm saying is that you need to do is watch one of Rachel Ray's shows and finish all her sentences with, "Nice LAAAAA-dy!"


If I were a not-yet-dead Jerry Lewis, I would have picked a worthier vessel than an irritating pixie who makes up banal cooking expressions (like "EVOO" and "Yummo!"), makes completely average looking food and speaks to the television audience as if they had only just weaned off of Baby Einstein and were looking to grow to the next level of one-syllable words and easy two syllable words like "Sammy". I can't even think about her anymore.

Then again, there are those who, disbelieving of such a radical and, I daresay, foolish hypothesis as prereincarnation, could argue that Jerry Lewis is a cyborg or a mandroid or similar or... even worse... an Illuminatus!!! You know, those fun-loving lizard people who take on the visage of humans and, from famous and influential positions, bring about DESTRUCTION and CHAOS? Totally, man. Maybe Rachel was carefully crafted from an ailing LewisBeast or LewisBot's organic matter to carry on his EVIL after his time in this frail earthly form was through... maybe we'll never know... or maybe they're biding their time.
I end with this: Jerry Lewis' EarthMother's name was Rachel "Rae" Levitch. Is there such a thing as coincidence?

I hope I've at least given you something to ponder. I take a great risk here, speaking the truth... if they come for me, WHEN they come for me, don't let my death be in vain. Spread the truth... expose the lies, expose the EVOO for what it is: the Harbinger of Doom. And a delicious dipping sauce for crusty artisan bread... with a little balsamic vinegar? Makes me hungry just thinking about it. YumMO!
Oh no. Oh NO! Nice... laaaaady....