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Friday 1 October 2010

DEADBEAT


A man by the name of Howard Veal from Michigan has just been deemed the worst deadbeat dad in history. I’m sure his mother is so proud. According to court reports he has fathered 23 children with fourteen different women and has failed to pay roughly a half million dollars in child support. Apparently, during the years 1989-1999 he impregnated a woman every year. Seriously, someone should’ve taken this man’s hoo-haa and tied it in a knot!

When he was arrested and finally sentenced up to 48 months in jail – why it took this long and this many unsupported children for them to finally do something is beyond me – he was living with his current girlfriend and mother of their four children. And of course, not paying for them either.

Veal has said that he has paid what he could over the years but has been hit by hard times and is out of work. Okay, in his defense, times are tough, I feel for those who can’t find work. But this of course begs the question, why on earth are you firing your seed all over Michigan if you can’t put food on your own table? Of course I know the answer to this: stupidity coupled with outright selfishness. You have to love the human race when we live up to our potential.

An opinion piece on the Kalamazoo Gazette website spoke to the fact that putting him in jail doesn’t solve much. I have to say as much as I would like this moron to be punished in some fashion, sadly putting him behind bars at the expense of the taxpayers does not put food in the 23 kid’s mouths. It just takes money from the wrong individuals. I’m thinking it is long past time we come up with a better punishment for deadbeat fathers. How about a work release program where they are helped to find a job and put to work every second of the day they are not sleeping? Or, what about a registry or cyber noticeboard for deadbeats? Kind of like a sex offenders list, where certain seed spouting individuals are deemed hyper irresponsible procreators. That way, when you meet a man, and you have your suspicions about his responsibility quotient, you can check this handy list and see if Casanova has been trying to create his own genetic football league.

Sadly the screening process to meet a man is becoming harder and harder with gems like this out there – although saying this, some women are atrociously bad at noticing the big RED FLAGS thrown their way. I suppose the days of a man being simply a commitment phobe make what some women are up against now look like child’s play. Now the checklist reads like a grocery list of serious hazards. I can hear the first date now: “Do you have any diseases? Committed any crimes? Do you have a mommy complex? Are you employed? Oh, sorry almost forgot, have you fathered 23 children and failed to pay for them?”

Suddenly arranged marriages where people are seriously vetted for their potential and suitability do not sound so bad....by the way, honey, the King is your only child, right?

Thursday 30 September 2010

MY MOMMY WAS A BANK ROBBER


A mother in Grants Pass, Oregon robbed a bank by handing the teller a note. In this note, it said, obviously, ‘you’re being robbed.’ Nice and to the point. It also asked if the teller could please wait 15 minutes before calling the police so that the woman could go pick up her children from school. Cause at least this woman had her priorities straight even whilst committing a felony: bring home the bacon – even if you have to steal it, and don’t forget the kids whilst committing said crime. That is multi-tasking at its finest. This is one of those genius stories that just keeps on giving.

Apparently, she made off with a whopping 1300 dollars – seriously, why bother?? – and then she went to pick up her kids at school. She was arrested in her driveway with her children who were eating ice cream sandwiches. I’m thinking Mom was in the splurging mood. Hell, I just robbed a bank, ice cream for everyone! What I can’t figure out is why rob the bank when school is about to get out? Why not do it at lunch, or after your morning coffee when you’re all hopped up and ready to get gangsta on some teller. Obviously why rob a bank at all is the obvious question, but I think we’re beyond that.

What I can’t seem to fathom is how she actually thought she would get away with it, especially as the police were able to track her down from a witness statement. I’m thinking a local mom robbing a bank and hopping into her mini-van is going to stick in people’s memories. And seriously for that amount of money, why not just climb into your neighbor’s window and steal their hi-fi system? It seems a lot easier and more inconspicuous. That way if you get caught you can just say you were really desperate for a cup of sugar....Calm down, I’m not advocating theft, but it astonishes me what goes thru people’s brains when making decisions – or more importantly, what does not go through their brains. 

Take the King for instance; the kid goes through a lot of diapers. In fact, it’s downright astonishing that for someone with such a small behind the output can be so monumental. Now, of course I’d like free diapers. Heck, if you’ve been following these blogs from the beginning, you know I like just about anything for free. Freeeee!!! Sorry the word gets me excited. But it is a simple equation for us rational folks. Theft = prison. Prison = King having to get his small bottom up to Pentonville Prison (I’m thinking that’s where they’d put me) to visit his jailbird mommy in a waiting room rife with germs and moody convicts. It’s just not a good visual. 

Wednesday 29 September 2010

FREAK SHOW


I came across one of those little kid beauty pageants on television the other day. You know the ones where all the children look like mutant adults stuffed in small bodies. I have to admit, this whole arena – or subculture of freakery, if you will - has always given me the creeps. I’m not sure if it is the fact that the little girls all look as if they are in their thirties, or the psychotic parents salivating in competitive lust as they look on from the sidelines as little Susie or Mary parades down the catwalk.

And don’t be fooled, this is not just a bunch of little girls playing dress up; this stuff is serious business. From the copious amounts of makeup plastered all over their faces, to the elaborate outfits and the hours of practicing to perform like a pre-pubescent circus monkey, this is not an arena for the faint at heart, or wallet for that matter. Some little girls are even known to wear fake teeth for the perfect smile, and if they are considered too large for their age group, they are often put on crash diets. Is it me or should these parents be rung up by social services? 

The most absurd thing is that when parents are asked, why do you enroll your children in such things, they retort that the children love it, as if they discovered it themselves and brought it up over dinner one night. “Mom, can you dress me up like Scarlet O’Hara on crack and enter me in a competition for money and prizes?” Fine, little girls do like dressing up; I’ll give you that. But little children are also heavily suggestible and aren’t about to tell mommy that they’re exhausted, fed up and they’re developing carpel tunnel from twirling that damn baton a hundred times. Then again, I think even if some of them did plead fatigue it would fall upon deaf ears. The parents just look too fame hungry to be rational.

Often sadly, all this business is for the parents, more than it is for the children. As if it somehow fills a void of Mommy’s who was never popular or pretty to live vicariously through her little girl. Either that, or Mommy is a sadistic drill sergeant that takes pleasure in grooming her little girl to look like Tammy Fae Baker. Seriously, what’s the hurry? One has years for their daughters to come home dressed like a call girl. Enjoy the years when your child is actually a child and you can put them in braids and sweaters with bears on them.

That said, I plan to enroll the King in pie eating contests. I hear the money is good and the boy does like to eat.


Tuesday 28 September 2010

MEET YOUR MAKER


The owner of Segway, Inc. and creator of the Segway died yesterday. How did he die? On his Segway of course. Which although premature and extremely tragic for his family, I figure riding out on something you created would be a nice way to meet your maker. When I go to the land of no pulse – if I must – I’d like to go old, docile, and writing something that pleases me on my laptop. Although saying that - hoping that my demise is in decades from now – I’m thinking my laptop will be replaced by some hologram I operate in the air with a weary flick of my arthritic fingers, like Tom Cruise in Minority Report.

Of course this got me thinking about death – as one does sometimes - and how many ways there are to check out of here. Some ways I wouldn’t like to think about frankly – trapped in a coalmine, or under a sheet of ice certainly top the list (I could go much more macabre, but why depress us all, frankly). And then there are some forms of exits that seem downright civilized; in one's sleep for instance, or dozing off on a bench overlooking a field of wild flowers and never waking up again. Yes, I’m currently trapped in a Hallmark card.

I think it would be nice if we could pick three ways we would like to go and the universe would pony up one, kind of like a death lottery (I’m sure some producer out there is penning the ‘reality’ show as we speak). I mean seriously, life for some out there is tortuous enough. Aren’t we deserving of a nice way to skip on out of here? Let’s see…my top three (universe are you listening???) I’d have to say the first one would be to die on a tropical beach in a sun lounger sipping a Chi Chi in one hand – if you’ve never had one, do try it, they’re delicious – and wolfing down an ice cream sundae in the other. I didn’t say this game would be grounded in reality.

Way number two: I’d have to say croaking, how shall I say this politely and without being crass, after doing the act with my beloved would be a nice way to go. Well, it’d be nicer for me and kind of scary for him, but that’s not my problem once I’m out of here. Sorry honey.

And third, seeing the King commit some amazing pride inducing feat – like you know, winning Wimbledon for instance. Stop laughing, it could totally happen. Where of course I’d be sitting in prime box seats wearing some amazing Philip Treacy hat, eating strawberries and cream, looking distinguished and regal of course. And just after he thanks me profusely in his victory speech for my amazing mothering skills and sings my praises for making him who he is…KAPUT. Out like a light I go. Anything after that would be simply anticlimactic. 

Monday 27 September 2010

Mmmmmmm CHIPS.


There are so many things about England I adore – which I suppose is a good thing as it’s home now. Up there at the top of the list is the country's respect and embrace of tradition. You see it all over the place, from the monarchy and the changing of the guards, to the various celebrations like Bonfire Night (ironic that I pick the one celebration that honors someone who tried to blow up Parliament), to Sunday roast lunches and the Coronation Street Omnibus...I kid I kid. (Coronation Street is the world’s longest running soap opera, for those of you not in the know). One of my favorite English traditions is the enduring existence of the fish and chips shop. Kind of strange I realize, as I don’t really partake in ingesting the tradition, but there is something about a dedication to fried food that dates back to the 1860’s, that you just have to love.

I remember when I was taken for my first fish and chips experience. The place I went to was still wrapping it up in a piece of newspaper. Kind of vile when you think about it, but it went along with the whole, “I’m in England innit luv,” mystique – and to be fair it did have lining paper separating the fish and chips from the newspaper, but still, the OCD in me found this slightly disturbing. Now, I’m not big on fried food, as I said - or my hips aren't; damn you hips - but I’m telling you, the chips if done right, are worth every single calorie, especially when loaded with salt and vinegar, and if you can manage to cut through all the batter and reach the fish below, you’ll never taste a better piece of cod. (Okay, maybe the miso cod at Nobu’s, but nothing at Nobu’s is under a fiver. In fact, I think they even charge you five quid to use the bathroom).

There literally used to be a chippie – as they call them - on every corner in England. Sadly now, as my partner will be glad to tell you, most of the fish and chip shops are now being replaced by ‘chicken places.’ I’m not sure exactly what that entails, but I’m thinking it’s centered around chicken that comes in a box - truly gourmet stuff. 

To  my partner's delight, we stumbled upon a chippie tonight that is new to our neighborhood. The décor was all done up like you were down at the seashore, which of course I found adorable especially as Van Morrison was on full volume. I’m thinking atmosphere of this sort is not a requirement for most F&C lovers, as my partner was clearly more concerned about how his chips were going to taste. You see where my priorities lie.

Upon walking in, the tall bald man at the counter greeted us with a huge smile. He immediately clocked the King – who was looking his most adorable all bundled up, as winter is apparently here – and started addressing him with a ‘hey mate, how are you doing tonight guv?’ I liked this man immediately. As it turns out, Mr. tall friendly bald man is a descendant of three generations of fish and chip shop owners, and you could tell that carrying on this family tradition was very important to him. I suppose the existence of the chippies appeal to that side of me that hates antiseptic chain restaurants especially as they seem to be taking over the universe. Then again, they could also appeal to that girl trapped inside of me that wishes she could eat French fries all day long. I mean seriously, who doesn’t?
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