Showing posts with label intersectionality. Show all posts
Showing posts with label intersectionality. Show all posts

Thursday, July 22, 2021

Rush Limbaugh, RIP

Image by Free-Photos from Pixabay

This is: A weekly column consisting of letters to my perspicacious progeny. I write letters to my grandkids and my great-grandkids — the Stickies — eventual selves to advise them and haunt them after they've become grups and/or I'm deleted. Reading via monitor/tablet is recommended for maximum enjoyment.  

Warning: This column is rated SSC — Sexy Seasoned Citizens — Perusal by kids, callowyutes, or grups may result in a debilitating intersectional triggering. Intended for H. sapiens that are — in the words of the late, great bon vivant and polymath, Professor Y. Bear — "Smarter [and cooler] than the av-er-age bear." 


Erratically Appearing Hallucinatory Guest Star: Dana — A Gentlereader  

"I say what I mean. I don't speak in code. That's why I am a star and ace communicator." -Rush Limbaugh

Dear (eventual) Grandstickies and Great-Grandstickies (and Gentlereaders),

From the proceedings of the joint Committee For the Investigation of Intersectional Iniquities, established by order of Her Royal Highness and President for Life, Kamala Harris, 1/21/25. Senator Samuel T. Stumblebum presiding. 

"No, Senator, I declare, under oath, that I am not now, nor have I ever been, a ditto head." 

While I tuned in occasionally to the late Rush Limbaugh's radio show if I found myself out and about in one of my family's fossil fuel burning vehicles — now all recycled and replaced by battery-powered vehicles owned and assigned by the Ministry of Transport, of course — it was only for a few minutes at a time. 

I confess I was/am a bit of a Luddite and that while I love music, to this day I store no songs on my phone, nor do I have a clue as to how one would get them to play on what I still refer to as the "radio" in a car if I did. 

Thus, I used to check out talk shows on AM radio whenever FM music stations were getting on my nerves:

KRAP 99!  All soulless hits, all the time, created by celebrities with very odd hair and computer geeks with laptops!


RUST 93! Your station for classic rock! We will play no song you haven't heard a thousand feckin' times!

Until I couldn't stand it anymore and turned the "radio" off... If I could figure out how to do so."

"And nowadays?" asked Senator Stumblebum. 

"I just let the vehicle do the driving while I hum to myself or read comic books issued by the Ministry of Entertainment." 

"Comic books?"

Sorry, Senator, my age is showing, I mean graphic novels, of course. 

"Did you ever listen to the two pastry patriarchs hired to replace Mr. Limbaugh after he passed away?"

"Briefly, I gave up because I couldn't tell which one was which, among other reasons, and of course, now that they're both locked up and waiting, and waiting, for trial by the Intersectional Inquisition...

While I never, as I said, considered myself to be one of Mr. Limbaugh's ditto heads, he was, well, think of a real Italian hoagie with everything and not made by Subway, Mr. Hero, or some other corporate sandwich shop. 

As compared to his replacements who... Sorry, their names escape me just now. Think of a pair of boiled ham and American cheese with mayonnaise sandwiches, made with Wonder Bread, and wrapped, tightly, with Saran wrap." 

"Mr. Mehlmar, I must ask you to refrain from outdated and/or obscure cultural references and speak plainly, sir."

"Sorry, Senator. Let me put it this way. I didn't usually find him, or the shows prerecorded 'bits' particularly funny. I couldn't grok how he stayed motivated to keep talking about politics for three hours a day/five days a week, year in and year out, long after he had accumulated FU-level wealth. 

I never understood why fans would go to the trouble of struggling to have their phone calls answered, and then be screened, and then be placed on hold, hoping that their hero might permit them to speak for half a minute,


cutting them off and using their comment to launch yet another speech by a man who just couldn't seem to stop talking and never got tired of the sound of his own voice."       

"Mr. Mehlmar, you realize that you're under oath, correct?"

"Of course, Senator Stumblebum."

"Well sir, this committee has it on good authority that you have spoken highly of Mr. Limbaugh on more than one occasion," said the Senator, making a show of rustling some of the papers spread out in front of him in an exaggerated fashion.

"Hmmm... That explains why my "cellmate" vanished. I was afraid he had an appointment with a guillotine."

"Do you deny the accusation then?"     

"I do sir, I do. I merely expressed my admiration for the fact that in an age when even rock 'n' roll has been swallowed whole by our corporate masters, who no longer even had/have to pretend to be cool, cool in its vanishing original sense, Mr. Limbaugh was always looking for the line so he could step over it. 

Most importantly, he appeared to be having fun, and didn't give a tinker's damn if he triggered anyone. He was performing his art and shining a light on what he perceived to be the truth."   

"Take this, "columnist," back to his cell, immediately." 

Poppa loves you,
Have an OK day

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Friday, June 25, 2021


 Junkies and babies, and Wuflu, oh my!

Image by b0red from Pixabay

This is: A weekly column consisting of letters to my perspicacious progeny. I write letters to my grandkids and my great-grandkids — the Stickies — to advise them and haunt them after they've become grups and/or I'm deleted.

Warning: This column is rated SSC — Sexy Seasoned Citizens — A Perusal by kids, callowyutes, or grups may result in a debilitating intersectional triggering. Viewing with a tablet or a monitor is highly recommended for maximum enjoyment.  

Erratically Appearing Hallucinatory Guest Star: Dana — A Gentlereader  

"Health nuts are going to feel stupid someday, lying in hospitals dying of nothing." -Red Foxx

Dear (eventual) Grandstickies and Great-Grandstickies (and Gentlereaders),

In theory, the title of this column, Obituariesshould be world-class clickbait. I'll/It'll probably go insanely viral and rack up millions of hits. 

Also, I rendered the word obituaries in bold and used it a second time only 39 (or 40) words in.

{What the h-e-double hockey sticks are you on about now?} 

Well, it depends on whether ya count I'll/It'll as one or two words. 

{Cute. You know what I'm talking about.}

Well, Dana, I have it on good(?) authority that by repeating the title early on and in bold, using a title that "users" might type in that are oblivious to me and my columns existence; repeating it regularly throughout the column (but not too regularly); writing h-e-double hockey sticks instead of hell to indicate that this is a family-friendly column to appeal to my fellow Neoneoconservatives, my "community," — "going viral" is inevitable. 

{What does any of this crap poop have to do with obituaries?}


I'm merely, one, reminding my fellow H. sapiens that the Earth has been invaded by an army of Algorithmites created in virtual laboratories by the minions of the semi (so far) evil tech oligopoly that's taking over the world. 

Algorithmites, like rust, never sleep. They're always virtually peering over your shoulder to see what you're up to so as to turn you into data for maximum monetization.

And two, pointing out that there's an entire industry devoted to teaching creators of content how to serve said Algorithmites so as to attract "sticky" eyeballs to your work and maybe make a buck — which is how they try to make a buck. You're much more likely to make pennies but it's like the lottery, ya gotta play to win.

Think of it as a public service announcement. I'm all about serving my community.

{On behalf of the community please accept my sincere thanks. Any chance we can talk about obituaries now?}

Why Certainly. 

To a certain segment of my "community," geezers and geezerettes, obituaries are important. For example, I begin my day by consuming a cup of Cafe Bustelo and an amazing amount of information (if I do say so myself) about current events via a highly engineered and continually tweaked system that includes the obituary section of the Hooterville Hornblower. 

My purpose in doing so is twofold. First, to verify that I'm not dead, a clueless ghost sitting in front of a keyboard writing non-existent columns for people who can't see/read them (or me).

Second, to check and see if anyone I know that lives on the periphery of my life have passed away peacefully into eternal rest, and no one told me. Not that I would be likely to go to his/her/their funeral or whatever. I try my best not to do funerals or whatevers. 

As to why... well, that would take a column's worth of words to explain properly. Suffice it to say it has nothing to do with a fear of death. Also, I pre-encourage anyone/everyone not to attend my Celebration of Life if there is one. If there's a funeral, I'll come back and haunt whoever is responsible.

Anyways, reading about people who went to their heavenly home comes with a major downside. Babies, toddlers, and teenagers die too. The announcement that one has is enough to bring tears to the eyes of even cynical, grumpy old cranks and crankettes.

If someone younger than fifty or so dies suddenly from unknown causes under investigation there's a good chance they succumbed to a drug overdose. Those sorts of obituaries are usually short, light on details, and sadly, appear regularly nowadays.  

According to the obituaries, most people don't die, they pass away, which I know from personal experience is not necessarily true, and the exact cause is rarely mentioned. 

Many people, particularly people over the age of roughly 70 or so, pass away peacefully while surrounded by their loving family. Well, I hope that's true. Regardless, I suspect that often the wording (like funerals) is more about the living than the dead.

I'm not entirely sure it's appropriate but I want to know the cause of death. Like when someone falls asleep in the Lord after a quietly courageous battle with Stage 4 lung cancer. Since the Wuflu plague, although rapidly/hopefully is fading but is still with us, this bit of knowledge seems particularly pertinent. 

For example, I'd like mine to be something like: 

It is with a mixture of sadness and rejoicing that our much-loved patriarch has set off on his final road trip to the Great Gig In the Sky. He was instantly vaporized, while traveling as a space tourist, when on the return leg of one of Elon Musk's To the Moon and Back Sightseeing Space Junkets the spaceship mysteriously exploded. 

Addendum: The Great Gig In The Sky
And I am not frightened of dying
Any time will do, I don't mind
Why should I be frightened of dying?
There's no reason for it, you've gotta go sometime
If you can hear this whispering you are dying -Rick Wright
Poppa loves you,
Have an OK day

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Saturday, January 27, 2018


If you're new here, this is a weekly column consisting of letters written to my grandchildren (who exist) and my great-grandchildren (who aren't here yet) -- the Stickies -- to haunt them after they become grups and/or I'm dead.

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Irregularly Appearing Imaginary Guest Stars
Marie-Louise -- My beautiful muse (right shoulder) and back scratcher 
Iggy -- My designated Sticky
Dana -- My designated gentlereader (left shoulder)
"This above all, to refuse to be a victim."   -Margaret Atwood

Dear (eventual) Grandstickies & Great-Grandstickies,

In my discussion of Postmodernism last week I mentioned that my favorite aspect of Postmodernism is called Intersectionality. I confess up front that the very word Intersectionality immediately appealed to me before I had any idea of what Intersectionality was or is supposed to be.

It absolutely rings of Acadamese. The sort of word one would encounter in a text authored by an obscure, bleeding-edge Ph.D. and chockablock with other polysyllabic words unfamiliar to the average Joe Bag-a-donuts or the average anyone else.

A document likely impossible to make sense of while striving to remain conscious -- don't forget, logic/clarity/reason and good writing are devious social constructs created by unashamedly heterosexual white male weenies to enable them to exploit everyone and everything else -- by even postdocs or the nerdiest of crossword puzzle aficionados.

By the time you read this there will probably be a newer, cooler word for Intersectionality (Is it wrong that I delight in tripping over words that immediately shout out, "probably babble and bonkercockie, fire up the browser, this should be fun?").

After all, Intersectionality replaced a word you may have missed while you were having an actual life, Kyriarchy, Intersectionality's dad. But as things stand at the moment, according to Merriam-Webster...

Intersectionality: the complex, cumulative way in which the effects of multiple forms of discrimination (such as racism, sexism, and classism) combine, overlap, or intersect especially in the experiences of marginalized individuals or groups.

In other words -- we're all victims, of all sorts of things, all the time.

Everyone is qualified to become a member of the International Union of Professional Perpetually Protesting Protesters & Perpetual Victims of This, That, and the Other Thing (IUPPPP & PVTTOT).

Iggy: Even you Poppa? I thought... 
Dana: No, definitely not. If ever there was a happily heterosexual and privileged white weenie...
Marie-Louise: Tosses a delicate, refined, but nevertheless unmistakeable snort of derision at Dana and begins scratching my back. 

Yeah Iggy, even me. Everyone in fact, when you think about it. In my case:

- I was kidnapped from my wealthy but dissolute family (it's complicated) as an infant which was the first link in a chain of events that culminated in my being won by my "father" in a poker game at the Gem Saloon in Deadwood, South Dakota.

- When it came to physical attractiveness, I was no box of chocolates to begin with, but when I was (accidentally?) dropped on my head by my big "brother," which resulted in a severe case of lazy eye, I was rendered even less so.

- I endured physical bullying and psychological abuse for the aforementioned condition by my peers all throughout my tender years. If not for my ability to see around corners I literally might not have survived my childhood.

For the sake of brevity, and because I'm starting to choke up, let us fast forward to the present.

- I've just celebrated the 25th anniversary of my 39th birthday and I'm the victim of ageism on a nearly daily basis.

For example, being neither a sex or a success object has rendered me -- for all intents and purposes -- invisible to hot chicks all entities possessing certain biological traits that would seem to indicate highly favorable reproductive potential of the sort that sets the DNA of happily heterosexual and privileged white weenies to howling at the moon. That is, entities who have, till recently, suffered from arbitrarily being assigned pronouns based on the hopefully soon to be eradicated barbaric practice of identifying 'em (my personal plural pronoun for H. sapiens) as "female" on a given entities birth certificate.

[While traditional Acadamese does not come easily to me, an unexpected side effect of my extensive research into Postmodernism was discovering that I have a natural affinity for the dialect spoken by Postmodernists. Try it at your next party. I'm working on a drinking game but I haven't completed my research. Watch this column for updates.]

Kimberle Crenshaw 

If you were to go in search of the origins of Intersectionality all roads lead to Ms. Crenshaw and a paper she wrote, Mapping the Margins: Intersectionality, Identity Politics, and Violence Against Women of Color, in 1991. 

Now, while I disagree with her on a very fundamental level (I think that identity politics and the endless mapping out of endless grievances is a giant step in the wrong direction) I must compliment her on her writing style. Unlike many academics/Postmodernists, she is readable with minimal translation required. 

However, her primary argument, that any given victim is a victim in any number of ways, is obvious. Everyone is a victim in any number of ways. Life is hard. Life is unfair. Then, you die. 

Endless squabbling over who's the most victimized, in exactly what ways, and by whom is as pointless for alleged grups, My Dear Stickies, as it is when yinz (at this point in your lives, callowyutes all) engage in the occasional (rare, but not unheard of) war of all against all. And about as productive. 

It also seems obvious to me that once you start down that path, inevitably, Social Justice Warriors, like Mao's Red Guardsmenpersons, Jacobins and the like will turn on each other and begin a never-ending game of ideological one-upmanpersonship. 

From, Intersectionality is not a label, an article by Latoya Peterson in the Washington Post: 

"Actress Nancy Lee Grahn identifies as a feminist, but felt no problem for blasting the history-making Viola Davis on Twitter for bringing race into her Emmy awards speech. 'She has never been discriminated against,' Grahn wrote, without any knowledge of Davis’s life or journey." 

I've linked to it before and I'll probably link to it again, but this Jordan Peterson video says it all. When I'm king you won't be able to graduate from high school without demonstrating you've watched and understood it. 

If you want to change the world acknowledge that you, just like the rest of us, are a fixer-upper -- and get to work. Poppa loves you. 

Have an OK day.

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©2017 Mark Mehlmauer   (The Flyoverland Crank)

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