I’ve tried not to comment on current events, in part because I don’t want to be dull, and in part because that’s what everyone does, and I hate being commonplace. But the combination of seeing Good Night and Good Luck with the admission by the Bush administration of wiretaps (and more wiretaps) in clear violation of the Foreign Intelligence Surveillance Act (a bill passed with the express purpose of curbing this sort of presidential power) have pushed me over the edge.

I won’t say they’ve finally crossed the line. The administration crossed the line ages ago; but we’re rapidly reaching a breaking point where the executive branch is either grabbing, or thanks to a Republican controlled congress and a Democratic party with the spinal fortitude of a jellyfish, being openly granted near unchecked power in the name of a war on terrorism which is loosely defined, impossible to win, and as a result, indefinite and permanent. American citizens can be detained indefinitely without trial, judicial actions kept secret, lives can be ruined, assets seized, all under the unchallengeable rubric of national security.

In some ways, I feel that at least the surveillance aspect of these powers is inevitable, even if not directed at the whim of the executive branch. As technology improves, the act of surveillance will become increasingly transparent to the surveyed. Just as the audible clicks and tape changes of wiretaps gave way to imperceptible and seamless data extraction, so will the ability to look into our homes, our offices, and every other aspect of our lives. And unfortunate as it may be, as long as they are not actively bothered, the majority seem not to care.

But though I may be in the minority, I feel it necessary, and want, to add another voice in the wilderness, and reiterate something said by Benjamin Franklin, “Those who would give up essential liberty to purchase a little temporary safety, deserve neither liberty nor safety.”

Stopping terrorists is a noble goal, but not everything should be sacrificed at its alter. There is little point in preserving the American way of life through its extinction.

The three wise camels.

Everyone is getting this from me.

People, and particularly Americans, are maximizers by nature. We want the best of everything. It used to be mostly relegated to simple things, the best house, the best car, the best clothing, but within the last ten to fifteen years we’ve been chasing snobbery to an ever increasing degree. It started with “freshly ground pepper?”, and its end isn’t anywhere in sight. We don’t buy bread, we buy artisan-crafted loaves. We don’t buy olive oil, we buy extra, extra virgin cold pressed. It’s a trend summed up at least in part by Trendwaching, who dub it “snobmoddities“, but really it goes beyond commodities to almost every aspect of consumption.

A while ago, I was thinking that this model really needed to be applied to religious goods. No longer are rosary beads enough, now one can by rosary beads hand crafted by virgin Ecuadorian nuns (virginity not proven, probably unlikely), made out of trees from the Holy Land (which may or may not be Canada). Why Jesus tchotchkies, you ask? Despite, or perhaps because of my atheism, I really like the idea of selling overpriced religious crap. After causing so many problems, I feel that the kind of people who would buy this sort of thing owe me. You can have your prayer in schools, and I’ll take your money. Thank you very much. Please come again.

But what I really want to do is pair the whole thing with a charity of my own creation. “Buy now, and 10% of your purchase goes to our charity, the Lambs of Jesus!” the flashing banner would read. And the Lambs of Jesus would have a wonderful website, complete with pictures of smiling brown children, and crosses, and food. It just might fail to mention that 100% of the charities funds goes to sexual education, the ACLU, gay-rights groups, Planned Parenthood, and more or less anything else anathema to our fundie friends.

The irony would make me so delightfully gleeful, I might just burst.

When I saw the trailer for Brokeback Moutain, I couldn’t stop smirking. In part, because it’s a gay cowboy love story, sappy (and consequently campy) enough to spawn a thousand act-along parties, but which also conjures up so many wonderful double-entendres that my brain hurts. There’s the cowboy lingo, chock full of words that can be ‘tweaked’, like six-shooter, gun, rifle, partner, cow poke, the clothing: chaps, stirrups, boots, and the S&M gear: saddles, whips, bridles. It’s like a gay porno just waiting to happen.

INT. FRONTIER TOWN SALOON

Two men, skin tan and leathery from years of sun, sit at a bar. Both wear dusters, worn but functional. One sips bourbon, while the other is nursing a beer. Both look anxious, as if they’re afraid to have their backs to the door. One’s head turns, and glances sideways at the other. Their eyes meet.

Cue music.

But the other reason I kept chuckling was recalling the Reverend Horton Heat song Cowboy Love, from which I’ll excerpt:

A bronc bustin’ bull ridin’ tiger,
Yet peaceful as a dove,
It’s inter-racial cowboy homo kind of love

Everybody sing along!

I have hated pharmacists for years. I hate them for their pointless overpaid existence, which just drives costs up. I hate them for their refusal to deviate from a prescription, even when such deviation is obvious (Idiot: We’re all out of 60mg tablets. VFT: Okay, do you have 30mg tablets? Idiot: Yes. VFT: Well can I just get two 30mg tablets? Idiot: No. It says 60mgs here.), but willingness to do so when they feel it appropriate (Idiot: So I’ve given you the generic. VFT: Um, the prescription is for the brand name. Idiot: But it doesn’t say no substitutions. VFT: Okay…but it’s written for the brand name. If the doctor meant to prescribe the generic, they would have written…say, the generic name. Idiot: But it doesn’t say no substitutions.). I hate them for their conceited attitudes, their general surliness, and for so many other reasons.

But nothing, nothing makes me hate them so much as this. Pharmacists who refused to fill prescriptions should not be put on a leave of absence, and they sure as hell should not be protected by the legislature. They should be fired, because they’re refusing to fulfill the functions of their job. Of course, I actually think they should be shot, but I’m willing to compromise with those that feel shooting is a bit extreme. If I decide that Jesus told me he hates spreadsheets, I could stop working with them. I’d then be fired, and should be. That would free me to go and find a more Jesus-friendly activity, like bomber pilot, or executioner, but it’s my choice to decide if my morality interferes with my job, and my employers choice to decide that I’m unable to do my job, and to fire me. (I will also point out, as yet another reason to hate pharmacists, how utterly dumb it is to enter a profession which requires one to do something to which one has moral objections.)

So I have a suggestion to my creationist, pro-life brethren. You people love your Christian branded crap, so why not start a Christian pharmacy? You can call it Jesus Drug, and only dispense god-approved pharmaceuticals. I can only hope you’ll stick with just those remedies available in the days of the bible, and die before you can breed.

Those of you who know me also know that one of my lifetime goals is to be Dr. Moreau. Monkey-boy isn’t necessary, but if I had a couple billion dollars, I’d put the world’s top scientists on an island with the instructions “Medical ethics are stupid. Do cool stuff. Also, make me a goat-monkey. Preferably one that glows.”

However, without the aide of genetic engineering, I need to rely on the current animal kindom for my beast army, which is currently full of karate monkeys. Now I know I can add killer squirrels, doubling my destructive power.

ha haha hahhaha MUHAHAHAHAH!

I hate old people. Granted, not all old people, but most of them. Occasionally there are ones who have managed to maintain some degree of mental competency, who recognize their limitations, and are apologetic when they realize everyone is waiting for them. These old people I like, but they, unfortunately, are not the majority.

The remainder I hate for their slowness, for their whining, but most of all for their self-righteousness, particularly present in old women, who love to send piercing beams of “How dare you?” through their beady old eyes and wrinkled old prune faces when I do something like not let them cut ahead of me, or get frustrated at their taking 20 minutes to pay for a single 30 cent item. Also, they smell.

But none of these reasons are more than trifles when compared to why I really really really hate old people, which is mostly because they seem to expect the rest of us to take care of them, and they can vote. Roughly half the Federal budget, depending on how much we spend any given year bombing brown people, goes to the elderly in the form of entitlements such as Social Security and Medicare, the latter now massively expanded to cover prescription drugs. If there were unlimited resources, I’d be okay with this use of funds, but unfortunately, despite some people’s perception (cough, cough, President Koko), we don’t live in that universe. Instead, we have to determine what the most efficient use of resources is, and keeping old people alive longer is definitely not one of them. For the $600 billion or so we spend on entitlement programs, we could guarantee free education for every American citizen through the doctorate level, vastly improve our technology infrastructure, and probably research our way into a sustainable energy system.

While giving this money to the elderly instead of, say, planning for the future is undoubtedly beneficial to some economic sectors, like the manufacturing dynamo that is the mothball industry; overall it’s pure waste. So I publish the following open letter:

Dear Old Person,

Please die faster.

Thank you,
VFT

*With thanks to Sarah Silverman, from whom I ripped off this sentence.