Where do you get off?

Seriously. I want to know so I can add it to my list of places to never stop at. This is a short list of things that are pissing me off, but that I have to look at on a daily basis. Leave me a comment or tweet back to me if you've got something to add.  Maybe we'll write about that too, if we HATe it enough.

1. Large-screen laptops with their touchpad and keyboard shoved way to the left. Who are the IDIOTS designing these things? It makes me uncomfortable just looking at them. The only people this could possibly be good for is Latent Lefties. You know, the kind that love them some right handed Ten-Key, but still dig using a touchpad pointing device with their left. What? You don't know any? Neither do I. When you design a computer to supposedly sit on someone's lap, it should keep the screen centered in front of you. Similarly, the keyboard should be centered, keeping your hands/arms/shoulders in a somewhat neutral position.  I'm not saying you shouldn't try to throw a numeric keypad on a laptop. I love having one on hand, but make the keys slimmer OR SOMETHING, so that I'm not reminded of this nightmare: Thanks for your "support."
   
2. Smartphone Facebook Apps. I don't know which foil hat to wear here, so help me out please. When it comes to my mobile phone, I'm a moderate texter. I subscribe to many twitter and facebook friends' updates and have noticed of late, as more of my friends are switching to smart phones, that it is getting harder to reply to or interact with updates from my friends because the "app" they are using doesn't actually update their "status". I can't reply to or "like" a post via SMS because facebook doesn't support that sort of function. I get a prompt reply from facebook saying that my friend has removed this status, so I can't like or comment on it. Horse-knockers, I say! Who is trying to push me away from using SMS messages? Are we talking about the whole conglomerated smart-phone syndicate, or just the wise-asses that think I would be better served by being just slightly more connected (and billable) to the internet?
   
3. Website Content Summaries. There are a lot of things I like to read on the internet. Some are informational and newsy where I may pick and choose what I want to read, and others are posted by a friend or other acquaintance such that I would not want to miss gaps in their thought-stream. It is at the friends that have chosen to literarily cock-block my usage of an RSS news reader that I have to thumb my nose. Why would you want to limit my reading pleasure in this way? I shouldn't need to go to your website to hear what you have to say, if I have a tool that will allow me to read it wherever I go. You can even throw ads into your feed, so I won't miss out on that part either. When you block the full RSS feed, it makes me think you don't really want me to read it. Is that what you want? Well then FIX it!
   
4. Tweeting ONLY to link somewhere else, and then having the audacity to follow other people. Dweebs, you are useless and unoriginal. There are many of you trolling for more followers with nothing to contribute. Please cease to exist.

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Real HATers!

Sorry to take you away from your regularly scheduled HATertainment. The following is me being serious. This is the home for HATe; a place we can rant about all the things we dislike in this world. We rant about movies, cars, and airports. But what does this really say about us? I know for a fact that most of the contributors to this blog are in fact loving and open people who happen to play HATers on the Internet. I sometimes forget that there are still people with real biases and HATred toward others in this world. I forget that not everyone is alright with others because of their skin color or sexual orientation or any number of other equally insignificant reasons.

The fact that there is HATe in this world is something I have a hard time tolerating. I was raised to value other cultures and opinions and I have a hard time even understanding how this HATred and bigotry can still exist. I try to look to the heart of each person not at their skin color or listen to their accent. I know not everyone is like me and, in fact, I love that! We can all learn from each other and become better people for it.

This weekend a very lovely man and his boyfriend were turned away from his sister’s home once her boyfriend found out one of them was black. Even before this they were told they couldn’t sleep in the same bed because they were gay. His sister allowed her partner to discriminate against her brother’s loved one. I just don’t understand this; she is open and loving or at least pretends to be, how can she raise her kids to HATe her brother and his way of life and the people he loves. Family is love and there should be no place in that for HATe. She says, that’s just the way he was brought up. I say, the man is 24 and says he knows about the world, he can shove his experience where the sun doesn’t shine. He should know that not all the things our parents tell us are true and not every opinion our parents have we need to have.

I don’t even know this bigot but I HATe him! He doesn’t know them! He can’t even comprehend that he could be wrong. His beliefs are so obviously right so therefore all the rest of us are wrong. The civil war was over long ago. I can’t believe that these racist ideas still persist

The Best of the Old

It has been regularly coming to my attention via my Partner in HATe that I haven't been holding up my end of the bargain in helping to flesh out this website and make it something more than what has initially appeared to be an exercise in automobile HATred. After all, I've been sitting on an archived arsenal of HATe for years, ranging from political figures to Styrofoam pellets.

Nevermind that making this blog was basically an idea that spawned from my head and conveniently lumped onto kEnny's shoulders to make happen.

The problem is, Allie has only one brain, and even that one doesn't usually operate at full capacity, especially when she's writing a book. The idea of taking even a sliver of that creative energy and devoting it to this baby of ours just seemed like too much.

Well, I realized today as I was sitting on my ass goofing off on Facebook that I had no real good reason for neglecting my responsibilities. So when kEnny suggested (for maybe the 37th time) I import my juciest HATes from my garden of vitriol over at Memoirs of a Gouda, I figured there was no time like the present to Git 'r Done (I HATE that saying, by the way).

A lot of those posts are a couple years old or more, although there are a few more recent, but when a HATe is good enough and visceral enough (as with Roundabouts and Circus Peanuts), it withstands the test of time.

So click through the archives and see what's there, and let's toast to old HATes made new, and to new HATes with which we hope to grow old.

Oh.... WOW!!!

Do you have any idea how much I'm NOT liking Blogger right now? At least it is cooperating a little bit. I know this isn't much of a first post, but this just needed to be said after all the pain and sorrow of the past week. The pondering of how to implement the features here, and those that will be here later, has been fun. The actual execution of any plans has not. It's pretty high on the HATe list right now.

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What Makes Your (future) Car Ugly? Cadillac SRX Edition

Featured Selection from Autogotistical Carpinions

I used to like the Future/Art designs that Cadillac has been pushing for a number of years now, but when they started applying it to rebadged vehicles shared with other divisions, it just looked wrong. Case in point? Any Cadillac Escalade you see can't possibly lose the air of Tahoe/Yukon/Suburban/Avalanchiness that makes them so ermmm... common. Granted, these vehicles take a lot of work to disguise, but that doesn't mean Cadillac doesn't lose copious amounts of respect for poorly done makeovers. Today's target is a vehicle coming to a Cadillac showroom soon (if GM lasts that long), instead of a vehicle that has been out for a while.



The 2010 Cadillac SRX truly embodies desperation and lack of monetary resources (which kinda reminds me of the K-car), which I can't really blame the designers for (I'm thinking management here) , but have no problem disliking nonetheless. It is singularly unoriginal in every way and has no piece it can call its own.

The original SRX (which was completely original for the US market, by the way) may look somewhat pedestrian by the current standards, but has character and individualilty wholly missing from the new model. Let's examine the sources from which the newfound ugly has been derived, shall we?

Like all the other vehicles in the Cadillac stable, the new SRX has the standard design elements that make them destinctive from GM's other brands. Unfortunately they put the Stink in distinctive this time, because they decided to borrow the same platform used for the Saturn Vue and new Chevy Equinox. While I'm not impressed with the Vue, I think the new Equinox got a change for the better, sharing more visuals with the new Traverse and Malibu than the Trailblazer it used to mirror. At least something good came out of this for the Equinox!

Just like the Equinox, the SRX features strong familial resemblances to other Cadillacs. In this case the Escaladian features are hard not to see, which only shows what a bad match this bulbous platform is for the hard edges and sharp creases featured across the Cadillac lineup.

One last item to address here is the front fender vents prominently featured on the new SRX. Where else have I seen those awesome wheel-arch decorations? Oh yes!! It was something from Ford... The Focus!!!

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What Makes Your Car Ugly? Pontiac Aztek Edition

Featured Selection from Autogotistical Carpinions

This particular post has taken a lot of thought on my part, because I wanted to do more than just say "Hey, this car is ugly." I now live on the same block as an Aztek so I am given to dwell upon its status as an icon in the automotive industry more often than I'm comfortable with. I believe I can now say I have found the donors which have lent their genealogical makeup to this vehicle, and I can tell you that none of it is pretty.


To begin with, The Aztek was a crossover. In this case that means it isn't quite a minivan. Although it can be painful to look at, the hood line is generally longer, and they scraped off some of the back to "sportify" the rear and keep the "wagon" label from attaching too firmly (this way it rather slides off). On the plus side (some may prefer using the word size instead of side), this vehicle offers a similarly commanding view of the road which has made SUVs so popular in the U.S.A. In my opinion, the Aztek begat the beginning of the end for Pontiac's styling trend taken up in the nineties, whereby they thought that they could make anything look good by adding lower body-side cladding. It worked for many of Pontiac's models, but could not help the Aztek.

The Aztek was supposed to carry on Pontiac's "outdoorsy theme" inspired by the Trans Sport Montana, which was also not very well inspired. The original Trans Sport would have been a revolution in family transportation, which I think was the only reason that Pontiac used the same name for their minivan, as it bore no other resemblance to the concept. Too bad for that. We really lost out folks, but that's nothing new where corporations are concerned.

Back to the topic at hand. Where did the Aztek really come from then? They started with the idea of appealing to folks who really needed a minivan, but couldn't own up to it. But how could they characterize these folks? What features could they add to an existing vehicle to tap a new demographic? It would need to embody independence, flexibility, and use design principles perfected in the previous 20 years. What other cars could they draw from for these elements?

You really didn't need to read this far.

Really. You will be sorry if you go any further.

Don't say I didn't warn you.


The Chevette/T1000 family of cars had been sitting idle for a few pleasant years, and were chomping at the bit to be loosed upon the world once again, so Pontiac made it taller, wider, and updated the interior to match the best in modern adventure vehicles, but kept the same basic shape. There had been previous exeriments with turning standard Chevettes into exciting vehicles, but they were usually panned due to poor placement of bottle openers under the hood.

So we have the basic outline of the vehicle, but what could Pontiac do to keep the masses from exclaiming that they had just seen the Chevette reborn? They had to find a way to disguise it so that nobody would realize what it really was. Unfortunately they drew inspiration from a shining example of movie-making: National Lampoon's Vacation. I'm sure we'll never know the true reasons for doing this, but I'm certainly looking forward to the next car they try to sell with the same styling cues as the Griswold's wagon.

Wait. I think somebody already did. Does this look familiar? I think it might. If you look closely you can see the redundant set of tail lights that accent a very similar rear facia featured on the Lincoln Navigator. How odd!!

Now that we have exposed the Aztek's questionable lineage, I will tell you what was good about it. It could double as a tent! How many cars can do that? There was a boy racer version planned as an Anniversary Edition (a la Fiero), but it didn't convey enough of the Chevette's natural charisma, so it was left in the round file.

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I Piss On Your Flag!

I was eating lunch yesterday in one of those chain restaurant establishments after which "Chotchskies" in Office Space was modeled, and among the deluge of knick-knacks and other "pieces of flair" bedecking the staff and the walls around me was a giant American flag. I found myself initially noting its garish size, but then admitted that I really do appreciate the aesthetic nature of our stars and stripes. It's bold, edging on boisterous, and its symbolism is pretty self-evident without being too on-the-nose. It could also never be confused with the flag of another country, like a lot of those "three color blocks and nothing else" flags. Yes, I'm talking about you Mexico, Russia, and France! This is not a patriotic statement in the slightest. Viewed simply as a piece of cloth, Old Glory is attractive.

I then began to ponder the flags of other nations, and I realized that while some of them were also notable in the aesthetic sense, others were just downright silly. I'm not insulting your nation by insulting your flag, but come on; if a flag is supposed to encapsulate the greatness of your country via fabric, then I think it's pretty easy to say that Canada blows. A maple leaf? Boring! Leaves are not only exceedingly bland, but they make your lawn all messy in the fall. They're also weak. A baby can tear one in half, for crying out loud! Look, I have a lot of Canadian friends. They are good folks, but their flag is ridiculous. Sorry Canada. Fail.


Japan's flag is equally mundane. A red dot on a white field. Oh the unsavory things this symbolizes for me. Namely waking up in the morning to find you've had a bloody nose on a pristine pillow case, or that Charlie's come blazing out of the bush and you need to bring in the reinforcements (if ya know what I mean, ladies). Look, I know Japan is all minimalist and Zen-like, but their flag inspires me to do nothing more than stock up on Kotex.


You want a much better suggestion for the Japanese flag? Look no further than the Karate Kid. That's right. Cobra Kai, bitches. Strike First. Strike Hard. No Mercy.

Then we have copy-cat countries. The ones who decided to look at the guys next door and go: "Well, what's good enough for you is good enough for us. We'll just change the colors around a little bit and no one will notice. Chief offenders: Sweden and Denmark. Granted, both countries are homes to things I love. Ikea and delicious breakfast pastries, respectively. But this is no excuse to have flags that look like poorly-wrapped gifts. If I received a present wrapped in the style of a Swedish or Danish flag, I'd set it on fire. That's right, kids. Besides, everybody does giftbags now.


Oh, but the atrocities don't stop there. In fact, there is a whole world out there to cover. If only I had the time to pick on them all. But don't worry, I've saved the worst for last.

Poland. Please, do your countrymen a favor and try to do your part in eliminating the ancient stereotype that your citizens are retards, once and for all. Changing your flag would be a good start.

Northern Marianas has a flag that could only be described as infinitely tacky. I could sit here and stare at it for hours and still not figure out what it's trying to tell me about that particular nation. What is that stone thing behind that giant star? Why the bridal garland ripped off from the local Renaissance Festival? Listen, I'm sure all of this gaudiness is significant to the people of Northern Marianas in some way, but to the casual observer, it looks like something stitched together during arts and crafts hour at a nursing home. Oh, and in case you think I'm getting too cocky, remember that Northern Marianas is an American territory. Marianas needs to do a better job of representing. Just sayin...


Technically, the following flag is not for a specific country. It is for an organization of countries. This is the flag for OPEC. Nevermind that it makes the work of Salvadore Dali and Picasso look completely logical, and that it makes the wrinkled ass of John McCain look nearly appetizing. To me, it looks like four heads, one of which is being eaten alive while the other is running away screaming. I guess is kind of appropriate, though to be more accurate, the bite should be coming out of the ass. OPEC's flag would be cool if it featured Chuck Norris engaged in a sword fight with Charlton Heston, but still it wouldn't even matter. This flag fails just for the fact that OPEC was partially to blame for making me pay nearly $70 to fill up my gas tank. Screw you, OPEC.


The worst offender on this list is miles ahead of all the rest when it comes to making the visual senses nearly vomit. I don't even know where to begin, but Brazil has really done their nation a disservice with this doozy of a flag. The color scheme is putrid. The layout is awkward. What's with all of those stupid stars? And the words across the middle? Very bad form. This fail is bigger than the biggest shaking ass at Carnival.

I'd hate to sound biased. After all, the only flag in this entire blog I've praised so far is the American flag, and some of you might think this is incredibly unfair. But in my research, I found a flag that trumps any other. I don't even need to see the other flags to know this. And why? Because this is the kind of flag that everyone wishes they had. Especially someone like me. Libya, you may be full of insane people and are on my personal Top 5 List of countries in which I fear being stuck. But no matter. Your flag is fucking genius. Oh yes, some might call it a tad plain. Perhaps uninspired. Empty, Spartan, or downright depressing, even. But no... your solid green field with absolutely nothing on it is the pinnacle of flaggy awesomeness. It means I can make your flag say anything I want it to say. It's so ironic, really, from a country not particularly heralded as a bastion of freedom, that your flag allows me to have so much of it! Here's my tip of the hat to you, Libya! Hope you like the falafel.

Paging Doctor God!

Dear God,

I'm sure you're pretty busy playing craps with the universe and all, but I need to ask for your attention on a very important matter. See, there are some people on our humble little planet under the impression that you hold a medical degree. Now, I know you're all-powerful and stuff. After all, you created the planet a few thousand years ago, and there is some evidence you have a bit of a brutal temper, but nowhere on your credentials did I see you attended a reputable medical school. Granted, your son had some healing experience, but he seemed to deal mainly with lepers and resurrecting the dead, so he's a little limited.

Knowing this, why is it there are so many human beings allowing their children to die of curable illnesses under the belief that you and only you can heal them? I read of a Wisconson family who let their eleven year old daughter die of diabetes because they had faith that God running through her veins would serve as sufficient insulin. Not too long before that, a 15 month old girl died from a common bronchial infection because her parents were more comfortable setting up camp in the Lord's waiting room rather than one here on the earthly plane.

Now, I could be mistaken. Maybe you do have a medical agree, but I don't recall reading the part of the Bible that said it was your job to heal every sick person on the planet. Silly me, but seeing as how millions of people die every day, I just figured family practice wasn't high on your list of priorities and that to get by this problem, you made a few of the human beings on this planet smart enough so they could treat the sick.

The only thing I really notice is that the world is chock full of ignorant, arrogant assholes who think that they are special enough to receive the Lord's special healing tonic before the glut of otherwise decent folks who wither away from stupid diseases on a daily basis. Don't they realize that with 6 billion people on this planet, you're kinda busy? But what makes this most egregious is that these freaks aren't even acting on their own behalves. It would be easy enough to shrug off such fanaticism if they were using their own lives as the chips, but they're allowing their children to die for their dogma, and this is appalling.

I read a few stories about your intolerance for bullshit. Does Sodom and Gomorrah ring a bell? You also flooded the whole planet to wash away the idiots, for the love of You! Isn't there something you can do about these negligent, child-killing assholes? I mean, I know you haven't really done a whole lot about the other evil bastards plaguing this planet. Dick Cheney is a prime example. But there has to be something you can do here. These people are not only too stupid to live, but they're totally wrecking your reputation!

I know you've probably chilled out from the days of antiquity, but I think you've got some good old fire and brimstone left in you, and it's been a long time since you've done a major clean-up operation around here. These people seem like a great place to start.

Blasphemously Yours,
Allie

What Makes Your Car Ugly? Dodge Caliber Edition

Featured Selection from Autogotistical Carpinions

Chrysler's Dodge brand has managed to build quite a styling empire for itself. On the topic of Value, they go head to head with GM's Chevrolet and... er, Ford. When Styling becomes the deal maker, they seem to have lifted themselves to the level of Pontiac from about 4 or more years ago. I'm not saying I don't like the particular vein they have followed in general, but they have largely adapted a boy-racer look to almost every passenger vehicle they sell, which I have found myself rather tired of when seen strapped onto anything less assuming than a Viper, Charger R/T, or Ram Truck.

I won't deny that it has certainly been successful in terms of brand recognition, and what better passive safety feature is there than to have a handy verb spring to mind for any pedestrian facing down a large metal contraption with a over sized set of cross hairs approaching them at high speed? Wouldn't you want to dodge as well? I've been run over (or under, as it were) by a car, and I would have done much better to have received the subliminal advice offered by a Dodge than any given by a Ford Escort.

Back to the topic at hand: The lovely and soft-spoken design of the Dodge Caliber. I'm going to change over to some Firearm and Artillery lingo to help describe it as well. I hope you don't mind.

The Caliber has a face only it's mother fellow Dodge brethren could love. It is by far the most aggressive looking car in it's class, which also defies definition. Can you believe this car replaced the Neon? It seems to be about twice the size. When staring down the gaping grill in front, you can almost pick out the lands and grooves. It is hard to blame Dodge specifically for this though, as Dodge hasn't had much choice. Chrysler has forced its divisions to use the same barrel across a multitude of firing platforms, seeming to change the length to fit everything from derringer to hunting rifle. It is shared with no less than 6 different models, although one might argue the merits of calling the Jeep Compass and Patriot separate models. The other vehicles occupy the mid-size sedan and (believe it or not) full-size crossover-utility segments.

At least we now have word from Chrysler that relief is on the way. If you want a small Dodge in the near future, you may be able to pick up one built by Nissan or Cherry. I don't know if that means the Caliber will stay in the breach to continue firing for future model years alongside the new outsourced compact car(s), or if this signals a retreat for this model. My opinion is that the bore length of this "small" vehicle exceeds that of the larger stablemates (and it isn't very exciting, either).

I'll leave you with what I think is one of the best shots of the Dodge Caliber, so that the wounding sight of it isn't so painful.

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What Makes Your Car Ugly?

Featured Selection from Autogotistical Carpinions

Editors note: This is the first of many explicitly editorial pieces dedicated to those vehicles that rub me the wrong way. Later on, I may have another series called What Makes Your Car Not-So Ugly to round it out, but not on this blog.

Welcome to the first installment of What Makes Your Car Ugly! You may wonder how one like myself may be justified in asking (and answering) such a bold question, but be assured that I am as well qualified as anyone that might make uneducated and horribly uninformed opinions of somebody else's stuff. I have no business doing it, really. But I like to have fun with it anyway.

Today's topic: The Toyota Yaris.

I don't know if you have had the pleasure to enjoy their incredibly cute little commercials, but the advertising wizards were able to give this car so much "personality" that you forget how ugly the cars are. The hatchback reminds me of an overstuffed bubble about to pop, and the sedan is a stretched version of the same. In some of the advertisements, they actually do pop, as a form of asexual reproductive function.

In giving credit where it is due, I absolutely love the commercial where the lonely Yaris is pondering little MP3 players buzzing about. That one Rocks!

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Screw You, Optimus Prime!

I like to think I'm moderately intelligent. A few years ago, I had my IQ tested somewhere in the 130s, but I believe it's more in the 120s, which is where it was when I had it tested in Junior High, when IQ tests are typically more accurate. My strengths tend to lie in analyzing human behavior and applying logic to philosophic situations. I'm good at recognizing patterns. I'm pretty evenly divided between being detail and concept oriented, although if I had to choose one, I'd prefer to look at something as a whole. I gravitate toward politics, the study of interpersonal relations, and love examining the world in a sociocultural context. My weaknesses? The mechanical stuff, such as spatial reasoning, math, and other activities that require me to apply my analytical skills to physical objects like mind-benders and Rubix Cubes. I'll never be able to build the bridge, but I could provide a hundred and one reasons why one should be built.

My latest mental conundrum? Transformers.

Yeah, that's right. Transformers, and since I am the mother of a precocious little boy who has recently celebrated his fifth birthday, I have been reminded that there is no shortage of ways in which a mother can be reminded that she is not necessarily the smartest person in the parent-child relationship. I can't stand these toys. It's not that I think they are inappropriate or because I have a problem with robots in general. It's that Transformers have a way of making me regress to having the mental prowess of a tree stump.

Elias received an Optimus Prime Transformer toy for his birthday. I looked, or rather glared, at the piece of articulated plastic secured behind the clear bubble of its box (which proclaimed rather prominently to be appropriate for kids aged 5 and up), and I said a little prayer of thanks to whoever was listening that my son had a father who could show him the way.

But I am not always one to back down from a challenge, so when I saw Ken taking ol' Oppy out of his cardboard shelter today with all of the vigor of a die hard nerd aching to relive a chunk of his childhood, I knew that I too must finally prove myself. I took glances at him over the ten minutes or so it took for him to figure out the toy's bewildering multitude of bending joints that would turn it from a semi-truck into a fearsome robot, and I began to get a little discouraged. Undoubtedly, when it comes to my weaknesses as a thinker, Ken, the guy who spends his days looking at specs for gigantic motherboards, has them as strengths. If it was taking him that long to figure out how to transform this thing, then I would bound to be like the ape before the monolith for over an hour, and would likely give up in disgust in half that time.

When I finally got my hands on it, I was determined to turn it back into a truck. But where to begin? Curses ranging in vulgarity from "What the effing h?" to "Shit on toast in a bucket" flew from my mouth at a record pace as I managed to nearly break the toy in two spots and then hand it back to Ken in a fit of desperate stupidity. I was heartened by the fact that it more resembled a truck than something shat out of the asshole of a robot-eating troll, but given the fact that this is a toy for children of single-digit age, I felt more retarded than accomplished.

Tonight I took a gander at doing the reverse--transforming it from truck to robot. That was even harder, and my IQ took another opportunity to remind me that I was perhaps operating out of bounds. I managed to finish the job, but if I'd been graded on it, I would have likely received a B for my efforts. It was the best I could hope for under such brain-melting circumstances.

I have waged that perhaps I'm bad at manipulating these toys because I have a vagina. Undoubtedly, if one peruses the predominantly pink and purple aisles of the neighborhood Toys R Us, one will find nary a Transformer. Not to say that a person couldn't traverse the store to procure an Optimus Prime for their little girl, but I'd say it's pretty fair to assume that these toys are generally not marketed toward the female segment of the population. No, today's little ladies are busy creating mental conundrums for their parents by squeezing tiny dolls into polyurethane outfits the size of a thumbnail. Those are Polly Pockets, but those deal more in the issues of fine motor skills than sheer intelligence, which is another blog for another day.

Twinkie

It was 9:30am. I had been awake for nearly two hours, and I was starving. It wasn't just "any" kind of starving, either. It was the sort where one's metabolic functions look like a steadily plummeting barometer before one bitch kitty of a thunderstorm, except instead of atmospheric pressure dropping, it was my bloodsugar. I was on the road when the shakes started to kick in, and my stomach was staging a massive revolt whereby upon the absence of actual sustenance, it was beginning to consume itself while saying: "Feed me NOW, bitch!" I was determined to wait it out, to will away the demands of my most wayward organ, but there was no more waiting. It was either divert off the road to the nearest convenience store to grab something to hold me over, or vomit steaming bile in my lap. Not a good idea. I don't know why I let myself get to such a point of ravenous hunger. Call it thoughtlessness. Call it thinking (perhaps erroneously) that a girl of my size can perhaps stand to skip a few meals every once in awhile. There is also a bit of arrogance mixed in there. I'm "tough," dammit. There are full-grown adults who weigh eighty pounds who are still breathing. I think I can go 12 hours without a meal. Well, not this morning.

As I staggered through the doors of the neighborhood junkfood haven, I didn't really have a plan in mind. Actually there was nothing in my mind. I can't even tell you that I remembered parking the car. All I knew was I needed sugar or I was going to pass out. As is the case with any junkfood haven, sucrose, fructose, and every other compound ending in "ose" is available in outrageous supply, and I need not walk more than four steps before encountering some. So here is my big "Ah-HA" moment, for as I glance near the cash register (what I think of as the honey spot for all things fattening), I spy an array of Hostess snacks, you know, those things that are more a feat of engineering than actual food. I feel the back part of my mind groan at the sight of them. I've been culturally and scientifically engrained. As much as I love food that is bad for me, even I have a limit. But that back part of my mind also knows that it's not in charge at the moment. The feral little weasel in my gut is, and it needs to be assuaged forthwith. I step up to the counter and grab the first object it lands on: a package of Twinkies. I fumble my buck and a quarter out of my pocket and without even waiting for the change, I make for the exit, hoping that I'm staggering, and also hoping (needlessly so, thanks to the bitch that resides in the self-flagellating part of my brain) that the store clerk didn't think that the fat chick was having the physiologic meltdown that she clearly was having.

I tore into the package before I even got to my car and took my first bite of a Twinkie in at least half a decade. I had forgotten what they tasted like. The first Twinkie, I didn't even notice the flavor. I was more consumed with fixing the faltering machine otherwise known as my body. In fact, I think I nearly swallowed the thing whole while thinking to myself that this ought to do the trick. I should be able to make it home without fainting from a rare hypoglycemic spell.

And then the real taste kicked in as I started working on the second Twinkie, and the only word I could muster was "gack." Memories flooded me, ones that I were shocked were still a part of my internal hard drive. Memories of remarking to myself years ago that Twinkies are perhaps one of the most disgusting foods on the planet, those rare ingestible things that should fall under the category of: "Things People Eat When They Hate Themselves." Other players on the list would include Big Macs, Easy Cheese, Wonder Bread, and Dinty Moore Beef Stew.

There is just something so inherently "wrong" about a Twinkie. It's pure science. There is not a single ingredient in a Twinkie that by itself would allow you to survive in the wild, and in many cases would actually kill you on the spot if you ate too much of it. The overall texture and flavor of the "cake" is reminiscent of a Scotch Brite sponge soaked in anti-freeze. The filling tastes and feels like sugary lard with a metallic tinge that likely came from the machine that extruded it, and it coated the roof of my mouth like Vaseline. The overwhelmingly saccharine experience of it all burnt the back of my throat, and attempts at flushing it out with water were futile, as the greasy fat that was now lining my mouth acted like a water-tight barrier, barring my tastebuds from salvation.

To put it bluntly, my soul felt like it was raped after I ate a Twinkie, and I was left with the inalienable certainty that I was summarily subtracted two years from my life, one for each Toxic Deathcake I ingested in an attempt to recover my bloodsugar to an operable level.

And the kicker, as I now sit here comfortably in my home, thankfully not feeling the shakes but more like the shadow of death has moved ever closer to eclipsing my being (at least in the larger sense. I'm sure I've got some years left), I am hungry again. It's almost like in eating the worst food known to (and created by) man, I actually haven't eaten anything at all. It's like a cruel illusion, for I know the fetid residue remains.

"Playdate" and Other Abominations of the Parental Playbook

I never realized, when I opted to have children, that I would be handed a membership card to an incredibly competitive culture of child-rearing. Those of you who don't have kids now, or do but who haven't been online (or on the right websites) or picked up a book on parenting in the last ten years might not realize this, but it's war out there, and for those who are currently enlisted to fight in it, these are but a few of the battlefronts from which you can choose:

Breastfeeding or Formula? To Circumcise or Not to Circumcise? Spanking or No Spanking? Vaccines or No Vaccines? Electronic Toys or Old-fashioned? Cribs or Family Beds? Attachment Parenting or Babywise? Cloth diapers or Disposables? Television or No Television?

And whichever side you choose, you are fighting for the ultimate objective: The Perfect Child.

What is The Perfect Child, exactly?

That would be one who always says "please and thank you," who will grow up loving his mother and father, be the star of his or her class, go to Harvard on a scholarship, and become a respected member of whatever career he or she chooses (hopefully a doctor). In other words, a child who will validate the choices we agonized over for months and years while raising him, a child who will be the living example of everything we did right, who will be the one that will make us look down our noses at in disgust those who did differently and suffered different outcomes. "Well obviously Johnny is a little miscreant. He was formula fed!"

I can't tell you how many times I've seen examples of such arrogance in fellow parents. These are parents who treat their children like leather-bound day planners in which they write their best intentions, hopes, and dreams. These are people who raise their children not like dynamic, organic human beings, but more like high-performance vehicles. Machines, in other words. Just like a Mercedes Benz requires an oil change every 3000 miles, Johnny requires his allotment of social interaction three times a week in the form of a "playdate."

A friend of mine asked why I abhor that word. Why it makes me want to vomit every time I hear someone use it. I'll break down everything that the word "playdate" implies for me about modern parenthood and the parents who use it:

1. It is a term that brings corporate sloganeering to parenthood. We've replaced "having a beer after work" with "team-building exercise." And now "getting the kids together" has become "playdate." This is because:

2. Given the changing family dynamic with a typical household requiring two working parents, something as simple and free-form as "play" has to be "penciled in." And we had to give it a cute little name like "playdate." Because it's like a date, isn't it? It's a social scenario where parents have to meet and put their assets (in this case, their children) on display like a status symbol, against which their worth as a caregiver will be measured. If little Johnny has a meltdown, then you have failed a little bit, haven't you? Clearly this is a result of you not letting Johnny sleep in your bed. He's expressing his angst at feeling detached from his mother.

3. The use of "playdate" also implies that you wear really high-cut jeans, embroidered vests, and likely drive a mini-van with little soccer stickers on the back. It implies that whatever hotness you once had that attracted your mate to you and got you pregnant in the first place has morphed into a Stepford-like sterility that is devoid of any and all human appeal. It implies that you have become a Mombot, and that your husband will likely be banging his secretary within three years because your vagina feels cold and metallic. Like an unused sink drain. Again, that's what it implies. If you are not a high-waisted jeans wearer with a sink drain vagina and you use the word "playdate" as part of your daily parental vernacular, you are part of a special minority.

But all that aside, I have noticed a trend in parenting, not only during my tenure as one, but also in the years preceding that. At some point, we forgot about our instincts. At some point, we became convinced that whatever we once thought was right was wrong, and we turned to books written by "experts" to show us the way. At some point, we said to ourselves that we weren't good enough or smart enough to figure out on our own whether we should pick up our babies when they cried, and from that point we looked at every choice we made for them the choice between whether we were raising angels or devils.

I stepped off that particular battlefield long ago, when I realized that even the best choices can produce even the worst results, and I don't merely mean bad children. I mean parents who are douchebags.

"The Secret" to Being a Prick

Human beings can be incredibly pathetic creatures. When it comes down to it, we're miserable. We know we're miserable, and we will do next to ANYTHING in order to not be miserable anymore. Those things include (but are not limited to): drinking excessively, abusing drugs, compulsive shopping, compulsive sex, compulsive gambling, lighting things on fire, kicking people in the nuts, primal scream therapy, and finally: clinging to the latest version of recycled self-help mantras that have been on the market for the last thirty years, but have now been modernized to appeal to your attraction to The Da Vinci Code.

What was that last one, you ask? Oh please, like you really NEED to. If none of you have heard of the latest self-help craze The Secret by now, you have probably been too busy being happy of your own accord.

According to the authors of this system, it basically boils down to something like this: If you think about something you want long and hard enough, it will eventually just happen!

Now, I know what some of you are already going to say. "There is nothing wrong with that approach, Allie!" Or some of you die-hard optimists out there are going to tell me that I am being too negative, that I will never get anywhere in life if I don't start thinking more positively about things, and by and large, I will agree with you. But here is my problem with programs that over-sell the concept of positive thinking, and it will be illustrated by a really sucky metahpor that I've come up with basically on the fly:

There are three types of vehicles you can choose to drive through life. One of them is a piece of shit that always breaks down and uses your soul for fuel. Listen to the song "Piece of Shit Car" by Adam Sandler, and you will get what I'm saying. You drive this car, and you begin to resent every other driver on the road for having something better than you.

The next type of vehicle is a luxury land yacht that runs on sunshine, children's laughter, and butterfly kisses. The interior is gingerbread and gumdrops. It makes you so happy, that you pretty much forget about the people in the shitty car, and you turn into a pretentious dickhole.

And then there is the "car" that people drive. It's the middle of the line vehicle that might have a crack or two in the windshield and might stall from time to time, but it will get you where you're going, provided you keep the oil changed, have a decent set of tires, and enough money for good old-fashioned gasoline.

In other words, there is nothing wrong with harboring occasional feelings of negativity, so long as you're still GOING somewhere or DOING something. You have to keep "driving," and remember that although you could be driving the Sunshine Land Yacht of Happiness, things could be considerably worse. You won't get there in the lap of luxury, but you'll get there.

How does this apply to The Secret? For starters, it's ridiculous in the way that it treats the concept of optimism like something that people haven't heard of, and that the Land Yacht is your only option. Second, it presents this idea of "visualizing your goal" as something almost mystic in nature. If you want a 15 carat diamond ring, you need do nothing more than cut out a picture of that ring, hang it up on your refrigerator, and think about it really, really hard. But this doesn't apply to only material things. Got cancer? Paralyzed from the neck down? Forget about that nasty medical crap, and just think positive! According to The Secret, Christopher Reeve was not positive enough, because if he had been, he would have been running the Boston Marathon instead of dying from an infected bedsore.

Think that last sentence sounds bitter? That's called "blaming the victim," a concept that is highly recommend in "The Secret." It goes so far as to advocate not only avoiding negativity, but completely shunning it, because it can seriously interrupt the positive thought process it might take for you to get your shiny red bicycle. Bad things happen to people simply because they weren't thinking positively enough! You must separate yourself from people who are having hardships. Only then will you succeed in claiming what is yours!

In other words, be a detached psychopath, and you will be rich!

And they call this shit a "Secret?"

So what does this boil down to? The Secret is nothing more than a tool to turn people into complete and utter... tools. It insists that you eschew things like reality, empathy, and compassion and turns you into a materialistic asshole whose eyes are focused on nothing more than the self-serving prize.

I think the world has enough of these types of people, don't you?

The only thing that should be shunned is this kind of "program," that at its core is ugly in the most transparent way in its attempts to lure people with the promise of happiness by bringing out what is one of the worst things about human nature: its selfish vanity.

In making you think that you are on the road to happiness, The Secret has done nothing more than encourage you to line the pockets of the only person who is truly benefitting from your transformation into a smilingly deluded imbecile-- Rhonda Byrne, the creator of The Secret.

Killing Me Sweetly Part II- Sugary Tooth Extractors

There are some things in this world that even when they are not all that good, they are still somewhat enjoyable. Examples would include pizza and sex. Even less-than stellar intercourse that does not result in multiple orgasms is still better than no sex. At least that's the way I feel. You would think candy should fall into this category. After all, it contains sugar, which is the universal feel-good compound that makes all the right chemicals surge through our beleaguered brains. Unfortunately, there are items in the candy world that take us down the road to saccharine perdition, and often times, that road is paved with the expensive dental work or cavity-laden molars of their victims.

The Gouda today will chastise the candies that try hardest to keep the world's dentists in business:

Milk Duds and/or Riesen
JuJubes, Starburst, Now & Later

I mean... what the fuck? Where does the joy lie in rigid, sweet clumps of misery adhering to the cracks and crevices of one's chompers? These virulent rogues of the confectionary world violate the one rule I have for the enjoyment of any foodstuff:

If more time trying to get the crap out of my teeth or out of its natural encasement must be spent than actually chewing, swallowing, and enjoying said foods, it's not worth eating. Life is short, people. I'd rather spend it living off the nourishment I'm putting into my body than fighting with it before ingesting it. Other foods falling under this category include sunflower seeds in the shell, shellfish that has not been cracked open in advance, ribs, and corn on the cob. It's not that I don't eat these things, it's just not something toward which I tend to gravitate first. But let's save those offenders for another post and focus on the sweet stuff.

It's not that the above-mentioned candies don't taste good. I love the combination of caramel and chocolate. No- check that- I want to drown myself in it. I also enjoy the fruity fakeness of the Jujubes and Starbursts, although they don't really trigger in me the "I'm going to die from the sheer lust I'm experiencing from eating this" vibe.

So even if it tastes alright, the act of eating a piece of Riesen, for instance, is akin to using a pair of hedgeclippers to trim my fingernails. Why go to all that trouble and potentially disasterous result by eating that when I could so much more easily swoon myself into the titillating utopia of sucrose saturation by eating one or two (okay, a dozen) of something like, say, a Hershey's Kiss?

I do have a grudging admission, though. Maybe one good thing about candies like this is that by their very irritatingly laborious nature, they halt the tendency to binge. Of course, my tendency to binge (or eat, period) would also be halted if I had to make an emergency trip to the dentist to have the amalgam shoved back into my upper-right bicuspid. I'd rather just not go there.

I almost convinced myself to concede defeat on my own point, but not now!

No... no... Molar-adhering candies are officially dead to me, and I'm sticking to it, dammit!

Now... where are my Kisses?