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Dear MySpace world,

I am posting this because I am absolutely disgusted, and I believe that you should know. I don’t care if you think I’m a terrible person, but I think that this is absolutely horrible.

I saw a bulletin headed “girl raped in [my city]….” and was instantly worried. Was it true? Of course it must be. Why would someone post such a horrible lie? Was it someone I knew? Even worse–what if it was a friend?

I opened the bulletin, and to my dismay, was confronted with a story I had seen before (very likely fictional) about a young girl named Diane who is saved from being raped because she prayed to God. Unfortunately, the woman following twenty minutes after Diane was apparently not quite as pious and was brutally raped. Next comes the tale of how Diane was inspired by the grace of God to go to the police station and identified the man that would have raped her, had God not been on her side.

At the end of the story comes a message:

“Amazingly, whether you believe or not, you’re never alone. Did you know that 98% of teenagers will not stand up for God?

Repost this as A GIRL RAPED IN (your city) if you truly believe in God..,

PS: God is always there in your heart and loves you no matter what
“If you deny me in front of your friends, I shall deny you in front of my Father”
STAND UP FOR HIM

93% won’t repost this.”

I highly doubt those are factual statistics, and if they are, you know WHY? Because most people have a sense of decency. Rape is not something to joke or make glib bulletins about.

To everyone who read it and found the story in the message inspirational, good for you. More power to you, I have no issue with a message that many people may find uplifting.

But to anyone stupid enough to repost this under that Subject heading…shame on you. I don’t personally know anyone who’s been raped, but I at least have enough common sense and empathy not to post a bulletin that is so blatantly insensitive.

Tyree

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Joe Drinker, hanging like meat in a bucher shop 

Way back when I was in High School, my church youth group went on a “missions” trip to Jamaica. Some missions marketing genius finally figured out that if you want people to pony up a ton of their own money to fly around the world with you to build houses in the jungle, there had better be some perks included. Hence, Jamaica. Two weeks of work, with time off for touristy stuff. Count me in!

Now, despite the fact that this was, as I said, a church group, it was, more importantly, a group of high schoolers. High schoolers with raging hormones, senses piqued in anticipation, going to be further away from our families than any of us had ever been before. Yes, some good would come out of this trip, but, ah, not the kind you can print in the brochure.

In the airport, when we first arrived, my buddy and I did what the rest of the guys did: we scoped out the co-eds who would be accompanying the group, and there were many. This is going to be great. As soon as I saw her, I was a goner: tall, with long brown hair, big brown eyes, a crazy tan, the cute baby-doll face – I couldn’t take my eyes off her. I was speechless.

On the first flight, fate dealt me a cruel blow by putting her seat way up towards the front of the plane, in what seemed to be the “beauty queen” section, while my friend and I were seated towards the back of the plane, near the lavatory. Bad for me, but good for my friend, because he didn’t seem to get along too well with air travel. Flying from Phoenix to Chicago to Florida, around Cuba (don’t want to get shot down), and on to Kingston, Jamaica, not once was I anywhere near the girl of my dreams. People around me must have thought I was super-spiritual with all the praying I was doing, but truth be told, I was really counting on a force greater than myself to orchestrate the meeting, falling in love, staying in Jamaica forever plan. Because I was incredibly shy, unless I was going to be seated next to her by an outside mandate I probably would never speak to her.

And I didn’t. For over a week, even though I was continually in her group as we went out in teams into the jungle to do, uh, whatever it was that we were supposed to be doing, I went along with her. And about 12 other people, but still, I’ll take what I can get.

Then, finally, one of the much-anticipated days off. In the Caribbean. This is the place where people come to honeymoon – love is all around us, flowing like, um, well, you get the point. It just couldn’t get any better than this. The planets had aligned. I made my move.

I worked up the courage to talk to her for a little bit at Montego Bay, and then when the group headed over to Dunn’s River Falls, we talked and walked together. By this time I was infatuated. We got to the falls, and, being the gentleman that I am, I held her hand, leading her up the slick rocks. It just got better and better. After several hours, we loaded the bus and we all drove into Kingston searching for food. It didn’t take long – real high school food straight ahead: Burger King!

We walked inside together, and when we got in line, she moved up a bit to giggle with some of her friends, and my buddy came up from the end of the line to talk to me. This must have been the only fast-food place in the city, because it was hopping. While standing there, I started to get really cold, but I thought it was just because this was the first air conditioning I’d felt in ten days, but something just wasn’t right – a draft, brushing me someplace it shouldn’t. Not wanting to make a scene, I ask my friend if I had a tear or something in the back of my swim trunks, he immediately begins shrieking in laughter. Not just a good hearty chuckle, but an all-out, hyperventilating uproar, complete with pointing. Not a good sign. Once he can breathe, he suggests that I may want to head to the restroom to fix the issue with my shorts.

Once in the restroom, I undo the drawstring and the shorts basically turn into chaps and fall off. Somehow, I managed to rip the seam from the waistband in back all the way between my legs to the bottom of the fly in front, effectively creating a peep show with every step. These shorts weren’t the kind with the netting failsafe netting sewn into them either. I was humiliated.

“Hello beautiful stranger. I’ll be your escort through this romantic hideaway. I’ve worn my special crotchless shorts for the occasion. Enjoy the view.”

The second week there was spent avoiding her and her friends, and since there was no way that the rest of the team wasn’t going to hear about it, I was shunned. An outcast, I spent most of my remaining time with the locals. I even found a few who hadn’t heard about my “incident,” and they let me hang out with them during our free times.

And that, friends, is how I learned to play cricket.

Rantasaurus Says: See, that’s the problem with your human clothing. I walk around with no pants on, like Donald Duck. I lay it all out there and wait for the ladies to come a-knockin’. Not too many ladies so far but… um… nevermind.

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Dear Obnoxious Drunken Tourists,

Thank you for visiting my fair city. I appreciate the money you’re spending here. Here’s a few ground rules to help you not incur my wrath (and the wrath of others who live here)?

  1. Please do not pee/spit/crap/eliminate other bodily fluids on the street or on residents’ porches. When I’m walking down the street and I have to step around your giant loogie, or watch you on the corner urinating on someone’s porch, it makes me angry.
  2. Yes, you’re in New Orleans. Yes, it is awesome. Please stop screaming and “WOOO”ing at the top of your lungs in a residential neighborhood at 3 in the morning. People do live in the French Quarter, and they are sleeping. This is an effective way to catch a faceful of plant from the person who has a shrubbery on a second floor balcony.
  3. Heterosexual men: Please do not assume that every woman on the street wants those cheap-ass beads hanging from your neck. Some of us are from here and could really care less about a 3 dollar set of beads. Also, just because a girl will not show you her boobs does not make her a “big fat d*ke”.
  4. Women: You wouldn’t have to explain to your kids/parents/husbands/girlfriends why you’re on the Girls Gone Wild commercial if you didn’t flash your stuff. We know you want those beads around that dude’s neck so you could prove that you were on Bourbon Street, but how’s about buying a postcard or decorative plate instead? By the way, I suggest you not show the lower ladybits (or manbits) unless you want a one-way ticket to the closest jail cell.
  5. Religious fanatics: We understand that you are here to spread the word of whatever deity you worship. That’s fine. However, please refrain from chasing people down the street, grabbing at their clothes, and screaming about how they’re going to burn in hell for all eternity because they’re in New Orleans. I don’t see you screaming that at the people who go to church on Sunday mornings, and they’re in New Orleans too. Oh, and as for that “God Hates F*gs” preacher guy? You’re not allowed here ever again.

If you stick to these rules, we’ll get along a lot better. If not, we’ll just have to come to your town and pee in your plants, scream at the tops of our lungs at 4 in the morning, harass people walking down the street, show our naughty bits to random passerby, and smack people over the heads with giant wooden crosses and assorted Chick Tracts.

Thanks,
Karen

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Recently Over-Heard Near the MacArthur Maze, around 3:40 AM this morning:

Truck Driver:
My gracious! What a lovely morning. All is right with the world…

(Truck careens into guard-rail. A generous explosion.)

Oh my God. Oh my GOD! I am fired. I’m so goddamn fired.

(Freeway’s steel supports melt, span collapses leaving massive hole in the freeway.)

Seriously? Are you kidding me? I’m goin’ to jail. Sweet virgin mother, I can’t go to jail. I can NOT go to jail. I’ve got to put this fire out!

(Attempts to put out flames. Burns his face and hands, the burns are 1st and 2nd in degree.)

Aaaaaall right. Fine. Okay, know what? Fuck it. Cabbie!

(Taxi pulls up.)

Cabbie:
Jesus. You look like hell.

Truck driver:
Get me the hell out of here.

Cabbie:
Where to?

Truck Driver:
Hospital, St. Franny’s.

Cabbie:
Were you drivin’ that rig that flipped and exploded?

Truck Driver:
Yes, my good man, I was.

Cabbie:
Boy, what the hell did you do? Well what the hell happened?

Truck Driver:
What did I do? You wanna know what happened? Try this on for size. I’m crusing along, got Slopyard Jenny on cruise control, a slow but steady 47 M-P-H. I’m chowin’ down on a MoonPie, banana, and thinkin’ about how smokin’ hot it’d be if Carmen Electra were goin’ down on a geoduck. You know, one a them schlong-shaped clams? Imagine that. Carmen Electra workin’ a geoduck. So I’m droolin’ through my MoonPie, and I see this big bright shiny electrified cross in my rear-view. Best I can tell it’s the good Lord above tellin’ me to change my lustful ways and imagine Carmen Electra goin’ down on somethin’ civil like an apple, or a Bible. Well the Lord puts the spirit in my feet, tells me to dance my love into the world like that Ellen fella that has his own talk show. I get to dancin’, stompin’- PRAISE HIM! And the what not. Well my case of the spirits is puttin’ the devil in ol’ Slopyard Jenny and next thing I know my Jim Croce CD is skippin’ like a madman and I’m ploughin’ into the guard rail faster than Roger Ebert can suck down a Slurpee. Next I’ve got a fireball bigger than George W’s balls and burns up and down my self. So can you, please, for the love of the Lord that struck me down, drive your most-likely-foreign-born ass to the hospital?

Rantasaurus Says: The good Lord giveth, and the good Lord taketh away. And I wish the good Lord would giveth me a bong to rip right about now.

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