Okay, so I'm a girl 13 years of age.
No, not really, but today I'll be a teenage girl to make a point. For this blog, I'm willing to gender-bend, though I assure you there are people out there already who use colorful language to describe me as less than a man and more than a dog. But not to digress. . .
So, I'm 13 and I just returned from the mall after spending the day with several teenage female friends. The BFF kind, you know. It was Saturday and we passed the hours exploring the latest teen fashions and engaging in deep discussions about our favorite music and which teen idols we'd like to date and, in graphic detail, the things we might do to make their love ours "forever." Oh, don't think for a moment that teenage girls can't carry on raunchy conversations about boys -- we can be more explicit than any boy in school (and, unlike boys with only one thing on their minds, we can actually spell explicit)!
Mom's chatting with somebody on her cell in the kitchen, but gives me a quick wave, and as I pass by my father, melted into the living room sofa in a familiar sitting position, I find him really into some football game on TV. My arrival goes unnoticed by him, hypnotized as he is, but that's okay because I have important things to do.
I race upstairs to my room, where my faithful cat, Mr. Trichobezoar already sleeps near my pillow, his favorite spot in the house, aside from his litter box.
Reaching deeply under the mattress, I retrieve my prized possession -- the locked robin's egg-blue diary containing my deepest secrets and confessions, shocking admissions recorded in block-style writings which I'd never want my parents to see. Never! That's why I keep the key close to me at all times.
Cuddling up next to Mr. Trichobezoar, who purrs with approval (though probably patiently longing for the day when his front claws return, so he can kill my parents and the vet in the dark of night for mutilating and humiliating him), I unlock my diary and turn to the next blank page, where I begin to chronicle the day's events, my words filled with teenage thoughts, fears and romantic dreams. Once my entry is complete, I carefully lock the diary and place it back where prying eyes will be useless without the key.
Now very sleepy, I recline on the bed next to my loving feline. I'm so glad that all my thoughts stay hidden in a $2.90 diary, rather than in the pads and computers so popular with all my BFFs, and, like they say, the pen is mightier than the. . .the. . .
THE SONY PICTURES COMPUTERS, YOU TINSELTOWN MORONS! Hey, I ain't no 13 year old girl now! It's me, Robert, and I want to ask you Hollywood folks a little question: In 2014, how is it that a girl of 13 with a $2.90 diary can expect infinite worlds of more privacy than your multi-million dollar digital watchdog communities? Worse, now that a multiplicity of Tinseltown egos have been splashed all over the world via hacked e-mails, Hollywood's "finest" anybodies who are anybodies scramble to lower themselves by "apologizing" for comments they made with no expectation of ever sincerely apologizing for. If you folks are going to call some movie star a "whore," at least be real enough to scrap the phony sorrow and respond, "Yep, that guy, he's a real whore all right, you betcha! I stand by my words!" Instead, devious Hollywood movers and shakers wiggle out of their troubles like worms evading fishermen. Maybe it's the way they were raised.
Incredibly, there's that one producer, can't think of her name, but Lady Dracula might work, and this idiot somehow believes she can retract her offensive statements about black people by offering apologies to street
brats Sharpton and Jackson?
Lady D, the only apologies these rascals understand is the color
of green, 'cept choo wouldn't be likely to know that, being that the lofty
space you and your husband, Lord Dracula occupy on the social scale
precludes common sense.
Yes, the core of this problem may indeed involve digital mayhem administered by and for North Korea, whose supreme dictator may not fancy the thought of being ridiculed and targeted in a movie which reality implies could be handled in no other way than to portray him as a buffoon and deservedly dispensable. Yet, hey SONY -- you've got the money, why didn't you just use it to put out a contract to "take out" North Korea's current dangerously supreme mental defective leader for real? THAT would make a really cool movie later on, ala bin Laden's final pajama party!
One gets the impression, nevertheless, that there are winners here -- alleged Hollywood pedophiles, grateful that the entertainment media has at last found something else upon which to focus its cameras and linger, albeit momentarily. Um, until e-mails about pedophilia favorites begin to emerge. Maybe around Christmas? Oopsie.
Meanwhile, the SONY hacking goes on, and apparently -- for now -- not all the money in the world can repair the cocktail parties, shattered egos and phony Hollywood royalty which, until now, thought it ruled everything, including corrupt politicians and the decisions those folks mold in turn for the rest of us. I say, suffer with it, a'holes de Tinseltown, ya gets what ya deserves. Got that spyware updated yet?
Speaking of the entertainment world, you think maybe the next time somebody works hard on a production of Peter Pan, they might use an actual no-gender-confusion boy for the main role? Why a performance in drag? During my childhood encounters with the story, nowhere was Peter P. in need of being portrayed by a female character, because he is a boy, not a transsexual.. Oh yeah, I remember Mary Martin and all the other actresses, but -- why? Why then shouldn't all stage plays of The Sound of Music feature young men as Maria? No need to fly there, either.
Jeb vs. Hillary in 2016? Again, a conjured product courtesy of and kept flaming by the cursed mainstream media. A nightmare "choice" from hell in every way.
The budget just passed by Congress enhances enough bad things, but it pains me to offer a word of appreciation to Sen. Elizabeth Warren, who stood on the floor to condemn bankers, senators and other government officials aplenty for basically being bought and paid for by the banking monster. The dinosaur, Hillary Clintosaurus may have real problems before 2016 comes around for a second look at potentials because Warren clearly impressed an enraged public. Warren is a (sigh. . .) Democrat, with few other political attractions to rope me in.
As usual, "everybody" hates Ted Cruz, so this man absolutely must be elected president in 2016.
The CIA and torture, plus torture of the CIA by Democrats with an agenda: Far bigger issues than my pea-brain can fathom occur, but I'm troubled by a persistent undercurrent of apparent high-level encouragement to chip away at law enforcement -- the people who keep us protected -- at all levels. The cops on the street, the military, the CIA. The CIA? Wasn't there a woman who said torture for her was seeing her husband jump to his death from the World Trade Center? Releasing the one-sided "report" was nothing less than a partisan get even event, and one wonders what harm awaits dedicated CIA personnel around the world. Now, other nations want CIA operatives prosecuted for their actions, and I think our proper response is to go to the U.N. and find and waterboard delegates from these offended nations. Yes, what a fine diplomat I would make. . .
The Sunday morning TV news shows grind along and everybody complains about the relaxation of political campaign financing. But nobody wants to discuss the role and immense power that TV Networks project toward viewers who, sadly, depend upon TV screens for instructions on how to conduct almost all activities of daily living. Putting "proper" candidates before the cameras to encourage "choice" among the perpetually misinformed is a definite advantage in TV land when votes are required for a political agenda.
Have a nice Christmas to those who celebrate it,and make 2015 memorable for you. There may be an additional blog entry or two in the meantime, or not, depending upon either the weather or my mainstream media tolerance level.