Reader Mailbag

     Questions from the mailbag!

    “Have you ever beaten your slaves and left marks on their thighs so that they had to see it when they jerked off?”
                –a random European Internet Stranger who also advises me to look up “rent-seeking behavior” on wikipedia.  I know what rent-seeking behavior is, thank you very much, Mr. Mansplainer of the Year.  I have at least fifty books about political and economic theory in my library right now, and God-knows-how-many journal articles.  How many do you have?  Do not get into an intellectual dick-measuring competition with me.  Like a good Stalinist, I will liquidate you. 

     But on to your question…!

     Well, no, but that’s a fine idea and it sounds kinda hot…

      The thing is, I do not have any personal slaves at this time.  I’ve had one “personal” in my life since I moved here…David, aka No. 29.  I trained David over the summertime a few years ago.  I haven’t written too much about him because he’d just finished college and was starting a new career, and I was protective of him. 

      The men that I see at the Studio in my capacity as a domme might identify as subs or slaves, but they are not my subs or slaves, although I have cultivated closer, more intimate relationships with a few of them over time (I do feel personally dominant with these men, and I enjoy it, and them, tremendously).  

    My professional role as a domme is is usually that of a Service Top.  I do what he hires me to do, so long as it does not violate personal boundaries (his or mine).  I put as much of my personality into it as possible, but I don’t have free reign to punish, discipline or train clients however I like.

       Following that, many of my clients are married or in relationships.  They cannot be marked in tell-tale ways…or even marked at all.  They don’t want their significant other, or anyone else, inquiring about how they got the bruises or welts on their thighs.  
       Bruising the thighs is a great idea, though.  Sometimes, if I can, I like to leave a bruise somewhere where they can see it looking down–usually on the hip or torso.  I call it “The Button,” and if I poke it with my fingers or a stick or my shoe, it means they have to act out a specific command…mmm, The Button, very hawt…..


       “What are your favorite movies?”

                                          –Random Internet Stranger

        You must be a woman, whoever you are. 

        Wow, what a date question!  I feel like I’m being courted right now, as I sit here in my underpants and one of my ex-boyfriend’s old shirts, wishing I could go back to sleep or at least do some housework without waking up the birds. 

         Hmmm, haven’t thought about it before, but…in no particular order, here you go:

         The Fog of War: Eleven Lessons from the Life of Robert S. McNamara.  Errol Morris’s work is always first-rate, but I think that this is his best.  

       I read McNamara’s books for a university seminar.  I find him repulsive but fascinating.  His IQ must be in the stratosphere.  (My father remembers when he would view slideshow presentations of fifty, sixty, seventy slides, all unlabeled, and McNamara could keep track of the slides…he’d say, “Go back to Slide 42.”)

       Something is also very wrong with his capacity for empathy.  I’d love to see this guy’s brain scans. What an arrogant, disingenuous prick.  I am not a psychiatrist, but I think he is probably a sociopath, and I am not saying that because I disagree with his politics.  The only time he displays emotion in this film is when he talks about things that affected him personally, like the assassination of JFK.   


    Next: The Thin Red Line.  The film’s a little confused, but I like it because it gives me a lot to think about and when it’s good, it’s very, very good.  It’s also explicitly philosophical and very American.  I think Terrence Malick is the reincarnation of Walt Whitman, lol. 

      It’s not all Transcendentalist navel-gazing.  The war scenes freak me out in a very bad way.  There’s a scene where a bunch of soldiers are standing in a river, sitting ducks, awaiting their imminent doom, and they’re asking their CO for orders…and he doesn’t know what to tell them.  That scene just rips my heart out, because that’s life sometimes. 

        Next: CASINO!   I love this film!  Loved it!  ARRRGH!   It was soooo much fun!  The characters!  The sets!  The pen scene with Joe Pesci!  

      Sharon Stone was such a jerk in this movie!  But god, did she ever knock it out of the park.  

     Mistress C and I watch this sometimes at the Studio when we’re bored.  She likes Joe Pesci’s character.  I am more attracted to Sam Rothstein.  

       Next: WINGED MIGRATION.  Birds, birds, birds.  Birds and more birds.  Beautiful birds!

       It’s also a virtual vacation.  Put down the manuscript and fly to France with the cranes, man. 

         The Libertine.  Oh, the bad old days.  The film does an excellent job of capturing how wretched life must have been back then, even if one was rich.  

       Seriously, though, it’s very well-written and full of wisdom and the relationships are captivating and very true to life.  It’s also funny as hell sometimes.  I watch this film very year and I always get something out of it.  

      If I was an actress or artistic person, this is the sort of film I’d want to make.

Finally: The Proposition.  An ultraviolent Western set in Australia.  Men!  Men with guns!  In the desert! Go make some popcorn.

  It’s a shocker.  And I love the soundtrack by Nick Cave. 

      Downfall.  I’ve read three biographies of Adolph Hitler.  His constellation of personality disorders was very ODD.  His entire administration…what a rogue’s gallery of losers and misanthropes.  It was like revenge of the nerds gone all fucking wrong…where instead of the awesome geeks taking over and getting revenge, it was the Columbine shooters.  

     Anyway, the film captures what a disgusting person he was.  Can you believe this weird, middling-bright fucker got 90% of the vote?  Stalinism was horrific, but at least the Russian people can say: it was foisted upon us.  The way the Bolsheviks seized power in the vacuum was criminal.  In contrast, Nazism was an organic movement.   The people loved it.  They made it.  And him.  

      I have zero sympathy for the Germans.  Those Teutonic assholes caused the Franco-Prussian War, World War I, and World War II, and if you don’t think they’d march on Poland tomorrow if they could get away with it, you’re wrong.  They are not the reformed techno-loving environmentalists they appear to be.  Take it from me.  They’re killers.

      I feel pity for exactly two things: Dresden, and what happened to the women and children when Berlin finally fell.   It was wrong that that happened.  

      I could talk about war all day.  I’m worse than a dude, lol.

      Those are my favorite movies off the top of my head.  I also like Amadeus and that PBS special about lions and hyenas.  And Immortal Beloved!  I loved Immortal Beloved!  And the documentary film Why We Fight.  A State of Mind, about girls training for the Mass Games in North Korea, is also jaw-dropping.

Pulp Art: What is Going On Here?

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    What’s that old-school psychological test where they show you pictures of people engaged in various activities, and then you are required to make up a story explaining the motivations of the people in picture? The Thematic Apperception Test?

     I’m not a huge Tumblr fan, but boy, you can find all sorts of images there.  Look at some of this noir pulp art.  I like to try to figure out the story behind the pictures.

     Like this one: is this lady pawning a piece of her jewelry?  If so, why?  She looks well-off.  Did she steal it?

 And in the world is happening here?  Is “Lucky Johnny” here stealing money out of this woman’s high-heeled shoe?  Is he paying her for the shoe?  Does she look concerned to you?  She looks concerned to me!  

This chick is in trouble and doesn’t know it yet.  The man and the woman helping her with her coat/shrug are in cahoots.  They’re up to something.

He’s either delivering bad news or else he’s someone she was really hoping she would never see again:

     This one is my favorite!  I looked at it for five minutes, trying to figure out what was going on.  My initial impression was that it looked like a cop just checking out a young couple who were fooling around in the dark…I’ve had that happen to me a few times when I was younger.  However, they’re both fully clothed and there’s a fence in between them.  And what’s she holding in her hand?

      She doesn’t look surprised, whatever’s happening.  He doesn’t, either.

       Maybe the cop is her family member?  Like her dad?

        “A New Johnny Liddell Mystery.”  Riiiiight.  So the question is: is the dude the man who murdered that blonde on the sofa, or is he the hard-boiled private eye who came to investigate the crime scene afterward?  Is he the woman’s boyfriend who came to her place and found her like that?

      Men’s “detective” magazines.  So weird.  I probably would have been a fan, though. 

Even Hercules Needed Help

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    Update 10:15 PM

     Three AA meetings today and I am home, safe, for the night.  I got through the day, functioned well at my job, called three sober women to report that I was alive and not sucking down Bushmill’s and avoiding my Parrot (the last time I relapsed, I covered Parrot’s cage with a sheet so that she couldn’t see me drink.  Not quite sure who I thought I was trying to protect there, lol).

      Something pretty rad even happened when I walked home from work.  I was walking through a park that had a huge statue of Abraham Lincoln in it.  President Lincoln is my favorite president.  Perched on the statue’s shoulder was a hugeass beautiful hawk.  Lots of people had stopped to admire her.  She definitely looked like a much happier bird than the self-mutilated cockatoo I posted down below.  

      Adler, my surname, is the German word for eagle.  An eagle is not a hawk, but they are both raptors.  

      I would rather be that hawk chillin with Lincoln than the sad hurting cockatoo. 

      Finally, because someone asked, the picture at the bottom of the blog post is the great hero Herakles who retrieved the three-headed monster hound Kerberos from the land of the dead.  It seemed appropriate.

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Dammit, you 8 readers!  Why aren’t you voting?  It is imperative that blame be assigned and a culprit publicly shamed.

       Yesterday was a truly crummy day.  I had nightmare that I was counterfeiting money to give to my landlord, which is crazy because I would never do that.  That is a federal fucking offense.  And even if I did do it–which I never would–I wouldn’t do it by downloading the image of a $100 bill off the internet, printing it out on my cheap stupid printer, and then cutting it out with the scalpel the Surgeon sent to me in my Valentine (I keep the scalpel by my desk.  Whenever I miss him, I refer to it).  

        Nevertheless, I woke up convinced–convinced!–that I had given my landlord $400 in counterfeit money, and he found out when he tried to deposit it at the bank.  Caught! Busted!

        Guess how much money I earned with the French Fry.  

         Tell me there’s not a connection.

         Feeling a little conflicted about how you make your living, Margo?   Subconsciously?

         My brother injured his back at work.  The doctor says he needs surgery.  He’s been on pain medication for months now.  I am terrified that he’ll get addicted.  If he takes it every day, addiction is inevitable. 

         He has 50% different genes than me.  I pray to a God I don’t believe in that my brother will be spared this affliction.  I know that he doesn’t drink.  He does use tobacco, though, which is a performance indicator.  

         He knows about the anorexia–he saw me at my lowest weight. He doesn’t know about the alcoholism.  I didn’t develop it until I moved away from home–they don’t know how bad it got, or that I’m still struggling with it now.

          Maybe I need to call my brother and have a serious talk with him about this.   A serious, Come To Jesus talk.   He does not want to be where I am now. 

         It will have to be me.  God knows my mother won’t do it–she doesn’t see what she doesn’t want to see.  I could show up for Thanksgiving weighing 80 lbs and drink a bottle of wine by myself at dinner and she wouldn’t say a word.  Denial is my mother’s chief coping mechanism.  It’s not exactly healthy, but at least it is much easier on the liver.   HA!  Watch–she’ll live to be 105 years old, and I’ll be dead by 35.  Self-destruct. 

This Cockatoo did this to herself.  I know why. 

        I’ll make the call this afternoon.  Too early now.   The time zone change.

         I’m going to take a shower and go to an AA meeting before work–regular tutoring job today.  Then I will call my brother.  I love him and I don’t want him to suffer.

         I need friends, and I need help.  I’m scared, for him and for myself.  This killed three of my four grandparents.  I don’t want to die. 

          Even Hercules needed help.  He asked for it and was not ashamed.

         Ask, and you shall receive. 

Cerberus carried off by Heracles | Greek vase, Caeretan black figure hydria

SCAVENGER HUNT! Help a Girl Out! (updated)

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   UPDATE:  I told Fortinbras where the state of More was located.  He says that he can see it from his office across the Thames.  Anyway, he is pleased and says that when he gets back to NYC, he will “award me my prize.”  I am not sure whether to be happy or terrified.  If I said that to a sub, I’d have something up my sleeve for sure.  lol


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   Mr. Crush is driving me nuts.  How could I have not foreseen that a man whose purpose in our initial meeting was to haggle about my boundaries, would end up being a problem?  What a shocker, right?  Why didn’t I see it coming?  Because he was calm and placid and intelligent?  Because he was sober and in AA?  As if I didn’t know that AA is full of fruitbats?  I should have known he’s be trouble the minute I saw that huge Norton Anthology of POSTMODERN POETRY in his apartment.  Who in their right mind would voluntarily read postmodern poetry?  Good God, I bet he’s published in it…

      (He’s also a huge fan of David Foster Wallace’s Infinite Jest.  Another huge red flag I ignored.  A few of his short essays were okay, but my opinion of this author is mirrored here and here.) 

     Did I mention that I ran into him at a AA meeting?  Cause I did. You saw that coming, right?  Of course you did.  

      I almost crapped my pants (this was after our first session together).  I was hoping that he wouldn’t notice me, but of course he did.  If he had the tact that God gave a goat, he would have know that it was Something Never To Be Spoken Of.  But our sad divorced fan of postmodern poetry, in the thralls of his crush on our idiot heroine Miss Margo, has no tact and seems to think our mutual   presence in AA is something we can “bond” over.  

      He has been demoted from “Tolerable Client: Cell Phone Bill Ain’t Gonna Pay Itself” to “Client to be Seen Only in Times of Acute Financial Distress” to FIRED.  Say “Hi” to Dave on Rejected, Fired Client Island, Mr. Crush. 

       He is going to find this, because he is searching Ye Olde Internet for me even at this very moment, I have no doubt.  You might think that is vain of me to say that a client would want to, or even could, find my statistically-irrelevant blog in the ever-expanding universe of the internet, but I’ve had clients find me here.  Four times, confirmed.  95% sure the Mathematician found it, but I couldn’t get him to confess, so the jury was unable to convict. I know the Surgeon never found it, because if he did, I would not be here typing this right now (for reasons which remain opaque to me, the Surgeon hates the internet.  Probably because he can’t control it). 

      When he reads this, it is going to hurt his fe-fes.  I hate to be mean, but oh well.  I am still so irritated and aggravated that I can’t even publish the conclusion of the Tale of Mr. Crush.  I’ve written three drafts and I can’t bring myself to publish them.  Do you want to read them?  Do you think it’s appropriate to write about him?

      Forget it, let’s move on before I go crazy.  LET’S DO SOMETHING FUN!

      Readers: help a girl out!  The jet-setting Fortinbras, who is in Tokyo or Copenhagen or Paris or other Fabulous Place (I can’t keep up), has given me an assignment.  A sort of artistic Scavenger Hunt.

      Where on Planet Earth is this statue?  Can anyone help me out? Does anyone recognize it, or know someone who might?

     I promised that I wouldn’t Google Images it, so you can’t either.  Please don’t let me cheat.  

     It’s Thomas More, so intuition says London (or at least England), and I know that Fortinbras lives and works there sometimes.  I also told him that I was going to the Frick this week…is this statue at the Frick?  I’ve been to the Frick, but I don’t remember seeing it. 

      There has to be an association…this can’t be just some random Thomas More in Vatican City or Tibet or in Dr. Evil’s Secret Volcano Lair. I’d never find it. 

       I’ll ask Heinrich too.  Art is his business.  

       Thank God Fortinbras is an extremely busy man and I am merely a recreational play toy (as it should be, as it should be), because if he found this blog I would have to kill myself, lol. 

For the One Path of My Flight is Direct Through the Bones of the Living

    I’ve been forwarding my Abduction Weekend series drafts to Heinrich for approval before I post them.  Most are heavily edited, but he is still wary–understandably–about posting some of it online.  Naturally, I want to respect everyone’s privacy, so I’m re-tooling a few parts. 

     In the meantime, here is an excerpt from the poem I was forced to memorize and recite upon request…often in extremely distracting circumstances.  Heinrich tells me that I am fortunate, because he wanted me to recite Goethe.  There is no way I could have managed that; my German is too rusty now. 

      He knew that I like birds, and he wanted me to better understand the mindset of himself and the men who had me in the following days.  It is interesting that he did not want me to meditate upon my own predicament but instead focus on his/their experience. 

From Hawk Roosting, by Ted Hughes 

My feet are locked upon the rough bark. 
It took the whole of Creation
To produce my foot, my each feather:
Now I hold Creation in my foot

Or fly up, and revolve it all slowly –
I kill where I please because it is all mine.
There is no sophistry in my body:
My manners are tearing off heads –

The allotment of death.
For the one path of my flight is direct
Through the bones of the living.
No arguments assert my right:

The sun is behind me.
Nothing has changed since I began.
My eye has permitted no change.
I am going to keep things like this.

And also:

Schon war ich auch, und das war mein Verdeben.
(Fair I was also, and that was my ruin.) 
                                    –von Goethe 

Gustav Mahler: Symphony No. 5 (in C sharp minor)

       My mind is broiling in thoughts about music and art right now.  I’m trying to finish a blog post about my family history and Beethoven’s 9th symphony and the film Immortal Beloved (trust me, it all comes to bear).  I’ve attacked this blog post badly by four different angles over 18 months, and I’ve decided that I just need to finish it.  

       I take out my art history books early in the morning when I can’t go back to sleep.  Searching for something on the tip of my tongue.  (Umberto Eco’s On Ugliness has proved especially fascinating.) 

       I search YouTube for the music that I can’t specifically name, but which I recognize immediately when I hear it  (I remember the composers).  Music from a specific time in my life–my early adolescence.  

     I found this piece, which I haven’t listened to in its entirety in at least ten years:

This poem, as well, from The Narcissus Flower, by Rita Dove.  I think I read this poem late–maybe early undergrad…?  It is about the myth of Persephone, a maiden goddess who was abducted by Hades, the King of the Underworld.  It is told in first person. 

And though nothing could chasten 
the plunge, this man
adamant as a knife easing into

the humblest crevice, I found myself at
the center of a calm so pure, it was hate.

The mystery is, you can eat fear 
before fear eats you,

you can live beyond dying–
and become a queen
whom nothing surprises.

Is that why I have chosen to live as I have…? 
The Narc

My Mother Slew Me, My Father Ate Me

Miss Margo note: I did not write this.  It is the work of Laura Miller, from “A Tone Licked Clean: Fairy Tales and the Roots of Literature.”  Harper’s Dec 2012

This story is perfect.  I can’t stop thinking about it.

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There once was a woman who wanted, more than anything else, to have a child. One winter day, while peeling an apple under the juniper tree in her garden, she cut her finger, dripping blood on the snow. Nine months later, she gave birth to a boy with skin as white as snow and lips as red as blood. But she died when the child was born, and in time her husband took a new wife, who bore him a daughter.
The boy’s stepmother hated him, and made his life miserable. One day she offered him an apple from a chest; when the boy leaned inside to take it, she slammed the lid down and the child’s head was struck off. She placed his head back on his neck and sat him in a chair. When the evil woman’s daughter came home, she told the girl to ask her brother for an apple. “And if he doesn’t give you an answer, slap his face.” Of course the boy didn’t answer, and when his sister slapped him, his head flew off.
“Don’t worry, I know how to cover up your crime,” the woman told her daughter, and she chopped up the little boy and cooked the pieces in a stew. That evening, she served the stew to her unwitting husband, who liked it so much he ate the whole thing, tossing the bones under the table.
The sister, full of sorrow, gathered the bones of her brother and placed them at the roots of the juniper tree. A beautiful bird sprang from the branches and sang a ravishing song, with these words:
My mother, she slew me,
My father, he ate me,
My sister buried my bones
Under the juniper tree.
What a fine bird am I!

Notes on Thanksgiving

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      Notes on Thanksgiving:

     I had the misfortune of squandering almost three hours of my life watching the new movie Lincoln with my mother and her friend.  I am only telling you this because I want you to avoid making the same mistake that I did, gentle reader.  May you never have to endure what I endured.   

      I will not torture you with a full review.  Suffice it to say that the film was cloyingly sentimental, transparently manipulative, and historically inaccurate all at once. I knew it was going to be bad five minutes in, when star-struck army soldiers meet Lincoln after a battle and start reciting The Gettysburg Address by heart. 

      Nobody liked that speech when he made it!  They thought it was a snoozer!  The newspapers hardly even commented on it!  What the fuck?  

      I am done with Steven Spielberg, man. Munich cannot absolve him of his many crimes against his audience.  Done, done, done. 

       If you want to see Lincoln, do yourself a favor and just watch Great Moments with Mr. Lincoln, the anamatronic ride at Disneyland:

     The best part of going to the movies that day was seeing the enormous boxes of movie popcorn “butter” being stocked in the supply closet after the show.  I thought that was so gross and funny that I took a photo of it:


     My mother got a new dog–a dachshund puppy!  She hasn’t had a dog since our old one, Pepper, died a few years ago.  This new one is probably the cutest puppy in North America.  I usually prefer somewhat larger dogs–whippets and sighthounds, in particular–but this dog is so lovable that I wanted to steal her and take her home with me in my suitcase (joke).  She’s calm and quiet for a dachshund, too.  All she wants to do is snuggle and play with her stuffed toys.  She has silky fur and the cutest little face! 

      I’d post a photo, but I don’t want to invade my mother’s privacy on this blog.  Here’s a stock photo of a dog that looks kinda like Mom’s:

Yes, I am the cutest dog in the world!

      Here’s the apple pie I made for Thanksgiving (Mom made the pumpkin).  The picture doesn’t do it justice.  It turned out perfectly.  I cooked the apples in brown sugar and butter before I baked them in the crust.  The pie was devoured within 48 hours.  I regret to report that I ate more of it than I should have.  

      I found these paintings for sale in airport gallery during my layover.  For some reason, I thought they were weird.  Tell me: who would buy an oil painting of The Lion King?  It’s well-executed, I guess, but what the heck are you going to do with it?  Display it in your living room?  

        Little Mermaid fans need not despair!

        I wonder: do you think the artist paints these things just to pay the bills, or do you think he (or she) is painting the rainbow there in the Little Mermaid piece and going “I’m brilliant!  It’s my masterpiece!”  

       Speaking of art, I’m reading a new book: Caravaggio, a Life Sacred and Profane, by Andrew Graham-Dixon

      I finished a third of it on the airplane.  It’s pretty good and I’m learning a lot about the artist and his time (the history actually interests me more than the biographical content, and the author does an excellent job putting Caravaggio’s life into context).  

       I always appreciated Caravaggio, but I was never a huge fan.  Interestingly, I couldn’t put my finger on why, because the subject matter of his art is right up my ally.  The man goes big, he doesn’t mess around.  But it’s not that he’s too melodramatic for me…there’s something about his technique.  It’s almost too smooth.

       Here is a painting of Caravaggio’s that I like called The Cardsharps  1594 (click to enlarge):

          What makes this so fascinating to me is the tension between the two hustlers.  The young one is concentrating hard, tightly wound, but it’s the older one is back, with the torn glove, who is really interesting.  If you enlarge the picture, you can see the touch of desperation in his eyes.  These two are not cheating just for fun–they really need to win.  The wealthy youth they’re trying to fleece will go home broke and wiser, but otherwise none worse for wear.  The cheaters are playing for much higher stakes.  

       What do you think about it?

       That’s all for now–time the bake cookies and go to my Sunday AA meeting!  

    P.S.  I had a moment of not-serenity at a meeting recently over–get this–my coffee.  I have a service commitment to make coffee, right?  So I got everything ready and laid out the cups and milk and sugar and everything. I was waiting for the machine to get the water hot enough so that I could brew the coffee.  

     The woman comes up to me.  “Are you the person doing the coffee?”

      “Yes.  Sorry, it’s not ready.  It has to finish getting hot.”

       She looked at me like I was speaking Esperanto.  “It’s not hot yet?”

      “No, sorry.  Five more minutes.”  

       “Is it turned on?”

       “Yes, I turned it on twenty minutes ago.  It’s not ready.”

       Woman moves past me and pushes the “BREW” button.  Then she says, “There!  Now it’s on!  I told you it wasn’t on!” 

       Dude, I am trying not to be territorial of a goddamn coffee machine–it’s not MY machine–but for christ’s sake…!

      “You can’t brew it yet!  The water’s not hot!”  I had to unplug the machine to keep it from brewing lukewarm coffee.  

      The woman just stood there, like I was imposing on her.  “I don’t understand why the water’s not hot.”  

      ARRRRRGHHH!!!!  What is there to understand?  The water’s not hot because the machine hasn’t heated it sufficiently!  What else is there?  

     In retrospect, it was kinda funny.

Fabio Sez: “I Can’t Believe ‘Innocence’ Is Taken Seriously!”

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     I finally got off my ass and and watched The Innocence of Muslims, the film that inspired riots and demonstrations around the Muslim world.

     I don’t get it.  

     That’s why I’m writing about it on my blog: I honestly don’t get it.  Maybe someone can explain it to me.  Do you get it?  What’s the big deal?  

      Though, I must admit that after sitting through all fifteen minutes of it, I, too, was motivated to seek retaliation against the filmmakers…for the appalling production quality!  I’ve seen better scripts and performances in crappy adult xxx videos!  This thing makes Full House reruns look like Masterpiece Theater!    Have you seen it?  

         Here, take a look.  The first two minutes, incidentally, are the best.  It gets very bad very fast.  Check out those special effects in the middle!  lol  And I had to watch it twice because I couldn’t make sense of the plot the first time.  It was that incoherent.

         Yeah, as far as propaganda goes, this sure ain’t Jud Suss.  I did keep thinking about all of those 1950s Bible epics while I was watching Innocence, though, and asked myself why.  After a minute, I realized: almost all of the characters are white dudes wearing suspiciously clean clothes.  Not historically accurate, but kind of amusing.  Like the portraits of Whitey McWhitebread Jesus Christ that were hung on the walls in my old Catholic school:

Jesus Christ: More Handsome Than Fabio

        In those paintings, Jesus kind of reminded me of the male model Fabio, who did all of those I Can’t Believe It’s Not Butter! commercials:


        Remember when comedian Tom Green dropped by Fabio’s house and asked for a tour?  HILARIOUS!  Fabio actually came across as a pretty chill guy.  He was modest in the interview and quite friendly…hmmm….let me check YouTube….

        YOUTUBE SAYS: ASK, AND YE SHALL RECEIVE!   haaahahaha Fabio gave Tom Green a matching black tank top!

          This video is waaaaay more entertaining than The Innocence of Muslims.  I suspect that most of the rioters haven’t even seen the film.  If they watched it, they would know that there was no reason to get so upset.  

      I don’t want to get too political here and offend any of my readers, but seriously: I think the sort of people who would burn an embassy over a comically bad video like this one have some sort of major inferiority complex going on.  They get so mad because they think that they’re being made fun of.  The only people that movie humiliated were the dummies who made it.  

       Well, in the spirit of the video that inspired this blog post, I see that my narrative has rambled…I’m going to post it anyway because everyone deserves to see the Fabio house tour.