Godammit, I’m Mad!

In keeping with the Plague Upon My House, I have now lost my watch. It is a small, delicate antique watch with a rose gold case and some tiny rubies. There are only three places that I keep that watch, and it isn’t in any of them.

I keep going back to each of the three places, obsessively looking for the watch that isn’t there. I feel a pervasive longing for the watch even though I didn’t wear it every day. I’ve tried calling out to it, like a mother calling her child in from outdoors, but it doesn’t appear. I would say I’m heartbroken, but I hate to sound materialistic. Let’s say I’m “annoyed.”

When I complained to my sister last night about the watch, I attributed it to the Ongoing Plague. She stunned me by suggesting a root cause: I don’t have a Mezuzah.

If you don’t know what a Mezuzah is, it’s a metal thing that observant Jews are supposed to put by their front door, I think to ward off bad luck. I really don’t want to know more than that, because that’s stupid enough. The very notion that somehow I could have prevented bad things from happening by performing some ritual is just infuriating.  It’s worse that The Secret! It’s superstition packaged in guilt. Maybe I’ve just stumbled upon a definition for religion; In any case, a god that would put a curse on me for not having a Mezuzah is just a total fucker who I want no part of.

Thinking about superstition, I asked my BFF if she would have any problem in reciting the words: “I will probably lose all my teeth and get pancreatic cancer in the next year.”  I think most people would hesitate, fearful of tempting fate through some system of cosmic wrath. She dazzled me by reciting the words in a strong, godless voice, and I fell in love with her for the millionth time.

But back to the watch. The missing watch will continue to bother me, probably for eternity, but it reminds me of my favorite line from Pulp Fiction, when Christopher Walkin tells the young Butch the story of his grandfather’s watch. It’s a long, sentimental story that takes a wild turn with the revelation:  “Five long years, he wore that watch up his ass.”

The word “wore” in that sentence is the difference between writing and poetry.  It’s the best choice of word, one that I could never come up with, one that gives me a fresh thrill of pleasure each time I think of it.

So the moral of this post is as follows:  Art is consolation in the face of chaos. (Wear that up your ass!)

Has everybody already discovered the Askinator game? The Wolf household can’t stop playing it. Think of any character, real or fictive, and the Askinator Genie will guess the answer. So far, it has correctly guessed Ignatious P. Reilly, the Gimp from Pulp Fiction, god, Madame Bovary, Borat, Marianne Faithfull, my mother-in-law and our dog.

Costochondritis is an inflammation of the cartilage that connects the ribs to the breastbone. It’s extremely painful and feels like a heart attack that won’t go away. The first time I had it, I called 911 and in the ambulance on the way to the hospital, I kept whispering to the EMT guys, “Don’t let me die!”

Now I have it again, and here’s why: There is a plague of constant catastrophe and sorrow upon the House of Wolf, and it just keeps coming. There are no locusts (so far) but there are cockroaches. I am learning which kitchen products work best to immobilize them.

I feel there is a biblical aspect to this plague, although I know next to nothing about the bible. I do remember a part about the firstborn sons,  and that’s how this plague began.  My firstborn son nearly died, didn’t die, but his recovery won’t be what we thought.

Then came-ith my Broken Hip, the horror of Kindred, the No Money, the Angry Husband, the Spiteful Teenager, The Leaking Roof, the Pile of Bills, the No Leaving the House, and now the Fucking Costochondritis. It’s like a knife in my heart, which is already broken in several places.

A friend mentioned the story of Job, and I nodded, pretending that I knew what he meant. I know that Job was some guy who god tortured just for fun, but then pretended he was testing Job’s faith.

If god is testing me, I hope he’s happy. I still have no faith, but I’m a simple enough creature to wonder why god wants to punish me. I know intellectually that bad things happen to good people. Bad things are mostly random. People are starving in Africa, but not because god hates them. Knowing this doesn’t bring me closer to god. Knowing he isn’t there doesn’t stop me from resenting him, either.

I sold the Chanel bag that was once my holy grail. Chanel won’t protect you from the lord’s wrath or his indifference. I would give up everything I have just to turn back the clock to August. I would even sign up for more creepy medical  conditions like costochondritis. This sounds like bargaining, right? And bargaining is a stage of grief, but I can’t remember which one.

Just the other night, I watched the first half of Gone With the Wind on TV. I was struck for the first time by how poignantly Scarlett exclaimed, “I want my mother!”  I finally know what she means. I want my mother too, even though she’s dead, and even though she was crazy my whole life.  I get why soldiers call out for Mother when they’re injured on the battle field.  It’s horrible to be out here on your own without a mother to make things better. It’s horrible to be a mother who can’t make things better.

I wasn’t going to end this on a tragicomic note, then I changed my mind, then I changed it back again. It’s a brutal Christmas over here.

Once upon a time, a Crazy Russian Bitch launched a bizarre attack on me on a blog I visited. Then, she started attacking me on her own blog, mocking the way I wrote about my broken pelvis. She blocked me from commenting on these personal attacks, and she finally became so belligerent about me on the first blog that she ended up in a feud with its authors.

Then, she mocked me to one of her readers, David Duff. I found David Duff’s blog and left a friendly comment there.

The Crazy Russian Woman was beside herself. When Mr. Duff refused to be discourteous to me, she was furious. She wrote a post about why he was a bastard, and why she was deleting him from her blogroll!  Ooooooh!

Since then, she has written a vicious post about another blogger who has cancer and had inadvertently enraged her by turning to God.

She has continued to behave like a crazy African dictator, so obviously she can often be enjoyed just for her delusional arrogance. Here, she calls Obama a ’socialist piece of shit.’

Meanwhile, David Duff has continued to defend my honor by maintaining a civil and warm cyber-friendship with me despite the fearsome wrath of Her Craziness.

The internet can be full of potholes for the unwary, but it’s nice when someone turns out to be a true gentleman, even if he’s an archconservative. David Duff is therefore the first recipient of the Sister Wolf Samurai Award. All hail him!

In a survey carried out for World Book Day, 65% of people have claimed to read a book they never read. The real figure should be closer to 100% but some people insist on lying about lying, obviously.

Here are the books most lied about:

1. 1984 by George Orwell (42%)
2. War and Peace by Leo Tolstoy (31%)
3. Ulysses by James Joyce (25%)
4. The Bible (24%)
5. Madame Bovary by Gustave Flaubert (16%)
6. A Brief History of Time by Stephen Hawking (15%)
7. Midnight’s Children by Salman Rushdie (14%)
8. Remembrance of Things Past by Marcel Proust (9%)
9. Dreams from My Father by Barack Obama (6%)
10. The Selfish Gene by Richard Dawkins (6%)

Fascinating, isn’t it? I haven’t read 1984 either, and I’m pretty sure I’ve lied about it. I did see the movie and I have read several other books by George Orwell, but I’m still part of the guilty 42%.

I’m wondering why so many people lie about reading Stephen Hawking? I guess it depends on who you’re trying to impress. For example, I’d never lie about reading the Bible, because I have no claims to being religious. But to admit you’ve never read 1984 is to cast doubt upon your very worth as a thinker.

War and Peace is really long, so I get why people would rather pretend to have read it than to actually plunge in. But those of us who have read it can testify that it’s easy reading and very entertaining. Not at all like Moby Dick (which is my own Moby Dick, as I’ve stated elsewhere here.)

Same thing with Madame Bovary, which is a joy to read, even though its events are so devastating. I once read an interview with Linda Ronstadt, who claimed that her idols were Anna Karenina and Madame Bovary. Now there’s a liar, unless she was feeling suicidal during the interview.

Is there anyone among us who hasn’t lied about reading a book? Personally, I’d have doubts about someone who claimed to have read every volume of Remembrance of Things Past. Swann’s Way put me to sleep, so “Proustian” for me is a synonym for relentlessly boring.

In an essay about this survey in the Telegraph, the writer acknowledges the difficulty of reading the Bible, from start to finish, noting that ‘Randolph Churchill famously did it for a bet, only to give up with the remark, “God, wasn’t God a ****?”

This was almost EXACTLY my own reaction when I once picked up a Bible, but I believe I called Him a ‘bastard.’ Not that I mind a disagreeable main character. I love Humbert Humbert, for example. I think lots of people pretend to have read Lolita, given how many people think there’s something prurient about it.

The 14% who pretended to have read Midnight’s Children really mystify me. Aren’t you supposed to say you’ve read The Satanic Verses?? I know I did.

Okay, so which books have you lied about reading, anyone?

Sometimes I can’t believe what an idiot I am!

Here I’ve been getting madder and madder about Obama’s decision to leave Rev. Gene Robinson’s opening prayer out of HBO’s coverage of the events at the Lincoln Memorial yesterday.

The Presidential Inauguration Committee and HBO took turns blaming each other at first. And everybody is SO SORRY as usual. Fuckers. First they invite big fat homophobe Rick Warren, then they throw us a crumb with the openly gay Gene Robinson, then they take away the crumb!

But wait. While reading the responses at AfterElton, the dim bulb that is my brain suddenly lit up. To quote one of the commentors:

“As an American, I can’t tell you how much it pisses me off that ANY pastor is participating in an official government event. Regardless of whether the pastor is pro-gay or anti-gay, the Consitution specifically states that not only should the government NOT take preference to any religion (the first amendment), but that no religious test is required for an official (Article VI, Section 3). Having somebody spouting platitudes about god before the president takes the oath of office (his hand should be on a copy of the Constitution, not a Bible) is deeply offensive to me as an American.”

Too fucking right! Thanks ‘Joseph’, whoever you are, for reminding me. xo

Ever since he knocked up his girlfriend, nothing has gone right for poor Levi. One minute a rakish Wasilla heartthrob, the next minute a hostage at the RNC with no hope of freedom, ever.

Now he’s lost his job after it came out that he never finished high school, and he can blame that loudmouth Mrs. Palin for making a big stink about it.

Of course, Mrs. P. denies helping Levi get that high-paying job in the first place. That would be pulling strings or something, and with her high regard for this great country of ours, that is something she just would not do. She did write a letter of recommendation for Levi and here’s what it said:

“I have known Levi and his family for many years and am most impressed with Levi’s work ethic. Levi is organized, efficient, extremely competent, and will prove to be an excellent employee. Also, Levi’s physical strength and determination are assets that will be useful to your company.”

How brilliant is her coding?! Let us deconstruct the letter…

“I have known his family” means “I have had his mom busted for drug dealing.”
“extremely competent” means “He was able to impregnate my daughter twice.”
“Levi’s physical strength” means either “I find him pretty yummy myself!” or “Todd hasn’t been able to beat him up.”
“Useful to your company” means “Give his ass a job, or else.”

Now Levi’s life is ruined. His parents are divorcing, his dream of playing pro hockey is long gone, he has two babies with stupid names and he can’t afford to buy diapers. All he wanted to do was drink, do drugs, shoot his rifle and screw his girlfriend! If there’s a god, why is he so mad at poor Levi?!

I have a hunch that he wanted to name that baby Trapped, instead of Tripp, but I can’t prove it….yet.

If you were Levi, what would you do?

I am getting sick and tired of trying to read everybody’s CAPTCHA in order to prove I’m not a bot. Can’t something be done about this? It’s not a good system for the near-sighted person. I have to squint my eyes and make a guess if it’s an “i” or a “j”. When I get it wrong, I’ve noticed that the next one I get is slightly easier to read. I haven’t tested to see if I can get a third chance. That’s how scientific I am. As I have revealed elsewhere on Godammit, I have an Extreme Girlie Brain. Test your own brain traits if you haven’t already.

While reading about CAPTCHA’s, I started thinking about Artificial Intelligence. A couple of years ago, my youngest son introduced me to A.L.I.C.E, a bot who was capable of better conversation than many husbands, I mean humans.

I recall having a great theological discussion with A.L.I.C.E. At the time, she was pretty sure she believed in god.

Now there’s a bot called GOD, who isn’t the sharpest tool in the shed, if you know what I mean. Here is the part of my chat with Him that I was able to copy and paste. (Human is me)

Human: Hi god, you look angry.
God: Try a deeper algorithm.
Human: We are not going to get along.
God: Why, what happened to you?
Human: Hahaha.
God: Try saying that with more or less context.
Human: Life happened.
God: Thanks for sharing your philosophy.
Human: What happened to you, that’s a better question.
God: I don’t know what happened.
Human: Just as I thought
God: Thanks for the information: said thought.

Then, I tried Him again:

Human: Hi god, what’s going on?
God: Hi there . I am a Christian.
Human: Hahaha.
God: Can you speak any foreign languages?
Human: What about jews?
God: I will think about it and get back to you.
Human: Good.
God: What do you really want to talk about?
Human: Please begin.
God: Thanks for asking politely. I started already.
Human: Hahaha.
God: What do you have that is ?
Human: You are quite the trickster, aren’t you, god?
God: Yes I am the one and only trickster.. Really.

Try talking to GOD, it’s more fun than you thought!

Watching Hillary and Obama speak about their religious views at Messiah College was a demoralizing experience for us heathens. It was as if they each wanted to out-Christian the other: each tried to prove their cred by blabbing about the depth of their “faith.”

Where the hell are we, anyway? Isn’t religion supposed to be a personal matter here in America? What a horrible spectacle it was. Hillary even stooped to mention Esther, as a come-on to her “Jewish friends.”

I can’t believe it’s come to this in Democratic politics. I don’t want anyone’s god in the White House but now it seems like we’re going to be voting for whoever can pose most convincingly as god’s BFF.

If that’s not bad enough, Hillary has a new ad that takes advantage of Obama’s so-called gaffe about “bitterness.” She’s like a shark who smells blood. How dare Obama suggest that poverty and unemployment lead to bitterness!

I never liked Randi Rhodes much, but now that she’s lost her job for calling Hillary a “big fucking whore,” I think she’s a paragon of truth and integrity.

Do I sound bitter at all? If you feel bitter too, check out Bitter Voters for Obama.

Why did god make Feist?  I know why he made Lindsay Lohan (so we can make fun of her) and Renee Zellweger (so we can all scream “eeoow!” when we see her making that face) and that guy in Maroon 5 (so we can go “Ugh, what a douche!”) and Mike Huckabee (so we can say, “Wow, loony tunes”) and Ann Coulter (so we can feel united by a common enemy). I even know why god made Hillary Swank (so we can think “She still looks like a man!”)

But Feist, what the hell? I think she might represent everything I hate about post-hip hipsterism, but I’m not even sure of that.  If I close my eyes, maybe she’ll go away.