Leads the League in Stupidity

So I don't like sports. I respect people who enjoy them because of the real "sporty" aspects; however, in general, the accepted objectification of women teamed with this overarching theme of asserting one's masculinity tends to be a bit of a turn-off for me. But when some sports story crawls onto my trashtastic celebrity site of choice (Dlisted.com, you routinely make my day), I may read it. Recently, Sean Avery of the Dallas Stars proved himself a class act by referring to his ex-girlfriend (lovely if somewhat recently forgotten starlet Elisha Cuthbert) as his "sloppy seconds." Evidently, another player dating his seconds he left so sloppily proved to be such a threat to his manhood that he needed to make this statement, thereby making himself and his team look bad—in addition to ensuring that no intelligent female will ever date him. Unless he finds some nice foreign girl. Or some girl with higher-brow internet reading habits than myself. Digress-ment.

OK, so the Stars dismissed Sean due to his actions. I've heard various speculation that this was only one thing in a series of reasons they would want to dismiss him, but regardless, everyone remembers the last straw best. So as I am driving to work today, I pass a billboard for the Stars. I haven't the slightest idea who the player shown was (I would assume not Avery if he was already on the appropriately cliche thin ice). But I do know that the billboard stated, "Leads the League in Testosterone."

Really? You mean that absurd hormone that causes men to not realize when war should just be done? Most likely one of the key factors in Avery's need to grab a microphone, beat his chest, and tell the world that he fucked her first? Is that was this whole sports thing really comes down to? A pissing contest of the largest set of balls?

I can't believe I didn't take interest sooner.

Way to go Dallas Stars. Hope the marketing crew got an extra Christmas bonus for this one.

Just One More

This is lame, but it totally made my day.

Alyssa Morris --

[adjective]: Visually addictive

'How will you be defined in the dictionary?' at QuizGalaxy.com

Hey, Evangelical Church, I'm Over Here!

So I'm doing yoga today and it suddenly occurs to me that the traditional Protestant interpretation of that holy stuff is such a shoddy symbol of the basic misconception in many societies about a man being equal part in the creation of a child. God knocks her up right? And then he still takes equal credit for the kid once he's all famous and whatnot. Meanwhile, Mary carried the watermelon around in probably scorching heats or something whilst wearing many robes. I've got news for you, God. Maybe you were a necessary part of the conception but Mr. Manger couldn't have arrived if Mary hadn't kept on truckin'.

Now I want to point out some important things. I don't include the Catholics in this because 1.) I adore Catholic cathedrals, art, and many of its customs, and 2.) because they at least give the Sacred Lady some damn credit.

Next, I should disclaim this by stating the fact that I realize Christian tenants go deeper than this for many people, and I don't disapprove of many of the core fundamentals of Christianity, i.e., love thy neighbor and be nice to people.

But in general, ejaculating does not a father make. Yes, in some form of insertion or another, it is necessary in order to produce another human being. But then that human being has to have its mother for the next nine months (more or less) in order to survive. Fatherhood comes from those actions after, and the Christian church should examine that a little closer in their Christmas teachings.

(Final disclaimer: I know God did not ejaculate in Mary. I'm just commenting on the male right to equal say in a child's life right away is a little ridiculous when you examine what each parent role involves initially. And how the Christian faith when construed incorrectly re-enforces this error of equal rights. You know--big picture stuff, yo.)

Why I'm Always a Dancin' BY Myself

I dance to write, and I can only write when I dance. I don't mean revisions or any of those not-in- the-first-throes-of-creativity shenanigans (when the real work starts). I mean I belly dance and I think of new stories. Not on purpose. There is something about twirling my hips (and on occasion biting my lips) that let's my mind start to do the wander of the writer. I consistently have to keep several notebooks about while I dance so I can stop anywhere in my house to scribble some snippet that I come back to later. It's a beautiful thing and a lovely break from the custom of other things traditionally used to facilitate writing. This doesn't mean a little Jameson doesn't help every now and again when Ducky's away. A friend and professor once suggested we all have our ceremonies we go through to reach that place where we can focus the onslaught of creativity and words that constantly clutters the minds of writers. I feel pretty freaking lucky that the thing that gets my jets going is music that I love and dancing that I can't stop. I really can't wait to see where my journey into burlesque may lead...more to come...