Monday, February 14, 2011
Santa Fe is the capitol of the state of New Mexico, one of the oldest continually inhabited cities in the United States, and an asshole. Santa Fe’s history is a rich, diverse tapestry of assholery. The first known assholes to inhabit this mournful, woebegotten conurbation were the Pueblo Indians, known chiefly for their invention of the building material adobe, a substance favored by many local architects for the ingenious quality of being ugly in the summer and homely in the winter. These moribund people were displaced by the Spanish Crown, that august empire in the all-time running for assholery, who greatly valued the area’s rich leather boutiques and Asian fusion bistros. During centuries of Spanish occupation, aspiring landowners needed written approval from the crown, noble blood, and a work-force of slaves in order to own property in Santa Fe, or about one-third the wealth needed to own property in Sante Fe today. Sante Fe’s transgressions are quite almost too sundry and appalling for mention. Santa Fe fashion is known for its ponchos, fringed hide-leather jackets, and turquoise jewelry, the latter of which has made many the itinerant Mexican wealthy due to tourists’ inability to tell the difference between a day-laborer from Jalisco and a Pueblo Indian from the trailer park off I-25. Santa Fe is furthermore infamous for its execrable “art” scene. The barbarous motifs found in this degenerate school of design include pastel-colored paintings of chili wreaths, Kokapeli, mountains, and Kokapeli in the mountains. For the uninitiated, Kokapeli is the pagan demiurge worshiped by the residents of Santa Fe with thrall-like ardor, appearing on such holy vessels as the sacred hotel gift shop and hallowed postcard. The chief diversions in Santa Fe are paying ten dollars for a domestic beer, simpering, and pretending there aren’t several Indian reservations with third-world living conditions just a stone’s throw down the highway.
Sunday, February 6, 2011
These shrill, gorgon-like sea-harpies can often be found lairing in college campuses and independently-owned coffee houses. Hirsute and dour, these women, excuse me, womyn are indeed assholes. Despite the tendency to think about penises more than Sigmund Freud, Femminazis are often devout lesbians, proving once and for all the Republican argument that homosexuality is indeed a choice, or at least until one finishes grad school. Educated in revisionist history and cultured by “underground” art, these Jenny-green-teeth ensure their own exile from rational humanity through an unending laundry-list of grievances against the male sex. Typical to their level of insight, the Femminazi charges leveled against men often include the rape of Leucretia in the 6th century BC and making the moon smaller than the sun. Spiritually, Femminazis have shamelessly resurrected and co-opted the religion of ancient heathen tribes, the same ones that used to sell women for cattle and run around covered in blue paint while swinging broadswords. How this ideology reflects the espoused egalitarian and pacifistic notions of the Femminazi philosophy has yet to be discussed without accusations of misogyny. Practitioners of this stygian cult worship an obscure and rotund goddess figure, and want to resume the forgotten arts of astrology, holistic healing, and fortune-telling – these being lost to people of normal means long ago when gypsies cornered the market for divesting gullible tourists of their money. With any luck, a revival in such witchcraft will also revive the traditional way of dealing with Femminazis: throwing them in the pond to see if they float, a poor proposition indeed for the average Volkswagon-sized member of this insidious Sapphic cult.