Have You Seen This Avatar?

The Google Friend Connect widget, once populated with faces on my sidebar, now appears empty and clueless, a border of its former self.

On March 1st, Google discontinued Google Friend Connect on all non Blogger sites. Since that day “that will live on in infamy,” I’ve tried to find a Google Friend Connect plugin or widget that works on a WordPress site.

So far, no luck in finding one.

To avoid a brain melt, I decided to put Google Friend Connect on hold and add Google Plus to my sidebar. I found a Google Plus plugin, activated it and then – nothing.

Okay, I admit I’m a bit of a technotard. Solving technical problems makes my brain hurt and sends me into apoplectic shock. My right brain overrides my left brain and chaos ensues, then I lose ability of all cognitive thought, also known as a fluster fuck.

When I get flustered, I start foaming at the mouth and overlook the important words on a page. Kind of like hysterical blindness or a blank ditz moment.

Because when words look like this . . .

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&amp;lt;&amp;lt;span class=”hiddenSpellError” pre=””&amp;gt;bgsound&amp;lt;/span&amp;gt; src=”yourfile.mid” loop=”1″&amp;gt;

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Save the Wealthy – Sponsor a Billionaire!

English: Calouste Gulbenkin, Portugal oil bill...
Image via Wikipedia – I have no idea who this dude is.

After a bad run of luck on Monte Carlo, billionaire Todd Hedrick III needs your contributions to help him get back on his jet again.

For just $200 a week, you can help Todd maintain his lavish lifestyle and recoup the island he lost during a high-stakes poker game.

Todd, like other disenfranchised taxpaying billionaires, needs a warm island to escape to after returning from his ski chalet in Switzerland. His oceanfront estate in Malibu doesn’t offer the same medicinal benefits as a vacation bungalow on Bora Bora.

Every billionaire deserves a month in the sun. A change in scenery helps Todd clear his head of his assistant’s workload, from handling corporate takeovers to finding tax loopholes in the Bermuda triangle.

Isolating billionaires from the masses prevents them from compromising their immune systems, which leaves them vulnerable to catching a 99% cold. It’s critical for the 1% to function at 110%, 100% of the time.

Our billionaires will stay healthy and happy, as long as we continue keeping them at a distance and subsidizing their massive wealth. The economy doesn’t flourish when billionaires aren’t spending money on frivolous luxuries like plastic surgery for their bodies and homes.

Without the 1%, there would be no point at the top of the pyramid, which would ruin the symmetry of the chart.

Everyone knows that you can’t have a top without a bottom. It would be like a luxury liner without a bridge, a high-rise building without a penthouse, a wide-screen TV without a cable box.

Financial inequity is the only sensible solution for economic sustainability, a viable working system in which billionaires control society and the wealth within it. We can’t rely upon the 99% to dictate economic policy when they’re always broke and tired.

The wealthy must continue relegating the tough decisions to their heads of staff, allowing them to remain free-range billionaires, blissfully out-of-touch and unaffected by the declining wealth and financial crisis that plagues the 99%, smooshed beneath masses of ragged bulk at the bottom of the money heap.

Your $200 a week contribution also pays for . . .

  • Ketchup sandwiches for sweatshop laborers
  • Bank fees for offshore accounts
  • Dry cleaning housekeeper uniforms
  • Coat check for high-class hookers
  • Vomit bags for private jets
  • Shoes shine for just one shoe
  • Bus fare for migrant workers
  • Window shade operators
  • Suntan lotion
  • Ski wax

Contact BillionaireTaskForce.edu for other ways that you can help the wealthy.

Disclaimer: Todd Hedrick III is a fictitious person and to the best of my knowledge, only exists in my head.

Slut Talk Radio – A Rush to Judgment

Do some men choose a career in radio to overcompensate for their tiny heads?

Wnmh microphone

Image via Wikipedia

I can’t think of any other reason for Rush Limbaugh to verbally abuse Sandra Fluke on the radio, his voice wafting like pig farts across the airwaves.

1 17 10 Bearman Cartoon Rush Limbaugh

Whether you like it or not, Limbaugh is a public figure and a role model to some, his words a catalyst for conversation around water coolers and dining room tables.

But, instead of, er, elevating the conversation and initiating a dialogue on the pros and cons of government’s influence in our lives – on both sides of the aisle – Rush stuck his hoof in his mouth and spewed pig crap all over his penis, er, microphone.

When an individual wields such immense power, affecting millions of people’s lives, it’s that individual’s responsibility to use that power as a teaching tool, not a weapon of mass destruction.

Discourse that devolves into name-calling is more indicative of elementary school banter and has no place on the airwaves.

Yes, blah, blah, blah, freedom of speech, and I have the right to turn off the radio. But an airwave jockey has no right to harass someone on the air and publicly humiliate them with vile schoolyard talk. That kind of talk drifts across the line of civility into the murky black hole of dangerous discourse.

Rush can apologize until his head explodes. He can try to silence the cacophony of outraged voices. But his archaic Cro-Magnon views and misogynist blather still lingers in the air like the stench from a gathering of pigs.

After all, he is what he speaks. He, who has no difficulty abusing a woman on the air, sets an example for younger, more impressionable minds and feeds the hate in others who find comfort in his toxic rhetoric.

It also illustrates how radical the Republican Party has become. Not one of the candidates has condemned Limbaugh for his hate speech. Instead, they chose a more tempered response to avoid alienating the king of right-wing talk and voice of the Republican Party.

Mitt Romney said it best.

“I’ll just say this, which is, it’s not the language I would have used.”

Way to go, Mitt!

Shame on you for not speaking out in defense of your wife and daughters.

I guess power is corrupting and those on a blind quest to fulfill their perceived destiny will pursue it at any cost. Where is the moral compass in the Republican Party? Where will they draw the line in the pig manure on insidious talk?

This is a Party of hypocrites and thieves. They lash out at government for having too much control of our lives, yet they want to steal our souls and control our bodies.

Bowing to Limbaugh, the grand Pooh-Bah gasbag and purveyor of hate, shows how far the Republican Party has devolved, surrendering control to the far-right element of the Party.

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The Limbaugh Galaxy, a Strange Universe Far, Far, Away…


Captain we’ve entered the Limbaugh galaxy on a course bearing 666 at 275° toward the planet Dittohead.

Rush Limbaugh Cartoon by Ian D. Marsden of mar...

Image via Wikipedia


Ah, the overpopulated planet inhabited by pimps and sluts.


Yes, Captain. Back in the year 2012, King Rush, the supreme leader of Dittoheads, proclaimed contraception evil and banned its use throughout the kingdom. Women were forced to get birth control on the black market.

King Rush dispatched DEA officers to crack down on the illegal use of contraceptives, forced single women to wear ankle monitors, and tracked their movements by GPS.

Any woman suspected of slut activity was immediately apprehended and thrown into the dungeon in the right-wing of the kingdom.

Many of these women went mad from a life of abstinence; others joined King Rush’s harem and provided him with sexual favors, as well as Oxycontin.

Eventually, all the illegal contraband was confiscated and burned, which led to the population crisis plaguing the planet.


Maybe we should send down a search team to investigate.


I would recommend against it, Captain. Anyone who lands on planet Dittohead immediately becomes infected with the highly contagious Sectarian virus, which scientists believe is responsible for the maniacal ramblings and misogynist views of King Rush and the Dittoheads.

I have identified the source of the Sectarian fever to be an aggressive strain of the 21st century Pandemic swine flu and recommend we quarantine the Limbaugh galaxy and immediately set a course heading toward sector APBH.


APBH, Spock?


Any Place But Here.


Captain’s log, stardate 42254.7. We leave the Limbaugh galaxy without having explored the planet or interacting with the Puritanical misogynist life form.

I advise against the exploration of planet Dittohead, as we cannot risk infecting the universe with the highly infectious and incurable Sectarian virus.

Captain out.

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Come an’ get me, copper!

English: Texas using a laser speed detection gun.

Image via Wikipedia

The cop saw me before I saw him.

He had a radar detector. I had astigmatism.

Hypnotized by the swirl of his ruby-red lights, I pulled over to the side.

He got out of his car, parked across the street, and swaggered toward me.

My chance to make a getaway.

Instead, I idled in confusion. Surely, I had slowed down before the radar had detected me.

Under the circumstances, surely you did not. And don’t call me Shirley.

“License and registration.”

Two good friends of mine. Or, so I thought.

My license picked a terrible time not to cooperate. When I tried to force it from the plastic holder, it wedged itself inside it.

“C’mon. C’mon,” I muttered. “Move!”

The cop took two steps back.

“I’m sorry. I’m just so stressed today.”

Finally, my mug slid from the slit. License nirvana. As I held it in my hand, God, or one of my internal voices, spoke to me.

“Tomorrow, take the parallel road with the 45-mph speed limit.”

After my divine revelation, it was time to find the registration. I opened the glove compartment and wrestled with the envelope that was stuck between the driver’s manual and a hard place.

Are you ready to rumble?

I tackled the envelope during the third round and handed it Mr. Cop.

“I don’t need the envelope. I just need the registration.”

My fumbling fingers finally gripped the registration. I handed both IDs to Mr. Cop.

“I’m so sorry, Officer. I’m so stressed today. My son got a “D” on a statistics test. We don’t know if he’s going to pass the class. We don’t even know if he’s going to the class. Blah, blah, blah.”

He steps back two more paces.

“You were going forty-five in a thirty-mile zone.”

“You’re absolutely right. I did a bad thing.” Indistinct muttering. “I’m just so stressed this morning. I don’t know where my head is today.”

I looked in the backseat. My head wasn’t there.

“I can’t hear you. Can you speak louder.”

“I’m so sorry. I’m not myself today.”

Who are you then – Gladys or Felicia?

I don’t know. I was Gladys yesterday. And Felicia’s at the hairdresser.

Mr. Cop hands the papers back to me. They help lunatics like me stay in the country. The illegal immigrants are the sane ones.

“I’m going to give you a warning this time.”

“Oh, God, thank you so much. I promise I’ll never speed again.”

Fingers crossed behind my back.

“Okay then.” He turns and runs for the safety of his car.

With hands shaking, I revved the engine and sped away . . . at a 25-mph clip.

I checked the mirror. Mr. Cop’s car was still parked and dark.

His hands are probably shaking, too.

Have you gotten any tickets lately?

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