Sue Me, Sue You Blues
I realize we’re a litigious nation and the smartest financial decision most of us could ever make is to be hit by a bus, but things are going a bit too far.
◗ George Zimmerman dodges a bullet and rather than being content with his kiss on the cheek by Seminole county prosecutors and that Florida jury, he now wants to sue those evildoers who consider him a gun-totin’, self-aggrandizing, Michelin-Man boob. Or, more specifically, a race-profiling, self-appointed neighborhood marshal who didn’t have the minimum amount of sense needed to avoid getting his beak busted and his head clunked by a guy he felt like stalking on a dark street. All of which, BTW, he is.
Who, Me?
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◗ Same with Asiana Airlines. One of its jets goes down, followed by questions about the suitability of its pilots to actually, y’know, land a 777, and that outfit, too, wants to haul people into court.
What next? Is suspected Boston marathon blaster Dzhokhar Tsarnaev going to shag a process server on the manufacturer of those pressure cookers for making their products explodable?
◗ Oh wait, this is next: some obsessively-fapping doofus is suing Apple in order to force the company to install porn filters on all its home porn theate… I mean, computers. The guy sez he wouldn’ta become addicted to porn had he not accidentally typed in the name of a porn site one day and one of Apple’s finest hunks of machinery actually let him see pix of naked ladies, et cetera.
Shakespeare was right.
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Warriors & Peace (And Other Pretenders)
I don’t have a vote but if I did I’d nix Eddie Snowden for the Nobel Peace Prize.
Snowden
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Just as I’d have nixed the following prize winners:
- Barack Obama, 2009: Won because he wasn’t George W. Bush.
- Yasser Arafat, 1994: Guerrilla warrior who eventually signed a toothless peace agreement.
- The United Nations Peacekeeping Forces, 1988: An army.
- Lech Walesa, 1983: Won because he wasn’t communist.
- Mother Teresa, 1979: Rabidly anti-birth control.
- Anwar Sadat & Menachem Begin, 1978: Longtime warriors who stopped fighting because they got old.
- Henry Kissinger, 1973: The Dark Prince of Carpet Bombing.
“The Peace Prize? Me?”
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The abovementioneds cheapened the award for all those who actually led lives of peace.
As for Snowden, it appears he fancies himself the star of an espionage thriller, being played out in real time and in real locations, sort of an Ian Fleming/John LeCarre-inspired reality show.
If we’re so hot to give him a prize, lets just send him a couple of comp tix to the International Spy Museum with a note saying, “Thanks for exposing what any of us with a lick of intelligence could have assumed was going on in the first place.”
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[Pencil Update: Early on, when the Snowden affair first broke, I wrote that I might tend to agree with Steve Wozniak that the NSA leaker was the moral equivalent of Daniel Ellsberg. I take that back. Ellsberg had the spine to remain in this country and say, essentially, “Bring your ‘justice’ down on me. I did what I had to do.” Snowden, as we speak, remains hiding in a Moscow airport.]
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Blood Money
The human capacity for assholiness continues to astound.
Juror B37, thankfully, has now decided writing a book about her days on the George Zimmerman panel just might not be the most exquisite idea ever conceived.
We have no idea what Juror B37’s real name is; let’s just refer to her herewith as Miss Ghoulish Profiteer Off Murder.
Pulp Nonfiction
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At risk of putting myself in a position of not having any books to sell, your faithful bookseller (me) has now added Juror B37’s potential book to the list of tomes he (I) will not sell.
So far, here’s the Go-buy-it-somewheres-else roll of honor:
- Anything by Glenn Beck.
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- James O’Keefe’s Breakthrough.
- Anything written by or on behalf of Geo. Zimm.
- And now, the so-far aborted instant classic by Miss GPOM.
Apparently, a Twitter campaign led to B37’s literary (cough) agent’s office being inundated with messages not to go ahead with the project. The agent responded by saying, Golly gee, maybe I hadn’t oughtta rep this stuff.
I will applaud neither Miss GPOM nor her agent for finally realizing that their first impulse was — shall we say? — majorly fked.
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Runaround Sue
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