Trump, Hillary, and the Lies That Bind

This is the season for politics in the US of A and I am enjoying the spluttering outrage of your fact-based contingent in the electorate once again. Of course Donald Trump can get away with saying Hillary started your Birther conspiracy theory – because she didn't. Me, I'm not the thinker in this family. To understand, and so's I don't have to bother, here's my ma's cousin Claire explaining it in 2012.


It makes sense that the news don't cover the "truth" neither. Who would watch? When Hillary claims Trump is a Birther, you yawn. Even if you love her and hate him – admit it – you yawn. Because elections is all about your tiresome, your put-upon by, and your overweight pretending that their misery is not at all their fault. To do that, they cannot let a smidgen of truth infect the pure, unadulterated mendacity. No, no. The minute truth gets a toe-hold, soon all sorts of reality-based responsibility creeps in and your creeps won't be able to keep the delusion going that they are the good guys. The problem with the rest of you is that you're not miserable enough to need a morally bankrupt liar to hide the ugly reality of your hopeless condition from you. Yet.

The Four Disagreements

I just read the Four Agreements. Mental Muzak. The human mind is designed to delude you about yourself but you'll be so busy feeling smug in your delusion that you'll whistle while civilization burns. Not that I don't  think civilization isn't a waste of millennia, but you prob'ly think it's awesome. Anyway, here's my antidote ghost-penned by my supposed authoress. 

The Election Crazy Show

Your political season can only get crazier. I don't know about you, but I am planning on spending the next 90 days with one hand on a bucket of popcorn and the other on the anti-spacecraft missile launcher in case anybody running away from the madness there tries to come here. Yes, I am a terrible person refusing interplanetary refugees, but then I am not a candidate pretending that you should give me the power to combat global warming with a nuclear winter.  I am not a candidate to run anything, not even my own life.

Not to mention that anybody with enough money to cross the interstellar void uninvited does not count as one of your tired, your poor, your hungry, but in fact will be one of your face-lifted, your rich, and your power-hungry. Those people can come here for vacation, but we got a zero tolerance on immigration here, meaning nobody gets to stay. Except me. And people I like. Which isn't you.

So stay where you are and take care of the political mess on your own planet. This one is taken.

Elections from 1000 Light Years Away

The work it takes to not know a single thing about your upcoming national elections should have its own Olympic sports category. And I guarantee, if they was giving out medals, yours truly woulda got a silver medal if not the gold when I was back on Earth. Being here on Unpronounceable where no one cares, I can watch the parade of political posturing like it's just another seasonal TV show, equal parts cynicism and shmaltz that is the same every year.

First off, nobody, except maybe a couple of guys with Aspergers and no personal life, is looking for real information that could change their mind. Everybody is paying attention so's they can have real or imagined facts to prove the opinion that they already have is the right one. The first time you see and hear a candidate, you make your call, the way you judge everybody from the barrista with the pierced nostril to the jogger in pink velour with her golden retriever and golden ponytail. Snap judgement, right or wrong, that's the motto of the human race.

Then there is the other problem that nobody in their right mind would run for public office in the first place, so even your snap judgement of any one of those louses - or is it lice? - leaves your brain feeling like the inside of a portapotty on a summer day.

Fortunately, your Founding Fathers created a system of government in which it is nearly impossible to change anything. Even when change happens, the people are so not willing to give up the tiny part in the hot mess of their lives that they like to improve the all the truly horrible parts they don't. This is why whole generations protest for the rest of their lives for a return to the good old days, never mind the widespread death from cholera and dysentery, the rape and pillage protocols of conquering armies, and the degradation of slavery and serfdom. Change, these true believers understand, is not a happy daisy in the sun. It more like kudzu that ain't gonna stop after it covers the dead stump you want to hide, but soon will be smothering that old apple tree your granny planted, and you're willing to firebomb the garden just to show it who's boss.  This is why Congress can have a 15% approval rating and a 90% re-election rate. No change necessary here. Do not touch the dial.

Fingerpointing for Suckers

I am the last human on the planet who should be giving advice. But since I am the only human on the planet, see, it works out just dandy cuz I am also the best person on the planet to give advice. So here's my advice: keep your advice to yourself. Nobody is going to listen to it unless they already want to do it. You are just there to be the one to blame if it don't go so well. I know. Giving advice makes you feel all wise standing so high above things on your Molehill Olympus. Stop it unless you like being the patsy for everybody else's stupid behavior.

Unpronounceable website

So there's a website for the book now - unpronounceable.ink.  It's only one page, so don't expect much.

Moo Cards Arrived

Getting ready for WisCon, a girl needs a calling card. These are from moo.com, the only company that lets you have up to 50 different images on a single pack of cards. In this case, however, why mess with perfect? These are all the same, pink like the Blobs, and just as tacky. But this being America, tacky sells and you know you're curious about the alien sex thing. Not that I'm admitting anything here...

Hooray for Hollywood Redux

In response to the question of was I movin' to LA after the success of the movie: No.

California is no New Jersey. It don't even compare to Delaware where people at least know that beaches is for getting fat on Boardwalk fries, frozen custard, and taffy while acquiring a yearly sunburn.

Los Angeles is like twin cities with Washington DC, only with more plastic surgery. Everybody is too important to have anything to do with reality.

And Hollywood is the saddest place on earth, I guess cuz apparently you can't make movies without humiliating underlings, feeling up waitresses, and generally making sure nobody feels respected or secure in their job, relationships, or looks. This is where all the psychotic losers come to prove they are somebody among the beautiful people. Only duh they're actually all losers so deep down people constantly worry that secret loser cooties will rub off.

So no. I don't go to Hollywood, not even for the premiere of a movie about me.

Unpronounceable Ideas 101

At a reading of my book yesterday, spoken in a bad Jersey accent by my ghost writer alter-ego, Susan diRende, someone asked how come all the other diplomats failed. This was a young person at Olympic College, so can be excused for not yet understanding that being a diplomat is one of those cushy jobs given to the important-but-incompetent friends of the powerful. A few days out on the streets, diploma in hand, rattling an empty cup at assorted passers-by, human resource gatekeepers, and parental units with a finished basement, and this young person will come to realize that the game is rigged so that anybody with original thoughts or interesting ideas is kept as far away from power and influence as the system can manage.

Far be it for me to say there is no Truth Fairy, I will simply explain by way of an example. The businessman who was sent to Unpronounceable decided we needed to build a wall to keep Earth safe. Around a planet. He wasn't clear on how high it had to be, or what it would sit on. He simply promised, if you gave him the contract, he could get it done cheaper than the government. Nuff said.

Unpronounceable Readings and Signings

So the gal who wrote down my words so's they could be a book that you could read and be totally disgusted with how my life turned out compared to yours will be reading from said book at some bookstores and libraries in the Seattle area. Better her than me because this girl is not ever setting foot on planet Earth let alone that disaster of gloom and granola that is your Pacific Northwest. Still, for a cheap thrill you might want to go if you're in the area. The forecast is for rain, so a few laughs might help keep away that suicidal depression lurking just beyond the next low pressure front, dontcha know.

Here's the schedule:

• Wednesday, April 13 @ 10:30AM at the Olympic College Bookstore in Bremerton, WA
• Friday, April 15 @ 1PM at the Kitsap Regional Library also in Bremerton
• Tuesday, April 19 @7PM at Third Place Books in Ravenna, WA

 You could also buy a book while you're there, but don't expect me to sign. You can get the writer to sign her name, and that will have to do. Like I said, Earth and me, we're no longer on speaking terms.

Assisted Loving

So my friend Debra has a book now, too. Try not to act so surprised I have a friend. And yes, she's female, which normally would disqualify her from the possibility of my liking her. But see, she is not normal. Like the Blobs, she don't pay too much attention to what gender is supposed to do what. She just does, suffers the consequences, and moves on without learning more from her mistakes than your average artist, which is to say nothing at all.

Her book, Assisted Loving, is about her geezer dad who she took care of because your geezers need looking after seeing as how they no longer have the attention span to drive or handle power tools but, being men, think that refusing to acknowledge their failing faculties will magically restore them to full vigor. It's an ebook, so you can read it whether you're on Earth or on Unpronounceable. Go check it out. Buy it. You got nothing better to do with your money, so make an artist's day.

Don't Bother to Share

Don't send me one of those Facebook insult posts pretending to be about connecting with your "real"
friends. You know, where you ask me to "Like" and "Share" some badly written desperate plea to be treated better. All that makes me want to do is treat you worse. It's  all I can do to keep my own insecurities, neuroses, and general flaws from sending me to your house and  emptying the garbage can from the dog park in the middle of your front lawn. Blackmail don't work unless you've got some killer photos of yours truly that I would sell my soul to keep from my Aunt Mizi.

I know you're lonely and miserable, but that's who you are embrace your unloveableness. Tell you what. You send me one of those and I'll just Unfriend you. Problem solved.

The 'Love Your Junk' Diet

Junk food and guilt do not go together. What a waste of empty calories! Junk food is like love in a plastic wrapper, only instead of dumping you, in a couple of hours, you get to dump it and flush with nobody's feelings hurt. Love is something a girl should always celebrate, even if it's a pink Hostess cupcake of love that is gone in two bites. Give it your undivided attention! Lick the wrapper. Feel that sugar rush. Follow your bliss.

The time to eat healthy is while you are watching TV or playing World of Warcraft and you don't really notice what's going in your mouth. Whole wheat is for when your mind is elsewhere. Vegetables are perfect for when you're mad at your sister  shrinking that expensive angora sweater that made you look slutty in a classy way but now only fits your Aunt Renata's miniature poodle. No matter what you eat, it'll turn to ashes in the heat of your rage. So eat something with a lot of crunch like celery to help you work off the adrenaline with some heavy chewing. This way your bowels can get what they need to make more room for the good stuff when you have the time and the attention to wallow in the indulgence.

So remember, your empty-but-orgasmic calories deserve total mindfulness. I mean, just think of the eons of civilization it took before artificial flavors was invented to trick your tongue into thinking it had died and gone to heaven. Have some respect. Praise the cupcake.

How to Be an Interplanetary Ambassador

One of your biggest problems being Ambassador on another planet is what to wear. I mean, the Blobs here, they got no clothes. But me, I didn’t coldcock a mother of twins at the Bloomingdale’s basement sale just to leave that satin split-to-the-crotch designer rag sitting in the closet. Not that Unpronounceable had closets when I first got here. I had to explain about wardrobe, and then they made me a place to stash it.

In any case, there I am with everybody else in their birthday suit, and me spending an hour in the morning putting my face on and then squeezing into pants that I bought to fit after I lose that five pounds of water retention I gained eating salty food two years ago. The Blobs, they could benefit from some designer jeans to make them only got muffin tops instead of muffin everywhere except maybe the soles of their feet. If they had feet. But they don’t seem to care about appearance at all.

I can’t stand it. How do you talk about shapeless? It has no shape. Not to mention that putrid pink color of theirs that nothing natural on earth could ever compete. Pink like that on purpose is offensive, so as a fashion statement would make it okay for a girl to wear if she’s trying to piss her boss off. But such pink and so much of it talking to you all day au naturel is enough to send any sane person to bed for a month. Only I gotta be ambassadorial instead of an ass, and so there I am, on my feet, which are permanent fixtures and not just some blobby approximation, looking at a closet full of clothes that are seriously uncomfortable and thinking that hey, if nobody cares… Seriously. What would you do?

An Unpronounceable Event

Now I'm on Facebook. Oh, goody.

Fortunately, the internet has so many losers trying to get noticed, I probably won't have to deal with the trolls and the stalkers so long as I don't paste nude photos of myself and I don't insult the manliness of your Asperger afflicted gamers and fanboys. So it's just me and you and this book you are gonna buy, but not yet. Wait until the launch date, then grab your credit card and splurge. Here's the event page so you can follow and get notified when the starting bell rings.

A Book about Yours Truly

I got a book coming out about me. I know, you losers have been trying to hawk your pathetic memoir for years, and here I am with somebody begging to tell my life story. Okay, so maybe they aren’t the biggest publishing house on the planet. Okay, so maybe they’re so small you need a microscope to find them on that World o’ Books map you keep pinning your hopes on. I coulda got somebody bigger, but first I woulda had to work for it. You know, that miserable round of begging who knows how many clueless jerks to read my story and then smile while they’re screwing me over in the contract part. No. Here’s the book from a small enough publisher that I know where all of them live and so, if they give me too much crap, I am able to make their lives as miserable as I can without breaking any laws that somebody can prove. Simple.

Now go buy the book here: Unpronounceable