CasterSemenya, the South African teenager who won the 800-meters at the world track championships so decisively last month that she was asked to undergo tests to confirm she's female, has reportedly been found to be intersex, with "no ovaries, but rather … internal male testes, which are producing large amounts of testosterone."
The linked article at the Guardian is not perfect, language-wise, choosing to use the outdated "hermaphrodite" instead of intersex, but it is leaps and bounds above coverage elsewhere. The Überfail Award goes, as usual, to the NY Daily News, which declares that Semenya "is a woman ... and a man!", uses "hermaphrodite," and helpfully explains (emphasis mine), "her testosterone levels are more than three times higher than those of a normal female."
Needless to say, don't read comments on this story at either link.
This is a complicated situation for the International Association of Athletics Federations, and I won't pretend I know what they should do—although, quite honestly, I feel like there's no legitimate argument for banning Semenya from women's competition. The case one always hears is some variation on: What will stop any man from just running as a woman then?!ohnoez!!! But the honest answer to that is: Just about everything.
It isn't going to happen. For a thousand different reasons.
Semenya identifies as female, has lived her life as female, and her elevated testosterone production is a biological anomaly that gives her an edge, the same way longer legs might. And I don't know about anyone else, but I feel pretty damn okay with letting every world-class intersex runner on the entire planet (all, like, one of them) compete as the gender as which she lives.
[Misogyny and transphobia will not be tolerated in this thread, as in all others.]
"On behalf of the British government, and all those who live freely thanks to Alan's work, I am very proud to say: we're sorry. You deserved so much better."—British Prime Minister Gordon Brown, apologizing to mathematician Alan Turing, who played an integral role in breaking the German Enigma codes during World War II. His work made possible the liberation of millions of people from concentration camps, including tens of thousands of LGBTQI prisoners.
Turing himself was gay. After being convicted of "gross indecency" (i.e. being gay) in 1952, he was offered the choice to go to prison or face chemical castration. He chose the latter, and took his own life two years later.
Today, his country's prime minister explained: "This recognition of Alan's status as one of Britain's most famous victims of homophobia is another step towards equality, and long overdue."
Deeky's earlier post reminded me that I've been meaning for a million years to write about the John Hodgman/PC and Justin Long/Mac commercials, which I loathe with the fiery passion of ten thousand suns.
Right up front, I'm just going to say flatly: This isn't a post about operating systems. It's a post about privilege, and on-topic comments will be discussing that subject alone.
If you've never seen the commercials, which is now a series about 40 or so long, they feature John Hodgman, typically dressed in a frumpy suit and sporting a cheap haircut and old-fashioned glasses frames, as the hopelessly nerdy and uncool PC, and Justin Long, typically dressed in Gap-chic streetwear with a stylish haircut and fashionably scruffy facial hair, as the irrepressibly hip and cool Mac. Each advert has the smooth, young, trim, unflappable, and fun Mac effortlessly getting the better of the dorky, older, dumpy, bumbling, and uptight PC. Here's a perfect example:
[Transcript at end of post.]
So, the thing I despise about these commercials (even when they're not using women to represent services and peripherals or engaging in transphobia or fat hatred) is that they essentially seek to position Macs as the hip and progressive choice by—wait for it!—claiming this straight and cis white guy is TOTES MORE AWESOME than that straight and cis white guy over there! 'Cuz his trousers suck, yo!
The irony is, of course, that there's really not that much difference between a Mac and a PC (I've used both since I was 15, have had both as my primary computer at home and work at different times, and like both of them). But that's not the point of these commercials—the point is to convey some imaginary vast difference, and the breadth of humanity that's been engaged to anthropomorphize the metaphor are two straight, cis, white men. Wow. How innovative. You're really thinking outside the box there, Apple. I'm SOLD! Bring on my iLife!
There's a lot of tiresome advertising these days that shoots for "hip and progressive" and lands solidly on "smug and arrogant" instead—but I've got to hand the prize for the most revoltingly privileged campaign around to Apple.
And the hilarious part is that many of the adverts in this serious tout Mac's capacity to allow its users to be super-creative. It's a message that might resonate more strongly if it weren't delivered by the straight, cis, white dude who Apple chose as their, like, totally radical revolutionary icon, dude.
Mac: Hello, I'm a Mac.
PC: And I'm a PC. [PC is wearing an iPod on his belt and listening to music, dancing badly]
Mac: Oh, hey—iPod. Nice.
PC: Yeah, it's just a little something to hold my slow jams.
Mac: [laughs] Oh yeah?
PC: Yeah. And it works so seamlessly with iTunes.
Mac: You should check out iMovie, iPhoto, iWeb, because they all work like iTunes, you know, iLife—[makes integration gesture with hands] Comes on every Mac.
PC: iLife, well, I have some very cool apps that are bundled with me.
Space Cowboy and Iain chat away, totally ignoring Lady Liberty.
Dudez, you're on vacation! Turn the BlackBerries off!
I'm only kidding, of course. They were actually looking at pictures they'd just taken. We had such a beautiful day to be out on the water, and all of us took a bunch of photos. More of mine below...
I've been up inside the Statue of Liberty and visited Ellis Island, and I've spent lots of time in NYC, but I still had fun oohing and ahhing at everything with Iain, who was taking it all in for the first time.
The Verrazano Bridge. When I told Mannion that the Verrazano was my favorite and that it kicks the Brooklyn Bridge's ass, he told me I should start a bridge war. I'm so gonna. Queens in da house!
The crew of the boat, many of whom are volunteers, asked for help raising the sails once we were out on the water. Iain, son of a sailor in the British Royal Navy and mad Patrick O'Brian devotee, was all over it.
It really was just such an amazing experience. And later that night...
...every fucked-up way there is to victimize people in this world, along comes another news story to sucker-punch me in the gut and remind me there's no such thing as being inured to the ways one human can wreak hell upon another.
In case that intro hasn't already made it clear: Trigger warning.
Turkish military police said today that they had stormed an Istanbul villa to rescue nine women held captive after being tricked into believing they were reality TV show contestants.
The women were rescued on Monday from the villa in Riva, a summer resort on the outskirts of Istanbul, according to a spokesman for the military police in the region who carried out the raid. He said the women were held captive for around two months, but refused to provide further details.
The women were led to believe they were being filmed for a Big Brother-type television programme, according to the Dogan news agency and other news reports. Instead, their naked images were sold on the internet by their captors.
The "women," at least one of whom was only 15 or 16, "were told to fight each other, to wear bikinis and to dance by the villa's pool." They were threatened when they asked to be released or to speak to family members; "police stormed the villa after family members complained to police that they were being prevented from contacting the women. The women cried for help when the military police arrived at the villa." Fucking hell.
[Also available at Daily Motion. Full transcript below.]
Title Card: Vloggin' with Blogginz…& Livs
[Livs sits on the back of the sofa, cleaning herself. Kenny Blogginz sits at the opposite end of the sofa, playing Peggle (a game in which a unicorn plays a prominent role, which explains the first segment). The music from the game plays in the background. Everything is quiet, because Iain has just gone to bed.]
Liss: So what do you think is the greatest novel ever written about unicorns?
[Livs hops down between them on the couch.]
KBlogz: Ariel.
Liss: And what makes it the greatest of all time? I mean, are you sure it's really better than The Last Unicorn?
KBlogz: Oh, is that—I've never actually experienced it.
Liss: [gasps] Have you not even seen the cartoon?
KBlogz: No.
Liss: Mmm. I watched that a lot when I was a kid. It used to be on HBO all the time when I was a kid, The Last Unicorn.
KBlogz: Is it a Ralph Bakshi movie?
Liss: No, I don't…think…so. And [clears throat] I thought it was really scandalous because it was like a PG-13 cartoon—
KBlogz: Yeah.
Liss: —and it had cussing and boobs in it.
KBlogz: That sounds like Ralph Bakshi.
Liss: Could be.
KBlogz: Are you sure it wasn't?
Liss: It could be.
KBlogz: The guy who did, um, the—that one Lord of the Rings movie…he used, like, rotoscoping… Was that Ralph Bakshi?
Liss: I'm not sure off the top of my head, to be honest with you.
KBlogz: Look it up right now!
Info Cards: Actually… Ralph Bakshi [photo of Ralph Bakshi] …didn't make "The Last Unicorn" [screen cap from "The Last Unicorn"] That was Arthur Rankin, Jr. and Jules Bass [photo of Rankin and Bass] …who also made "The Hobbit" [screen cap from "The Hobbit"].
KBlogz: Okay, so basically my friend—
[Livsy whines and rolls over in a funny way; Liss and KBlogz laugh]
Liss: Yes?
KBlogz: My friend's grandpa used to call people "Melvin Nerdly"—it was like his weird nickname for people, like how a lot of old people call people, you know, "Buster Brown" or something.
Liss: Mm-hmm.
Info Card: My great-granddad used to call self-important men "Charlie Grapenuts, the Little Sheriff."
KBlogz: So, he'd call people Melvin Nerdly; I just thought that was the funniest thing I've ever heard—
Liss: It is good.
KBlogz: —and, um, so basically, this friend and I would cover songs in like a nerd voice; we'd say it was like a cover artist named Melvin Nerdly.
Liss: Mm-hmm. Could you do a performance as Melvin Nerdly?
KBlogz: Well…
Liss: Would you grace us?
KBlogz: Theoretically, Melvin Nerdly was a huge Paula Abdul fan.
Liss: Who isn't?
KBlogz: Who isn't, right. So he'd be like, you know— Well, actually, this was sort of because Jake and I were watching a marathon of, um— What was Paul Abdul's reality show, her short-lived…
Liss: "Hey, Paula!"
KBlogz: "Hey, Paula!" And we would be like [sings in a nerdy voice] "Straight up now tell me do you really want to love me forever…" [Liss laughs] And it just took off and became a national viral sensation.
[Edit]
KBlogz: Watch what's about to happen. [Liss swings camera around at TV.] Watch this. [KBlogz shoots ball; it's a terrible shot and drops immediately. They both laugh.]
Liss: Excellent gamesmanship.
KBlogz: [laughs] Thank you.
Liss: Or gameswomanship. Whichever you prefer.
KBlogz: Excellent Blartspersonship!
Liss: [laughs] Indeed.
KBlogz: [laughs] Two balls left.
Liss: I heard that used to be your nickname in gym class. Two balls left.
KBlogz: It did. [laughs]
[Edit; Livsy is splayed on the sofa, sleeping hard and very still.]
Liss: I think Olivia might be dead. Do you wanna like rub her belly and make sure she's still alive?
KBlogz: [rubs her belly] She's not.
Liss: No?
[Livs twitches almost imperceptibly]
KBlogz: That could just be gas escaping.
Liss: [laughs as KBlogz pats and scratches Livs' belly] Oh, I think I hear snoring. That's…not a lot of movement. She's really tired.
KBlogz: From what—sleeping?!
[Liss laughs; KBlogz plays with Livs' paw and prods at her]
KBlogz: Wake up.
Liss: Maybe if you sing to her like Melvin Nerdly.
[KBlogz leans forward and Livs immediately whips her head around and looks at him]
KBlogz: Maybe if I moved. Oh, damn.
[Liss laughs as Livsy flops back into her original position and closes her eyes.]
What with Andy and Alexmac and CatieCat trans issues are really well covered here at Shakesville. Y'all folks—and especially the moderators—are amazing. In other places on the net, even places that are ostensibly trans-friendly, we get un- and misgendered, accused of everything from promoting female genital mutilation to betraying any hope of achieving real feminist/womanist progress by undermining the concept that gender is a social construct to raping all real women all the time simply by existing.
(You'll note, clever people that you are, that these vile accusations are mainly aimed at trans women; trans men tend to disappear in the accusers' rantings and are un- and misgendered as women who are just somewhat more butch than most. Which is still hideously offensive and wildly creepifying what with the fetishizing some people do of trans men's bodies but with somewhat less of an implicit call to violence. Trans people who are neither men nor women all the time don't exist at all, you troublemakers you.)
I'm not going to address these odious canards here—others have covered this territory well already—except to say that I also believe gender is a social construct. I just happen to believe it's not immutable, defined by others at birth, nor closed to immigration. So chill, Minutewomyn of the gender borders. We are not here to git yer jobs. We just want a place to live and to pee in safety and quiet, just like other women. And the insistence on using offensive and othering language like 'biological' and 'real' and 'genetic' really isn't helping, so keep that shit in your nice safe little trans-free sandboxes, 'kay?
'kay.
What I'd like to talk about is one of those things that you might not even know exists unless you're trans yourself, or very close to someone who is: Passing Privilege.
To use it in a sentence: "A trans person who easily moves in cis society with hir preferred gender presentation has passing privilege." For a given value of easily. Some trans people have it, other's don't. The burly woman in a wig and a dress and badly-applied makeup that doesn't hide her heavy five o'clock shadow that is the endlessly hilarious TV version of a trans woman that breaks my heart every single time I see it? Does not have passing privilege. Hedwig, in the eponymous Angry Inch, has more.
I personally have tons and have since forever. I don't think anyone here has met me in person yet, but there are pictures. I have had no trans-related surgeries, some electrolysis, and don't wear makeup because I mostly can't be bothered to. It was fun at first and I do on special occasions but these days it's another chore I don't have the energy to do and frankly as long as I feel shitty I'd like to look kind of shitty too. (Also I have rosacea but it's not the reason I don't wear makeup.)
A friend of mine tried to explain it once to my brother, who thought his high school friend who'd done some modeling was a counterexample. "He's pretty and he's still a guy."
"Dave, your friend is boy pretty. Moira is girl pretty."
"I don't see it."
"You're one of the few who don't."
My grandmother—the fountain of awesome one I've mentioned in the context of coming out and abuse—once asked "So how many people think you're actually a woman?" Ooo, nicely phrased! Puts me in my place right at the beginning.
"People who didn't know me before?" It is kind of an important point. People who have already made a judgment as to a person's gender often have a very difficult time changing it, even with new information.
"Yeah."
"Jesus, everybody does."
It sounds to me like I'm bragging here but I don't mean to be. Parts of my early transition (like coming out, transition doesn't ever seem to be over either) were easy. I just stopped trying to look and talk and act like a boy and presto! instant girl. Short hair and flat chest and tomboyish wardrobe and all. Y'know, sort of. This thing that all my life had marked me as weird and wrong, had gotten me beat up at school, had earned me shouts of "Faggot!" and beer cans hurled from passing trucks, was suddenly a good thing!
Only so many women I knew didn't have it nearly so much and struggled constantly. Voice, hands, wrists, feet, throat, facial hair, jawline, forehead, allopecia, musculature—none of that changed who they were, but it sure hell changed how people reacted to them. (The social model is the Swiss Army knife of any discussion of privilege, I swear. It's always useful.) I felt guilty as hell that that part of it was so easy for me. I was never told I couldn't use a bathroom. When I talk to medical professionals—which is often, so this is good—they ask when my last period was and usually just drop it when I say I don't menstruate. I was able to get a driver's license and Social Security Card with my name and an F on them, and except for the job I transitioned at my gender has never once been questioned at work.
THESE THINGS ARE VANISHINGLY RARE FOR TRANS WOMEN.
And then there are the cis people who've established themselves as gatekeepers and taken it upon themselves to define who we are. They'd say I was really transsexual because I looked to them like their idea of a real woman; the women with less passing privilege they defined as wanting to transition because they had a perverted fetish in finding themselves sexy. I cannot tell you how angry that makes me.
I felt—feel—guilty as hell about it. Why should I have it so easy when it was so hard for so many? Sometimes I cannot shake the guilt: hanging onto my passing privilege is another of my terrible bargains with the kyriarchy. But the kyriarchy is still a very dangerous place for trans folk and trans women in particular. The fears I have of being discriminated against or beaten or raped or killed are real. Some of them have happened to me already; all of them have happened to other trans folk. And continue to happen. I am noisy about being trans here because I feel safe to; cis people have worked to make it that way and I am grateful. I am not noisy about being trans—I bite my tongue and say nothing when something ugly is said about trans folk with less passing privilege than me—in other places because I don't feel safe.
I know, I should listen to what I tell other people; we do what we have to to survive. And I do. I just can't feel good about it.
From what I recall of the good old DSL days, the actual throughput you could expect was dependent on the distance from your location to the local telco. Luckily, I wasn't too far so I was able to attain some decent performance. For others, DSL might not have been too much better than dial-up.
An IT company in Durban, South Africa, was so pissed off at the performance of their ADSL connection that they actually decided to test whether or not data could actually be transferred faster by carrier pigeon. Guess who won:
A Durban IT company pitted an 11-month-old bird armed with a 4GB memory stick against the ADSL service from the country's biggest web firm, Telkom. [...]
The firm said Winston took one hour and eight minutes to fly between the offices, and the data took another hour to upload on to their system.
Mr Rolfe said the ADSL transmission of the same data size was about 4% complete in the same time.
Telkom claims that the IT firm haven't accepted any performance recommendations thus far. Still, I think it's pretty cool that a pigeon was able to lay the smack down on the tubez.
Keillor, who turned 67 last month, was admitted to St. Mary's Hospital at the Mayo Clinic in Rochester, Minnesota, on Sunday night, spokesman Karl Oestreich said in a news release.
"He is up and moving around, speaking sensibly, working at a laptop, and it's expected he'll be released on Friday," Oestreich said.
Last month, I posted about Jaycee Dugard, a 29-year-old woman who was abducted in 1991 at age 11 and just found 18 years later in good health, still with the couple who abducted her. More information about Dugard's horrendous circumstances in captivity have slowly emerged, including that she has two daughters, ages 15 and 11, fathered by her male abductor, who was already a convicted rapist at the time he snatched Dugard. There is no question that Dugard was raped and tortured.
For 18 years.
But Orange County Register sports columnist Mark Whicker evidently didn't think Dugard had been exploited enough—so he decided to use her incomprehensibly horrific ordeal as a literary conceit in which to recount some of his favorite moments in sports over the past 18 years. He set up the bullet-pointed list with this charming opening salvo:
It doesn't sound as if Jaycee Dugard got to see a sports page.
Box scores were not available to her from June 10, 1991 until Aug. 31 of this year.
She never saw a highlight. Never got to the ballpark for Beach Towel Night. Probably hasn't high-fived in a while.
She was not allowed to spike a volleyball. Or pitch a softball. Or smack a forehand down the line. Or run in a 5-footer for double bogey.
Now, that's deprivation.
Can you imagine? Dugard was 11 when she was kidnapped and stashed in Phillip Garrido's backyard. She was 29 when she escaped. Penitentiary inmates at least get an hour of TV a day. Dugard was cut off from everything but the elements.
How long before she fully digests the world she re-enters? How difficult to adjust to such cataclysmic change?
More than that, who's going to explain the fact that there's a President Obama?
Dugard's stepfather says she's going to need a lot of therapy — you think? — so perhaps she should take a respite before confronting the new realities.
So, Jaycee, whenever you're ready, here's what you've missed...
Wow. I'm hard-pressed to decide whether "Now that's deprivation" or "You think?" is the most smug bit of fuckery in those few paragraphs rife with what I can only regard as a sociopathic indifference to unimaginable human suffering.
What's stunning is that it was not just Whicker who found appropriating Dugard's torment to churn out a sports nostalgia column to be acceptable, but his section editor, and the paper's editor-in-chief, and anyone else who put a set of eyes on that hot mess of callous apathy before it got published. It's quite genuinely dismaying that no one at the paper realized (or cared) how deeply disgusting the piece actually is.
Many of the OC Register's readers did, however, and contacted the paper with angry and appalled letters, prompting Whicker to apologize.
For Tuesday's Register, I wrote a column that clearly offended and outraged large portions of our readership.
It was not my intention to do so. But it's obvious that I miscalculated the effect the column on Jaycee Dugard, and the events that she might have missed during her captivity, had on those who read, buy and advertise in our newspaper.
For 22 1/2 years at The Register, I feel like I've had a good and direct relationship with our audience and I think most of the regular readers know how I go about reporting and commenting on sports.
This column appears to have disconnected that bond with at least part of our readers. For that I apologize.
It's impossible to unring a bell or to bring back a column that has already been transmitted. In many ways the damage is done. I'm hopeful that I can be forgiven for this lapse of professionalism by those who were affected most profoundly.
I'll try to earn back the trust of those customers in my future endeavors.
Again, I regret this incident and apologize to all concerned.
The thing that strikes me most about this apology is that he still seems totally mystified as to why people are so angry. He's apologizing for, as best I can tell, "miscalculating" that using a woman who spent the last 18 years being held hostage, raped, tortured, forced to bear her rapist's children when she was still a child herself, kept from the sunshine and her family, kept from everything dear to her, in order to fart out a lazy column of "Sports' Greatest Hits," would be received unfavorably. Gee, sorry, didn't realize that would be TOTALLY FUCKING OFFENSIVE.
But he shows no real evidence of understanding why it's totally fucking offensive, what's actually wrong with further exploiting a woman whose life has been permanently changed by the most brutal exploitations—and the seeming absence of that capacity for empathy is terrifying.
(Having friends who spend their free time trading 8th generation dubs of obscure B-movies through the mail can have its priveleges. Sometimes you end up with real gems, like today's feature, a bizzaro "comedy" from 1971 Brasil written, directed and starring Flávio Migliaccio.)
Despite being a bumbling, irresponsible fool, Manuelo (Flávio Migliaccio) takes his three nephews on vacation every summer. He comes across as sort of a Brazilian prototype of Roberto Benigni. (And no, I don't consider that a compliment.) As for the kids, well there's the chubby one, the young one, and the other one. They all have different colored hats, which is helpful.
Manuelo and the children head into the Amazon, hoping to find adventure. They're also hoping to find Grandpa, who's been communicating with aliens. The kids' parents aren't too fond of this idea, as Manuelo's last two escapades have landed him on the front page of the newspaper. It isn't clear whether their father is upset that the kids were endangered or if it's just the idea of scandal that bothers him. Not that Father intervenes at all, mind you.
Manuelo and the nephews (Mario, Paco, and Diego) locate Grandpa's camp, but the old man is nowhere to be found. Luckily, a UFO lands and two animated (that is, they're cartoons) aliens tell them Grandpa has been kidnapped. As they explain, their race is held captive on a far away planet by a merciless gang of robots. The only thing that can free them is the Flower of Wisdom and Adventure™ that the robots have hidden in the rain forest. So, an advanced robot has been sent to Earth, kidnapped Grandpa, and is on a mission to retrieve the flower before the aliens can use it against their captors. I guess this was the inspiration for all those Terminator movies.
The four head into the rainforest hoping to intercept Grandpa and the robot. It isn't very long before they're lost, thanks to the less-than-brilliant idea of marking their trail through the jungle with flowers. As soon as they're lost Manuelo decides to abandon the kids and search for the robot on his own, proving himself the worst guardian in Brazil. His nephews wander the jungle for days, nearly dying of dehydration. The only thing that spares them is a sudden thunderstorm. This also affords them the opportunity to frolic naked in the rain, making this film a lot like Lord of the Flies, but with robots.
The boys are captured by a band of smugglers (I think) and locked into cages. But soon enough they not only escape but lead an insurrection among the natives to overthrow their slave masters. I'd say this is an obvious bit of foreshadowing but I don't think the filmmakers put quite that much thought into things. Meanwhile Manuelo has found Grandpa and his captor.
Grandpa sends Manuelo ahead to the location of the flower so he can warn the local villagers of the robot's plans. In the meantime he's going to figure out a way to defeat the robot. If you ask me, it looks like if you gave the robot a good shove he'd topple over and be rendered harmless, but what do I know?
Manuelo and the kids somehow manage to find one another, just in time to get lost again. They stumble around, dehydrating once more, hoping to find water. I always imagined the rainforest was a lush, damp place, but I guess it's not. Manuelo comes up with another dumb idea to follow a turtle around in the hopes he'll find water for them. When they do eventually find water (and it seems to take them a very long time), their swim in the river is rudely cut short by a fleet of hungry crocodiles.
They escape the crocs, shoot (and eat) a jaguar, and eventually make it to the village. Unfortunately the language barrier prevents Manuelo from effectively communicating with the natives, and they're unable to warn them of the impending doom. And when the robot does arrive, the villagers flee into the jungle.
So it's up to Manuelo, Mario, Paco, and Diego to defeat the robot. And just in the nick of time, Grandpa discovers that the robot's only weakness is a wire sticking out of his neck. One of the kids yanks it loose and the robot explodes. (And no, I have no idea how Grandpa got there.)
The aliens then land to claim the flower, and invite them all aboard the flying saucer. Well, everyone except Grandpa. I guess he's something of a buzzkill so he gets Left Behind. Stepping into the flying saucer turns everyone into a cartoon, and we're treated to a ten minute sequence of animated hijinks.
The saucer, with Manuelo and the boys onboard, returns to its home planet. One whiff of the fragrant flower empowers all the little aliens to rise up against the robots, and once again, the boys are leading a slave insurrection. Needless to say, the cute green aliens overthrow the robots, with plenty of help from Mario, Paco, and Diego. Uncle Manuelo mostly bumbles around, getting in the way.
Everyone lives happily ever after. Manuelo even made it through two sequels. I'm not sure I could do as much.
In case anyone missed the unbelievable moment during last night's presidential address in which Rep. Joe Wilson (R-Rudeassholery) shouted out in the middle of the speech to call the president a liar, here's the clip:
Obama: There are also those who claim that our reform efforts would insure illegal immigrants. This, too, is false. [loud muttering from the Republicans] The reforms—the reforms I am proposing would not apply to those who are here illegally.
Wilson: You lie!
[Murmurs of praise and agreement from the Republicans; murmurs of shock and censure from the Democrats. Nancy Pelosi glares at Wilson, her mouth open.]
This evening I let my emotions get the best of me when listening to the President's remarks regarding the coverage of illegal immigrants in the health care bill. While I disagree with the President's statement, my comments were inappropriate and regrettable. I extend sincere apologies to the President for this lack of civility.
To be filed under Things to Which I Cannot Relate: Being so emotional about denying people healthcare that I am compelled to be a wildly disrespectful wankstain and make myself an international embarrassment.
Maha's got more on the various Republican antics last night.
Welcome to Shakesville, a progressive feminist blog about politics, culture, social justice, cute things, and all that is in between. Please note that the commenting policy and the Feminism 101 section, conveniently linked at the top of the page, are required reading before commenting.
Top five awesomest movie zombies (in descending order):
(Having friends who spend their free time trading 8th generation dubs of obscure B-movies through the mail can have its priveleges. Sometimes you end up with real gems, like today's feature, a bizzaro "comedy" from 1971 Brasil written, directed and starring Flávio Migliaccio.)
Grandpa sends Manuelo ahead to the location of the flower so he can warn the local villagers of the robot's plans. In the meantime he's going to figure out a way to defeat the robot. If you ask me, it looks like if you gave the robot a good shove he'd topple over and be rendered harmless, but what do I know? 
