Apropos of nothing. In fact, inappropriate

WARNING: If you're easily offended by bodily functions and non-medical/clinical discussions thereof, then it may be better for you to check out another blog.

Alright, so tonight I should be writing content which may or may not be used in collateral to be distributed at a fundraiser I hope to attend this weekend, but haven't really delved far into my wallet to see what kind of coin I can afford to part with these days. Yesterday I attended a baby dedication for a friend (or rather, for his baby) at a Unitarian church where I had several years previous, attended a memorial service for a former coworker, and I had been planning to blog on religion, ritual and variations on the theme. However, musings on religious expression will have to wait, and before I proceed with my writing assignment tonight, I simply must share with the few of you who read this what simultaneously turned my stomach and tickled my funny bone (all foreshadowed puns intended) this evening.

Honey and I have been watching The Tudors on iTunes; the first season anyway. It's totally as trashy as the website makes it out to be, but it's also got plastrin-front gowns! lutes! plague! Northam, Neill and Jonathan Rhys Meyers! Tonight, we watched the 10th (and I believe final) episode of season one. It opens with the young King Henry VIII masturbating into a cloth being held open by a servant-boy. I kid you not. I can't help but laugh just thinking about it!

The scene is awkward to say the very, very least. It cut away to shots of Anne Boleyn's heaving breasts and then back to the young king straining and whacking (all seen from the waist up). And just as the king came, we saw a closeup of Anne's delicate hands piercing a threaded needle through a piece of embroidery she was working on. Then, with the king spent, the servant, who had previously had his face maybe a foot from the royal junk and turned away (a wise choice in his position, I must admit), gets up, bows to the king, and holding the cloth slightly slack, leaves the room.

The way the scene played out, it seemed like Henry was working off some morning wood. Now, I have no idea if this was common practice for male monarchs to employ a manservant to accept his "kingliness," as it were. Though no history buff myself, per se, I place no faith in the historical accuracy of this series; I see it more as costume-drama porn set against the skeleton of historical events. All that said: what worse job could there be in the court than to be the Royal Jizz-catcher? Who did you have to piss of to get that assignment? I should hope that promotion was swift. My God! I'd much rather scrub the peasants' outhouses than have to spend each morning with my face inches from the sweaty scepter, praying that his aim was good. (Massive shudder!) I would be begging God every day for tuberculosis or the plague or leprosy to get me out of that job!

I was icked out by that for at least the first 5 minutes of the show. I wish I could tell you what transpired in those first five minutes, but I was temporarily blind. That's right: masturbation blinded me. All these years of the real stuff did nothing to my vision; seeing the staged version on TV blacked me out for five.

I apologize if I grossed anyone out. Mostly. This was just too weird and hilarious to keep to myself. ... I suppose it's discussing these sort of things that keeps be from being invited to posh places and events. This, and the fact that I'm not well-heeled.

What's Molly Dreaming Now? Edition 5

First of all, my apologies to Joe and Honey. Apparently both men felt misled by the title of my last post. For the record, "orgasm" referred to the video I embedded.

Honey wanted to know if I was blogging about our sex life again. Again?! When did I start? ... so I've decided that must be what his poorly-hidden secret wife blogs about. At least I hope it's his secret wife; I'd be heartbroken if it were someone else entirely!

So, sorry boys. Maybe next time. Onto today's post!

I had a fantastically strange dream two nights ago that I really wanted to blog about immediately upon waking. Unfortunately, I got distracted by a project I had begun the night before. But it was completely fun, diversionary project, so not a huge loss. All that is to say, I'm going to try to recall it as best as I can, because I thought it was an interesting one as my funky dreamlife goes.

Queen Amidala/Natalie Portman. I jumping between first and third person in this one. Sometimes I was Amidala as portrayed by Ms. Portman, and sometimes I was watching her in this adventure. I was in danger. In a shack. I was being hunted, stalked, really. And who was after me? OBI-WAN KENOBI! Not the hot, young Ewan McGregor Obi-wan, the old Alec Guinness Obi-wan. (Let's be clear, Ewan McGregor stalking me would not be terrifying at all - or unwelcome, for that matter.) But here I was Amidala/Portman, in a shack by a road and the doors wouldn't lock properly and people would kind of come in and out to check on me and the whole time I felt like I had to catch my breath because I was never sure if it was my assailant. They would bring word of him, or would tell me they were returning shortly. For my part, I would lie on the floor of this crummy two and a half room shelter, and keep my eye on the window facing the front. This was where Obi-wan was sure to appear.

The windows were large, taking up a huge portion of the wall. The shack was on the side of a rural mountain road, like just off the shoulder. The road curved off toward the north. From the window I could see the bend in the road and the gravel shoulder and a cluster of trees at the bend. I would get up off the floor occasionally and check the doors. They would shut and semi-latch, but not lock. I had to hold them against the wind. Outdoors, it was beautiful - about as beautiful a day you could ask for: 80 degrees, sunny, the grass was dappled with the shadow of the trees' leaves. Inside, the shack was three shades of grey occasionally accented with a mud-colored table or cabinet. It was chilly inside, and the floors were covered in dust. It was filthy and depressing inside - Dickensian, almost - and beautiful outside. I kept trying to decide when I would sneak out the back of the house, to escape Obi-wan. For some reason, I thought it prudent if I saw him coming toward me, first.

Then some visitor - Anikin, maybe? - alerted me that Obi-wan was on his way, and he'd stop at nothing to kill me. He knows my thoughts. There is no place where I could hide from him. At this point, I seem to remember jumping to third person and seeing Natalie Portman; I was hovering over her. She was Amidala, but dressed more like Padme. (Just rent the frakking movie, Virginia Gal, it'll make a ton of more sense!) Then, somehow, Padme had escaped. She/I was on a bus - like a school bus - riding into ShangHai. Though it was definitely a school bus, the seats were arranged more like an airplane. As we drove into ShangHai, it became clear to me that Obi-wan was going to attack me on this ride. I was back in first person now, sitting in a window seat. The bus began to fill with smog. Not LA smog, not Mexico City smog (which is formidable, let me tell you), but vengeful, wicked ShangHai smog that was doing the bidding of Obi-Wan Kenobi.

The smog was so thick that I couldn't see the bus driver or the first few rows of the bus, and I was only in the middle of the bus. I knew it was Obi-wan, after only me. Slowly, all the other passengers dissipated. Hanging from the roof of the bus was a leather trunk-like compartment. It resembled the emergency raft roof hatches on some airplanes, but was much more primitive. It unlatched and drifting down from it, towards me, was Obi-wan, like the angel of death. Alec Guinness in his brown cloak floating toward me like Voldemort before he had his body. I had been breathing deeply for a spell, while the smog had been rolling in. I was having some sort of asthma attack. As Guinness approached (wow, actually, a Guinness sounds really good right now), I jumped to third person and watched as he wrapped his hands around Natalie Portman's throat. She was scared and gasping.

I know the dream went on longer than that, and that I and Padme/Amidala/Portman survived, but I can't remember it. I just know that Obi-wan was neither conquered nor sated. And I woke up both scared and excited.

So, what do you think this all means? Background/caveats: I did watch the last half of "Harry Potter and the Sorcerer's Stone" Monday night because TiVo thought we'd like it and captured it. But I have no idea where the rest of this came from. Thoughts?

Organization and Orgasms

I spent all yesterday afternoon and night cleaning up the tags on my blog. I'm hoping that the tagging system makes a little more sense than it did in the past. And, if you're interested, I hope you use the tags ... maybe I'll start using yours, then. Reciprocal scratching eh? [wink, wink; nudge, nudge!]

This morning my plan was to blog on either a movie we saw last night or on the practice of blogging itself. Both of those posts will have to wait. Today, I am blatantly ripping off JoeInVegas. Of course, I blatantly rip off Three Beautiful Things all the time, but today, I don't even bother coming up with my own content. And that's because Joe's bit was right up my humor alley. So, thanks for starting my Monday off right, Joe! (still hoping i've got this video embedding business down.)

Good Time Girls

A lot of what I do at work is in support of informational campaigns, often it's blatant advertising. Usually these campaigns are for internal audiences, but some campaigns that we've supported are external. For the external ones, think mostly regional and low-level national.

Yesterday, one of my coworkers was looking at old-school propaganda online and came across this little gem to the right, here. It really cracked me up, for various reasons, but also kind of bummed me out, as well.

My first reaction is that it's hilarious that the government will tie anything and everything
to whatever the current national effort is: "Don't dip your wick where it don't belong boys, 'cause if you do, you may as well be handing the keys to Il Duce!" The featured girl's face is so apple-pie that even I wouldn't suspect her to have the clap. And, of course, it's easy for me, 60 some years on to laugh at the concerns of my forebears. That's what we do!

However, what bums me out is that this ad just perpetuates the notion that sex - and any consequences that follow - is solely a woman's accountability. Men can't be held accountable for their actions. Those poor souls are programmed to bang anything in their path with an orifice. Women are wily and want to destroy them whether it be with STDs, babies or the allure of that most destructive of all powers, love.

Look, I get it: on the whole, men seek sex more aggressively than women. And men in wartime even more so. And the government and society want to make sure soldiers are healthy. So, I totally understand why that campaign was created, and probably still exists to some extent today. And for sure, I wish there was more of a pop culture notion of sexual discretion and discrimination (not sexism, but partner discrimination).

For instance, one of mine and Honey's current favorite shows is Entourage. We both really like it - though I'm sensing a post soon on it, because I tire of its portrayal of women. However, I have yet to see an episode where someone either doesn't have sex or the show doesn't end with a segue into someone about to get laid. The guys' only goals in life are sex, getting stoned and material goods. They're so promiscuous, I'm astonished they've not mentioned burning pee, yet. And why wouldn't they mention it? Because there's never any indication that they use condoms. It's never discussed. Think about it: when was the last time condom usage was discussed in any movie, TV show or widely and easily accessible morsel of the pop culture diet? Aside from Knocked Up, none comes readily to mind. As one who went through puberty and adolescence in the late 80s and early 90s, I was bombarded with AIDS, and by extension, STD prevention information, a huge chunk of which was dedicated to condom usage. MTV had PSAs every other commercial break; posters about safe sex, waiting and partner discrimination were all over school; Channel One did sex ed segments all the friggin' time. I didn't watch much in the way of 90210, but I seem to remember them, and shows with teen and young adult audiences, at least positively addressing condom usage fairly regularly in the 80s and early 90s. By the time I was 13, I knew full well that a supportive tangent to the "abstinence till marriage ethic" of my household, was the cultural ethic of "know who you're sleeping with; make sure you're both clean; get tested; use condoms." It didn't occur to me not to use condoms by the time I was having sex - even when I was on the pill. And then it just seemed to stop right around 1996. Poof! AIDS wasn't killing as many people, so we can just stop letting condoms get in the way of our sexy characters having sex. Rubbers aren't sexy, so why should we spoil the moment? Where did our pop culture sense of partner discrimination and condom usage go? I would love to see a return to some sense of sexual responsibility on TV and in film.

That mini-rant is to say: I appreciate the government's having wanted to persuade soldiers to be cautious.

But there's still something about that poster that just smarts. Maybe it's that the girl does look so innocent. Certainly, just because you look healthy doesn't mean you are. But there's an interesting dualism in the message of that poster, I think. It's the tacit acknowledgment that boys seek out the "innocent" kind of girls as much as the "slutty" ones, because they're safe: a virgin can't tell you if you're good in bed or bad; she won't have an STD; you can trick her into your pants with the promise of "love." And that that's preferred - because boys can't be expected to only masturbate! And the flipside of this poster goes back to what I brushed up against, earlier: women are out to lure you into a trap; some of them use their innocent looks to ensnare you and leave you with a pus-filled penis!

As a society, if we buy that women in relation to sex are to be viewed essentially as succubae, then it makes it easier to punish us for being us. It allows for stupid rape laws, like one I remember reading about in Italy in the 90s: it cannot be considered rape if the purported victim wore blue jeans, because jeans are too difficult to remove and therefore she must've consented. (I really hope that's been struck down.) Or like the legal conversation that comes up every now and then: if the victim asked her aggressor to use a condom, then can it be considered rape? If that's not rape, then I propose a scenario where a man is mugged, stabbed repeatedly and not wanting a withdrawn death, asks his assailant to slit his throat: he hasn't been murdered, he's committed suicide; his attacker should go free. But beyond stupid rape laws, the woman as succubus idea punishes us in other ways: well, if you wanted to make a good living, you shouldn't have had babies; if you wanted to climb the corporate ladder, you shouldn't have worn a short skirt (or worse, you should have). Or in other far less fortunate countries: well, if you wanted to learn to read, you should've been born a boy! Woman, you knew what you were in for - you created sex!

Blech!

It seems as though we're taking a step backward these days what with both anti-sexuality in many abstinence-only movements, and hyper-sexuality in pop culture. It's like those two conflicting points of view are pushing us back, making sex more male oriented and promoting succubus-driven attitudes on sex. However, I do feel, very much, like attitudes towards women, sex and our shared responsibilities have shifted a lot in this country in the last 100, 60, 40 and even 20 years. So for that, I'm tremendously grateful. And if/when Honey and I have children we will definitely instill in them shared sexual responsibility, none of this "boys will be boys" and "girls must be guarded a Swiss bank" bullshit. But I don't look forward to the uphill battle we'll face with the ghosts of that poster in our culture.

They ARE after you. HAPPY BIRTHDAY! ... and what we remember.

I found this article on MSNBC.com about a guy in Australia who was being mauled by a great white shark from the top down. The diver pried himself off enough to poke the jurassic beast in the eye, right as he was coming down for a second munch on the noggin. Kudos to the diver! He is a fracking bad motherfucker! God bless the Aussies!

I really like this picture to the left here, by the way. It's just cool. To learn more about how predatory fish want to find you at home while you're watching Wheel of Fortune or doing Sudoku and kill you and eat you with a side of dijonnaise, please click here.

Before I go any further, I also want to extend the warmest, fuzziest and most loving of greetings to VirginiaGal, on this the eve of her 30th birthday. (Since I'm pretty sure she'll read this on the 24th, maybe I should dispense with formality and just call it her birthday.)

HAPPY BIRTHDAY, VIRGINIA GAL!!

... as Honey says, being 3o is orgasmic! all. the. time. I wish you many, many arousing days from here on out! (see how she blushes!) Seriously: Blessings to you on this milestone. May you have scores more! ... and if on this day that those who love you want to celebrate you, you post about being 30 and single, and not the good fortune to have made it this far, I will go cry in my milk.

Moving on!

I grew up in west Texas. Anyone who's read more than two posts (or who reads and knows me off-line) has probably picked up on that. My experience on the East Coast has been that people tend to think Texans are illiterate morons. (Pardon the exaggeration of their perception of us. What can I say, we're prone to hyperbole.) And frankly the current dipshit in chief does everything to perpetuate and affirm that ugly stereotype. I always find it amusing that Texas gets totally dissed for anything it doesn't do in a progressive manner, when there are many other states - some not even in the South - which have their own backwardy ways, too. But that's for another post. Nonetheless there are definitely aspects to life in Texas that many of us who no longer live there - and those who still do - are either irritated by or downright pissed off about. The amount of children uninsured for one. But as I was having drinks with friends the other night - two others of whom spent their youth in Texas - I was struck by their memories of public education.

One woman grew up in and graduated high school from Amarillo. The young man lived in a suburb of Houston till he was 15. I spent my entire life pre-18 in the Panhandle then the southwest hunk of the state. Houston to Amarillo is a 12 hour drive on a good day, to where I lived it was 13 or 14 hrs. Amarillo to the desert southwest section is about 8 hours. For Sonnjea in CA or Joe in Vegas, you may know that's not a big deal, but if I have any readers on the East Coast, it indicates that people can have very different experiences all within the same geopolitical unit.

The young man from Houston said he remembered having to get permission slips/waivers signed from his parents before his school could teach him Sex Ed or evolution. My friend from Amarillo said her school would have never even broached either. But I remember the Sex Ed section of health class pretty well - it lasted at least 2 weeks - and while I don't remember a "section" or specific class lesson about evolution, I do remember in biology, we just kind of talked about it like a given. We evolved from apes; we're adapted to this or that, etc. We never had to have waivers for either concept.

I called my brother whose adolescence was split between the middle of nowhere southwest of the state and Houston. He remembers in the small town, all the 8th grade boys were coralled into the auditorium one afternoon and one of the town doctors explained sex. As for Sex Ed in Houston, he recalls a week in health class and no waivers. He remembers nothing of evolution in science class. He remembers nothing of science class. (We're more of a word family. We're happy with the Cs we worked hard for in math.) Additionally, a friend of mine from SwTX, now in Austin, recalled with me the day all the girls in HS were given a sex ed talk from a local nurse, complete with birth control options - and how we thought it grossly unjust the too-fertile boys didn't get the same treatment. Nonetheless, no waivers. But I, unlike her, have memories of people in the town we could go to for BC if we needed/wanted it. She remembers it being not available at all.

I guess I find all this curious for two reasons. Again, as much as popular as it is to lump all Texas experiences into the same basket, the communities really do vary region by region. The second reason is this: how much of memory is accurate?

Of the 5 people referenced (my brother, me, my Amarillo friend, my Houston friend and my small town friend), our time away from high school ranges from 9 to 17 years. I barely remembered anything I was taught in high school, aside from classes I liked. Most of my memories from those days are social. And, how much of our memory is affected by the image we want to retain? Does my friend want to remember no birth control options in our town? Does my other friend want to remember Amarillo as the constrictive-Bible belt city? Do I want to remember taking evolution as a given in high school Biology? I recently discovered that what I understood to be the reason I wasn't specifically taught Greek Mythology in Junior High was inaccurate. I'd picked up somewhere along the way that it was because a religious right-wing parent demanded my school stop teaching it. I learned a decade and a half later that wasn't the case. It was simply that I missed that section because in 7th grade (generally when it's taught in TX), I had moved before my prior school got to it, and after my new school had covered it.

How accurate is memory, then? Especially memory of events that really don't seem to matter that much now? High school biology class? Sex ed? I already knew what evolution was and my parents, though not as much help in the department of the mechanics of sex, were always there to talk with us about the emotional aspects. It seems memory would be far more accurate, or at least impactful, for the moments that mattered: picking a name for my baby brother, when we had to put our dog to sleep, the mean teacher who gave me detention for something that wasn't my fault.

... something I do presume, though, is that in this country that is becoming more and more politicized, waivers may be becoming the norm in many parts of the state. But I wouldn't be surprised if they're becoming the norm in many states, period.

(You all know what a period is, right? I'm presuming you took some form of Sex Ed?)

Chewy hits the mark; what Cupid Claus left me

First off, please let me direct you to Chewbacca's blog for the most hysterical response to Cheney's "hunting accident" I've seen or heard in the last 48 hours. In the meantime, I'm seriously considering joining the cult of the Wookie. Methinks the Ginormous Yorkie knows the whatfor.

I'm not a huge Valentine's day person. I like it, because I like anything in a culture that encourages candy that tastes like pepto bismol and anything that encourages chocolate. But I don't like it because I hate the month of February, for one, and having spent my adolescence as the girl who watched every other girl in school get roses from her paramour, sold by the student council, it seems like a guilt-fest "holiday". If you don't get a gifty, then you are a lonely hag; if you don't give a gifty, then you are a bitter beast. If you're not inspired to have hot sex, then you're not romantic. (Whatever! Who feels turned on in the drippy, freezing-ass, grey month of February? I like my sex on Texas Independence day, or on Cinco de Mayo, when the irises are blooming and the weather's at the cusp of exploding into heat. OR on Thanksgiving, because after you've stuffed the bird ... Well, now I'm just getting crass. I apologize to the legion children who read this.)

That said, though, I do give my honey Valentine's day cards. I do like giving cards. And this year, at Target, I came across a box of cheapo chocolates that must've beeen inspired by the card above that Lisa gave Ralphie in The Simpson's episode of long ago. I was trying to find a link to the chocolate box, but it's basically that. However, Target online apparently sells a "Strip Chocolate" game. Hmm. Sounds interesting and tasty. From my honey, this year I got a card and a small box of Lindt chocolate. I like that my man loves my humps enough to keep them real round and juicy! And this year - and he never does this - Cupid Claus left me a copy of Princess Mononoke and an anthology of short stories edited by David Sedaris! You do know the tradition, right? Leave a pair of thong undies in the living room of your house on Feb. 13 and every year, if you've archered just enough, Cupid Claus will leave you a gift, under your thong. Thank you, Cupid Claus! I'm so glad I kept up my cross-bow hunting this past year!

On another note, Honey and I concurred that we should name our first child - whenever we have it - KILAMANJARO. Imagine going through life with the name of a revered and feared mountain in Africa; the mountain that is, in fact, the centerpiece for all those inspiring shots of the Serenghetti. No matter what course that child pursues in his/her life, he/she will have the badass name to go with it. Vegan tree-dweller? Corporate Wall Street shark? UN Ambassador? Gigolo? Clergy? ESL Teacher? Ravenous Army General? The name works in all situations. The best part is the business card our child will carry in his/her adulthood, no matter what course of commerce the child chooses pursue: Kilamanjaro Malone. MOUNT THIS!

Baby "baby daddy" goes missing; big stink over a little ink.

In high school, I saw plenty of teenage girls get knocked up by their boyfriends. The inequities in social status and treatment between the teen fathers and the girls gave me a low regard of teenage boys and sex, and of course of teenage boys and pregnancy. But of course, the operative word here is "inequity."

Lisa Clark, 37, of Georgia, is about to crank out a kid she made with the 15 year old friend of her son. The two have since married, but there are apparently a lot of legal issues with that. I.e., she shouldn't have banged a minor, yadda, yadda ... so her husband is in a juvenille home and she's legally not supposed to contact him. Now teen hubby has run away. The kid's grandmother thinks Ms. Clark has helped him escape, a charge she of course denies. But I think I believe Clark. I have to say, this is one teenage father whom I totally support in his child abandonment. A 37 year old woman knows how to use birth control. Besides. He's not even legal working age, yet. She'll have to support both of them and their baby. Why not just cover the baby and let this manipulated kid start over?

... in the meantime, I'm not sure what to make over the whole Muslim anger at the cartoon issue. I know that it is against Islam to show depictions of Allah and the Prophet, so I can understand that offense, if I cannot empathize with it. Frankly, I'm more disconcerted about the depiction of Muhammad with the bomb-turban. That just seems to be asking for trouble and offensive even to me. But I'm just confounded by the "Muslim worldd" reaction.

I totally agree that the cartoons were in poor taste, if for no other reason that the depictions were anti-Islamic. But then again, art and satire are made all the blasted time that either mock Christ, Christianity, or highly regarded Christian icons (some so highly regarded by some that they would argue for the same sacredness as the Muslim regard for images of Allah and Muhammad), as well I'm sure as other world religions; I just happen to live in a country where Christianity is the most spoofed, for good or ill. As for widely argued mockery, Piss Christ and that piece in NYC with a madonna made of elephant dung come to mind immediately. And for as hypersensitive as the "Concerned" Women of America and the 700 Club style minions are, I have yet to see them mask their faces, grab automatic weapons and storm a museum to take patrons hostage for defiling the sanctity of Christianity. What? Some bigotted Dane depicted Muhammad? I know! Let's take a German hostage for a couple of hours to make a point! Yeah! Islam is peace, you Eurotrash infidels! And because you don't believe Islam is the peace of God, I will hurt you!

And then there's the whole idea that Denmark and much of Europe is somehow more tolerant than the US. For as troubled as I am for the state of our country under the current reactionary, sour presidency (that masks greed as compassion in the name of God , no less; talk about infidel) I at least am happy that we still cherish religious freedom enough here to let people wear what they want to wear and to do at least do our best to accomodate them. Frankly, I am concerned about how a fully ubayaed woman in the airport might get through security without showing her whole face and a pat down; it makes me nervous, I won't lie. But I am so glad for organizations like the ACLU who'll at least challenge rules and impositions so that she may express her religious faith as she sees fit. France on the other hand is so afraid of anything other than a diluted "only do it until your grandmother dies, so she'll stop bugging you" version of faith, that they outlaw headscarves in schools. Quick! Make that 13 year old girl show her hair, fast! Liberte, Egalite and especially fraternite (if you know what I mean - wink, nudge) demand it! No wonder Muslims there feel disenfranchised!

Earlier this week, on NPR, I learned that the Netherlands (or was it Denmark?) is considering completely outlawing the burkah. And they think it will pass legislation! Here's the kicker, among the Muslim community in the Netherland, only some ridiculously low number, like 50, nationwide, actually wear a full burkah. "It oppresses women," is the rationale. Really? I personally agree in philosophy that disallowing a woman to show her face in public is sincerely oppressive, but forcing a stranger not to wear a masking garment in public because you disagree with it morally, is just as oppressive as forcing someone to wear something so obscuring in public because of a moral basis. Just like I wouldn't want to wear an ubaya if I visited Saudi Arabia, neither would I want to stop a Saudi woman from wearing one here. The rub though is that in Saudi, you may not express any religious views other than those imposed on you. In Europe, it's supposedly the opposite. I thought Europe was over sumptuary laws. I guess I was wrong.

If the riots in France last fall taught us anything, it's that the US isn't the only country that has problems communicating across a cultural divide. It shows that just because you make a good decision about one war doesn't mean you're somehow more sympathetic to the Muslim minority within your own borders.

Getting back to the original cartoon conundrum, I think my take on it is this. Everyone needs to take a step back and re-evaluate everything. And the chill way the hell out.

Europe: Do not be so frackin' naive as to think publishing these cartoons wouldn't have some major fall out. The rest of the world is not nearly as agnostic as you are and so will take offense at some satires, that's just how it goes. And, if you're going to spoof a religion that outlaws depictions of God and his prophet, and whose most revered clergy issue fatwahs daily about every little criticism of the religion, expect a fully hostile fall out. In fact, expect gunfire in the street and chants for your death. Expect hostage-taking. Because that seems to be the party standard in a lot of these places.

Islamic Fundamentalists: Get over it. Those European editors come from a different tradition than you do and don't have the empathy for anti-icon philosoph that you do. They just don't get it. And it is totally not worth creating a jihad over. Wanna really be effective with the west? Pressure your governments to ISSUE AN OIL EMBARGO! Are your local leaders making your lives any happier than western imperialism? Plus, I have a distinct feeling that for every one of you guys in front of an EU embassy shooting off his gun and for every one of you calling for a hostile reaction in the mosques, there are at least a thousand who are appropriately offended (or not at all) and just want to go to work and feed their kids without having to worry that an errant bullet from some pissed off protestor is going to fall on their head and leave their wife and kids without a breadwinner. It is so not worth all the flag burning and infidel cursing.

Though I must say, it is kind of refreshing to read that they are now chanting, "Death to Denmark" in the streets. It's like Europe is finally getting invited into the hatefest that was solely our party for two decades!