Clayton Diggs

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Month: June, 2012

Ray Bradbury Dead at 91, Martians, and Sci-fi Man-juice

(Editor’s warning: clicking on links might lead you to some insanely funny shit. Or just to some informative shit.  Depends on the link)

You ever just sit around and think about Ray Bradbury? I did, yesterday when I heard that that great American writer had made his final journey to the Martian landscape that lies beyond the great beyond. No, that’s,not quite it… He got cornered by imaginary lions in a virtual reality who tore him into worm food…No, still not right…He morphed into a heap of books, heated to Fahrenheit 451, turned to ash, and blew into little bits of cosmic dust to then descend on some Red Planet at the edge of the Universe. Yeah, that’s a little more like it. Hot damn! I’m sorry. I’m not. I really am!

I am sorry that we’ll no longer share airspace with a guy who, to my mind, was one of the most original and gorgeous voices in our American literary canon.

Old Ray was born in Waukegan, Illinois, in 1920. He grew up during that tonic for the restless imagination, the Great Depression, a time when the future seemed not only bleak and depressing as shit but, well – unimaginable. But imagine it Ray did, and with a visionary zeal that always took our collective breath away. The boy was good! Was he actually a Martian? We’ll never know.

But we do know that his stories sprang from the deep and potent well of his childhood fears. In an interview on Fresh Air he once said: “As soon as I looked up, there it was, and it was horrible,” Bradbury remembers. “And I would scream and fall back down the stairs, and my mother and father would get up and sigh and say, ‘Oh, my gosh, here we go again.’ ”

Childhood was indeed an important time for the budding author. Ray read and read and read everything he could get his grubby little alien hands on. He dug on Jules Verne and H.G. Wells and dreamed of outdoing them, and so, between frenzied bouts of cranking out adolescent sci-fi man-juice (to pics of big-boobied Martian chicks no doubt), he also managed to crank out a short story a week. Lesson: the only way to (re)produce is through consistency!

Great American sci-fi writer Ray Bradbury dead at 91

When the Bradbury fam up and moved to SoCal, little Ray took to hiding out in the dank, scary basement of the UCLA library, where, for 10 cents a half-hour, he could rent a typewriter. Said Ray years later: “I thought, my gosh, this is terrific! I can be here for a couple hours a day. It’ll cost me 30, 40 cents, and I can get my work done. Also, it’s awesome to spew sci-fi man-juice in a public venue. Much more exciting than at home.”

Ray hit it big with his 1950 collection, The Martian Chronicles. Then, while that fat old cow masturbator, Joe McCarthy, was looking to anally violate anyone evenly remotely aligned with anything Red, planet or otherwise, Ray did a right ballsy thing — he shot a FUCK YOU ray-gun at censorship in general with his best known work, Fahrenheit 451, and did so in a FUCK YOU kind of way, having the story that would become his signature novel first printed in Playboy.

Have you read that fine, fine book? If not, put down whatever you’re doing, go out and get a copy, and sit the hell down. It’s about a future society in which McCarthy-like fat old cow masturbators have firefighters burn books for the purpose of keeping folks dull and ignorant. There’s never been a revolution without there first being a revolution of ideas, goes the theory. In practice, the only trouble comes when the firefighters become curious about what exactly it is they’re being made to burn. Then all hell breaks loose! Shit fire! Hot damn! Great book.

People the world over and even those in outer space loved old Ray. The crew of Apollo 15 so totally dug Bradbury’s novel Dandelion Wine that they named a lunar crater after the it. Astronaut Buzz Aldrin, the second guy on the moon, and the man forever-and-a-day frustrated by the fact that he scores way less poon than Neil Armstrong, had this say: “Ray Bradbury is one who is contributing to the understanding of the imagination and the curiosity of the human race.” Hey, it would have been better if pussy-champ Neil Armstrong had said it, but novelists can’t be choosers, right?

Amazingly, despite his visions of the future, Ray never got into using computers. He even once told The New York Times that the Internet was pointless. Well, buddy, on that point at least, we’ve gotta say: FAIL!

It’s okay – nobody’s perfect!

Old Ray finally settled down to family life right here on Earth in 1947, when he married a gal named Maggie, and the happy couple had four little Martian girls. Ray suffered a stroke at age 80 and, sadly, couldn’t write anymore. He did, however, keep having his strange visions of things to come. He felt sure we’d be landing on Mars right soon and asked that his ashes be buried on that vast and vacant red planet.

We’ll sure miss you, old buddy, old Ray, venerable imaginer of humanity’s many possible destinies. We’ll sure miss you. I raise my cup of Dandelion Wine to you, Sir. I truly do.

Get Ray’s Ashes to Mars: A Fund

  • If you’d like to help Ray complete his dying wish, shoot me an email: me (at) claytondiggs (dot) com.
  • It’s gonna take a lot of dollar bills to make it happen, but if Ray taught us anything, it’s that every dream has got to start somewhere.

“I’m so fucking cool. How big will penises be in the future? THIIIIS BIIIIG!”

Jason Alexander, the Late Late Show, and Gay Apologies

(Editor’s note: Links may lead to some insanely funny shit, or just to some informative shit. Depends on the link.)

(Second Editor’s note: Jason Alexander’s real apology, fully un-edited, appears at the bottom of this article.  Please be sure to read it.  This article is intended as satire, and is not to be taken even remotely seriously by anyone, straight, gay, or otherwise.)

You ever just sit around and think about the sport of cricket? Seinfeld alum Jason Alexander did recently when he was on The Late Late Show with Craig Ferguson and here’s what went down:

Fergie: “Have you ever played cricket?  Cricket’s an amazing game.”

Jay-jay: “It’s a gay game. There’s a lot of people wearing white. People wearing helmets for no discernible reason…Everybody breaks for tea in the middle.”

Fergie:”Yeah, it’s a cross between baseball and Downton Abbey.”

Jay-Jay: “It’s the pitch. It’s the weirdest … . It’s not like a manly baseball pitch. It’s a queer, British gay pitch.”

Fergie: “Um.” (looking off camera at producer having a shit fit) “Eh, Jason, I’m not…”

Jay-Jay: “It’s the kind of pitch that almost always ends in weird gay anal exploration.”

Fergie: “Um.”

Jay-jay: “It’s the kind of pitch the guys in Brokeback Mountain would throw between queer make-out sessions and anal bead extraction.”

Fergie: “Uh, Jason, that’s not exactly accurate…”

Jay-jay: “You’re right, Fergie. Did I say Brokeback Mountain? I meant Broke-Ass Mountain! You know what I mean?  Yeah?” (extending hand for high five)

Did you guys not see this shit? The best part was where Jason Alexander stood up to demo the gay pitch, doing something that looked like a combo-tryout for the Martha Graham Dance Company and the Gay Men’s Chorus of New York. Hot damn! Gayness unleashed! Queer company! Hot damn!

The best was yet to come, though. The backlash to Jason’s gay comments, coming from GLAAD and other quarters, soon had him with his Shallow Hal vestigial tail tucked firmly between his short, chubby little legs. Here’s an excerpt from the apology he issued yesterday:

“I truly did not understand why a gay person would be particularly offended by this routine. I love queers. I have many queer, Broke-Ass Mountain friends who I love dearly, though not like that. Well, okay, just that once, but I was in college and that joint was spiked with meth.”

Jason Alexander apologizes for gay cricket

Seems he was troubled enough by the backlash to chat up some of his gay friends over Appletinis. He then realized why his comments had been so totally uncool and gay:

“At first, even [my gay friends] couldn’t quite find the offense in the bit. But as we explored it, we began to realize what was implied under the humor. I was basing my use of the word “gay” on the silly generalization that real men don’t do gentile, refined things and that my portrayal of the cricket pitch was pointedly effeminate, thereby suggesting that effeminate and gay were synonymous. I don’t believe this at all. Gay, especially when it’s named Kramer, or clad in leather, or accompanied by a riding crop, or as experienced anally by an aging, short actor, can be a truly manly and beautiful thing.

“It is not that we can’t laugh at and with each other. It is not a question of oversensitivity. The problem is that today, as I write this, young men and women whose behaviors, choices or attitudes are not deemed “man enough” or “normal” are being subjected to all kinds of abuse from verbal to physical to societal. They are being demeaned and threatened because they don’t fit the group’s idea of what a “real man” or a “real woman” are supposed to look like, act like and feel like. And that’s crap. Anal sex in general and girl-on-girl action in particular totally rock. I personally have an office equipped with stacks of tissue boxes and hand lotion that, over the weekend, has helped me get further in touch with this issue. I’ve taken, you could say, a very hands-on approach.

“For [gay] people, my building a joke upon the premise I did added to the pejorative stereotype that they are forced to deal with every day. It is at the very heart of this whole ugly world of bullying that has been getting rightful and overdue attention in the media. And with my well-intentioned comedy bit, I played right into those hurtful assumptions and diminishments. I would much rather play right into a nice, warm, lubricated asshole of manly affection and forgiveness.

“…I would like to say — I now get it. And to the extent that these jokes made anyone feel even more isolated or misunderstood or just plain hurt — please know that was not my intention, at all or ever. My intention was to gently caress the anal pleasure of brotherly understanding. Please forgive me. Please also stop writing my phone number in the bathroom stalls of gay nightclubs. Please. I can’t walk straight. I’m serious. My proctologist says it could actually kill me.”

What do you reckon? Think he’s sorry? To me it sounded like a pretty sincere apology, but word around the Boy Scouts of America campfire is that Jason’s got more planned by way of sorry. It’s rumored he might well go back on Craig Ferguson in a pink tutu, accompanied by Tom Cruise. Now that would be gay! Hot damn! I’m sorry! No I’m not. Hot damn!

(P.S. Tom Cruise: Please don’t kill me. I have a child. Pretty gay please?)

“The anus then distends, like so, in a very gay fashion.”

Jason Alexander’s full apology, uncut:

Last week, I made an appearance on the Craig Ferguson show – a wonderfully unstructured, truly spontaneous conversation show. No matter what anecdotes I think will be discussed, I have yet to find that Craig and I ever touch those subjects. Rather we head off onto one unplanned, loony topic after another. It’s great fun trying to keep up with him and I enjoy Craig immensely.

During the last appearance, we somehow wandered onto the topic of offbeat sports and he suddenly mentioned something about soccer and cricket. Now, I am not a stand-up comic. Stand up comics have volumes of time-tested material for every and all occasions. I, unfortunately, do not. However, I’ve done a far amount of public speaking and emceeing over the years so I do have a scattered bit, here and there.

Years ago, I was hosting comics in a touring show in Australia and one of the bits I did was talking about their sports versus American sports. I joked about how their rugby football made our football pale by comparison because it is a brutal, no holds barred sport played virtually without any pads, helmets or protection. And then I followed that with a bit about how, by comparison, their other big sport of cricket seemed so delicate and I used the phrase, “ a bit gay”. Well, it was all a laugh in Australia where it was seen as a joke about how little I understood cricket, which in fact is a very, very athletic sport. The routine was received well but, seeing as their isn’t much talk of cricket here in America, it hasn’t come up in years.

Until last week. When Craig mentioned cricket I thought, “oh, goody – I have a comic bit about cricket I can do. Won’t that be entertaining?”. And so I did a chunk of this old routine and again referred to cricket as kind of “gay” – talking about the all white uniforms that never seem to get soiled; the break they take for tea time with a formal tea cart rolled onto the field, etc. I also did an exaggerated demonstration of the rather unusual way they pitch the cricket ball which is very dance-like with a rather unusual and exaggerated arm gesture. Again, the routine seemed to play very well and I thought it had been a good appearance.

Shortly after that however, a few of my Twitter followers made me aware that they were both gay and offended by the joke. And truthfully, I could not understand why. I do know that humor always points to the peccadillos or absurdities or glaring generalities of some kind of group or another – short, fat, bald, blonde, ethnic, smart, dumb, rich, poor, etc. It is hard to tell any kind of joke that couldn’t be seen as offensive to someone. But I truly did not understand why a gay person would be particularly offended by this routine.

However, troubled by the reaction of some, I asked a few of my gay friends about it. And at first, even they couldn’t quite find the offense in the bit. But as we explored it, we began to realize what was implied under the humor. I was basing my use of the word “gay” on the silly generalization that real men don’t do gentile, refined things and that my portrayal of the cricket pitch was pointedly effeminate , thereby suggesting that effeminate and gay were synonymous.

But what we really got down to is quite serious. It is not that we can’t laugh at and with each other. It is not a question of oversensitivity. The problem is that today, as I write this, young men and women whose behaviors, choices or attitudes are not deemed “man enough” or “normal” are being subjected to all kinds of abuse from verbal to physical to societal. They are being demeaned and threatened because they don’t fit the group’s idea of what a “real man” or a “real woman” are supposed to look like, act like and feel like.

For these people, my building a joke upon the premise I did added to the pejorative stereotype that they are forced to deal with everyday. It is at the very heart of this whole ugly world of bullying that has been getting rightful and overdue attention in the media. And with my well-intentioned comedy bit, I played right into those hurtful assumptions and diminishments.

And the worst part is – I should know better. My daily life is filled with gay men and women, both socially and professionally. I am profoundly aware of the challenges these friends of mine face and I have openly advocated on their behalf. Plus, in my own small way, I have lived some of their experience. Growing up in the ‘70’s in a town that revered it’s school sports and athletes, I was quite the outsider listening to my musical theater albums, studying voice and dance and spending all my free time on the stage. Many of the same taunts and jeers and attitudes leveled at young gay men and women were thrown at me and on occasion I too was met with violence or the threat of violence.

So one might think that all these years later I might be able to intuit that my little cricket routine could make some person who has already been made to feel alien and outcast feel even worse or add to the conditions that create their alienation. But in this instance, I did not make the connection. I didn’t get it.

So, I would like to say – I now get it. And to the extent that these jokes made anyone feel even more isolated or misunderstood or just plain hurt – please know that was not my intention, at all or ever. I hope we will someday live in a society where we are so accepting of each other that we can all laugh at jokes like these and know that there is no malice or diminishment intended.

But we are not there yet.

So, I can only apologize and I do. In comedy, timing is everything. And when a group of people are still fighting so hard for understanding, acceptance, dignity and essential rights – the time for some kinds of laughs has not yet come. I hope my realization brings some comfort.

Thanks,

Jason

Chinese Police Beat Activists to Celebrate Tiananmen Square Massacre

(Editor’s warning: Clicking on links is likely to lead you to some insanely disturbing shit)

On Sunday, June 3rd, Police in China beat the damn hell out of a group of peaceful demonstrators to celebrate the glorious and wildly misunderstood Tiananmen Square bloodbath.

The demonstrators, you see, were marking the 23rd anniversary of the Tiananmen Square massacre. The massacre took place back in 1989  when Chinese Government People’s Liberation soldiers stormed the square and opened fire on demonstrators, including unarmed Chinese men, women, and kids, killing and maiming thousands of them. The bodies of the innocent hit the ground like a gentle rain in spring. A good time was had by almost everyone but especially by the police.

Said small-dicked Police Chief Hung Not-well: “It was so much fun killing everyone in 1989 that we just thought we should do it again.” Then, reconsidering, Not-well qualified, “Yeah, we haven’t killed anyone this time, just beat them stupid and bloody and threatened to kill them. But hey, the day is young!  I just I love the smell of human rights violations in the morning.  It smells like feces.”

I love the smell of human rights violations in the morning.  It smells like feces.

The June 3rd peaceful demonstrators voiced similar feelings of joy, exultation, and national pride. Said an adorable Chinese child with a broken arm and bloodied face: “I was too young for the original massacre, so it’s awesome to be able to be beaten almost to death and really feel like I’m a part of something. I’m only disappointed that the pigs didn’t open fire on us like my dad said they might. I was really hoping they would spray my guts all over the square like in 1989.”

The child’s father, a short man with a broken nose and smashed teeth, agreed: “Nothing is more festive than seeing the  blood and guts of innocent children. After all, the Chinese flag is red, you know? And if you take into account the fear-induced urine that mingles with the blood, you get the whole package. It is truly glorious and inspiring.”

Chief Hung Too-small-to-see-with-the-naked-fucking-eye chimed in by sliding the bolt on his assault rifle, saying: “Let’s really get this party started!”

We can only hope that next year’s Tiananmen anniversary measures up to this year’s. You really have to give it to dickless, fuckbag Chinese Supreme Leader Hu Jintao: that worthless piece of muskrat shit really knows how to throw a party. We here in the good ol’ US of A have got a thing or two to learn about how to dance the funky chicken but good.  Hot damn!

“I am Supreme Leader of China, Hu Jintao. I am a child-rapist.”

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