Cowboy Confessional

Anyone retaining respect for the United Nations will jettison their misguided sentiments next year.

But there is an option.

Come spring when even atheists catch a glimmer of God in the annual renewal of life, the U.N. will host an anti-racism conference. Like most Orwellian institutions, the name given saints disguises the monster beneath.

The head of the monster de jure is the chairman of the committee who hails from Libya. Unknown for its adherence to civil or human rights, yet well known for explicit links to bombing jumbo jets and an aggressive WMD program, suspicion of Libyan racial intolerance is understandable.

Since criminals are pack animals, hand-selected “friends of the chair” will include Iran and other ideological backwaters. The explicit aim of the conference leadership appears to again claim that Zionism is a form a racism and thus the only way to counter such is to be even more racist (repeat until dizzy and you will have as good of a grasp of mid-East politics as anyone). A European Union proposal to discuss “freedom of expression” as part of the conference was denied as being “political in nature.”

Odd. The U.N. is a political machine but with less class, honor and ability than all the others. Why not discuss political matters?

The anti-racism conference is an offshoot of the U.N.’s Human Rights Council which has little to do with rights and appears to be opposed to humans. An idealist recently proposed that the Council oppose female genital mutilation, a procedure performed in barbarous localities and whereby many enjoyable pieces of the feminine reproductive system (clitoris, labia) are removed with little warning and no anesthetic.

Egypt’s response was “We will not discuss issues related to Shariah law.”

The U.N. is hopelessly soiled. Since U.N. membership is open to all nations — regardless of what band of baboons run these countries — co-opting the organization to spread human abuse is a natural direction for the U.N. to go. Like welfare offices everywhere, the U.N. cannot discriminate between good and bad actors and in short order the evil, corrupt and lazy run the show.

Hence the un-UN (also warmly referred to as the Alternate U.N. or Liberty league). The proposal calls for free nations to form a new confederation with higher admission prices to keep out the riffraff. The gauntlet might include a list of civil and human rights and a track record of adherence (which means my friends in the U.K. and Mexico might have a tough time getting in given their bans on self defense tools).

This alternate United Nations would receive most of the cash currently dumped into United Nations Plaza. The lucre would be used to actively export freedom and counter balance anti-human initiative, instead of extravagant life styles for third world diplomats. It would also provide free nations a perpetual planning forum for promoting freedom universally.

And the weakened United Nations would remain as a year-round debating society and a good place to keep careful watch on the likes of Lybia and their pals.

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Dykes on bikes need to put their shirts back on.

The lead entry in every year’s San Francisco Pride Parade are the dykes — motorcycle riding lesbians, anyone of whom is more of a man than most men I know. A number of the DoBs ride topless. Now I’m not objecting to bare boobs — I’ve always liked those. I’m not offended by the fact that some of the shirtless DoBs have the type of physiques that should remain covered. Nor am I worried about the mammary road rash they might suffer if they had to lay down one of their hogs.

However, riding topless in the freezing June San Francisco weather will make a women’s nipples protrude further than a pair of #2 pencils, and could poke some-body’s eye out. See, it is a public safety issue.

Today was San Francisco’s 38th Pride Parade and clothing optional sexual expression fete with occasional fetishes fostered. Footage from past parades have been broadcast across the country, scaring millions of middle Americans out of their television comas. Nothing like footage of a young, buff and all-but-naked Latino thrusting his sequined g-string into your face to make a Kansas farmer believe the Apocalypse has arrived.

The changing name of the parade says something about the oddity that is an open-air asylum called San Francisco. Back in the 1970’s, the parade was the domain of homosexual males who came out of their closets and immediately filled those closets with evening gowns. In those comparatively quaint times, the parade was called “Gay Freedom Day” and later “Gay Pride Parade”. It was all about being male, gay, unashamed and undressed in public. In San Francisco, ass-less chaps count as “reasonably covered”.

This simply would not do! If San Franciscans believe in nothing else, they believe in tolerant inclusion of all peoples, lifestyles and beliefs … except for conservatives and Republicans who are lynched on sight. A parade devoted to only gay men was completely unacceptable said the gay women of the town. Lesbians insisted on being allowed in the parade, and given that they were bigger, stronger, and a damn sight meaner than the average effete fairy, the gays instantly acquiesced.

Propensity for rapid surrender is why generals don’t want gay men in the military.

So “Gay Pride” became “Gay and Lesbian Pride”. A couple of syllables longer, but you could still fit it on a bumper sticker, which the parade organizers did. These bumper stickers attracted the attention of the transgenders. With great pride they demand their inclusion rights as well, threatening to throw a collective hissy fit until men in dresses, women in work boots, various hermaphrodites and people part-way through surgical conversions were allowed in the parade.

I’ll admit, it is a little disconcerting when for the first time you see a person with bulging boobs and a bulge in their boxers.

Now the event was called the “Gay, Lesbian and Transgender Pride Parade”. Bumper stickers were out. Even the parade billboards were getting a little wordy. Television reporters could not recite the sexual orientation roll call with flubbing a line or laughing out loud. Undeterred, the parade continued each year despite it taking longer to say the name of the parade than the parade itself lasted. Say it loud, say it proud, we are out of time!

All the shouting from the accumulated boinking branches got the bisexuals to look up from whomever they were doing and ask why they were not in the parade.

(Just a brief aside: Not much in this world scares me, but the bisexuals do. I’m one of the most lustful libertines I know. Despite having a sex drive that would make a migrating salmon blush, I’m content having half of the human race as possible bed mates. The bis are not, which means they are actually hornier than I am, wanting to bang everyone they meet. This is truly frightening.)

Since the parade had already become a sexual orientation lexicon, adding yet another group was the simple part. Fitting them onto the marquee was something else. The common abbreviation for the “everything except heterosexuals” community — LGBT — cannot be pronounced in any known human language, and thus lacks marketing appeal. In an inspired move the parade committee abandoned cramming the entire carnal catalog into the press releases, and called it “Pride Parade”. Simple and not straight.

The event has been a “must see” for San Francisco Bay Area citizens and startled visitors. To say that some of pride parade’s participant are “colorful” is akin to saying thermonuclear warfare is noisy. Like legions of oppressed people before them, liberated gays allowed their emotional pendulum to swing far to the other extreme. They didn’t leave their closets, they exploded from them as if their leather harnesses had grown teeth and were chasing them out. The parade was a moment every year where gays were surrounded by people more or less like themselves and in a city where eccentric behavior is mandatory. Thus nothing, including clothing or discretion was necessary. “Pride” gave way to public predilection replete with feathered boas, burly boys in leather, and a growing mob of spectators encouraging ever more flamboyant behavior.

Shame really that the Pride Parade has peaked and is now heading downhill. Gayness now suffers from mainstreaming.

This year’s parade bordered on boring. Most of the parade’s color has been licked off thanks to mass acceptance. When the populace at large accepts you, there is little use in jumping about naked and demanding to be recognized. Gay marriage finally became legal in California, driving the first of the nail into Pride’s coffin. The parade route was littered with the newly wed and the children they had been creating all along. Raunchy and raucous has given way to matrimony and diaper changes. Pride has gone parental. If you never had a chance to see San Francisco at its most flaming flamboyant, well you’re too late. Those days are in decline.

Gay marriage has produced a new class of humor however. A large number of couples walked down the street carrying signs that read something like “Together 12 years, married for nine days.” My thought was “There you go ruining a perfectly good relationship by getting married.”

But my favorite were a lesbian couple who had not yet tied the knot (no, not in their bondage-and-discipline gear … the marital knot). They shyly carried a home-made sign reading “We’re here, we’re queer, and we’re registered at Macy’s!”

click here for more entertaining photography from Pride’08

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The United States Supreme Court has ruled that executing a man who rapes a child is unconstitutional. They believe that the “cruel and unusual” clause of the Constitution forbids such penalties because in relationship to the crime, the punishment would be disproportionate.

I agree that the punishment is disproportionate. Death is too lenient. Drawn and quartered comes closer to parity.

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I love America. For whatever faults this nation has — real or imagined — we strive for freedom, the most precious element of human nature. We celebrate our freedoms every 4th of July, and honor the many men who died for our freedoms.

Including the freedom to bear one’s boobs during a 4th of July parade.

Eschewing such meager liberties as the right to bear arms, Jen Moss is fighting for the right to bare bazooms. Jen resides in Ashland, Oregon, a place with a dress code so lose that masking mammaries is not mandated (note to self — investigate relocating to Ashland). Jen frequently peddles her funbags about town wearing only a G-string and a smile.

Being an all American girl, Jen wants to participate in Ashland’s annual 4th of July parade wearing her normal attire, which is to say nearly nothing. However the parade planners are fighting for some fanciful reason. Seems the 4th of July parade is considered a “family event” and the town’s toddies don’t want impressionable children to see sacks like the ones they suckled mere years before, or that they saw Jen peddling past last week.

“She’s welcome on any other day of the year to do that,” said the anal retentive parade chairman. “But not on the Fourth of July while in the parade.”

Here is the interesting aside. She can be bared from the parade because that is orchestrated by a private organization, and as such they can be as prudish as their puritan peccadilloes allow. Jen’s not allowed to march down the street bare breasted in their parade.

But she can be nearly naked on the sidelines watching the parade.

Such is the nature of law in a libertarian society. What a private person or organization does is their business, and what a naked woman does in public is hers. They just have to ignore one another as best as they can.

Something tells me Jen will not be ignored.

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I’m optimistic for Romania.

As they emerge from their past association with the Soviets, the Romanians are experimenting with democracy, which in modern times is a bit of an experiment in and of itself. Unhindered by convention, Romanians test various aspects of politics and government that have escaped notice in the U.S., U.K. and other areas of political calcification. Our friends in Romania have stumbled upon a solution to a persistent problem with democracy, which is how to trust the people you elect to office.

They are now electing dead people.

Neculai Ivascu had the good grace to die the moment voting began, which saved the people of his village the eventual necessity of killing him. Rigamortis is no barrier to running, and he beat his opponent who suffers from being alive. Ivascu’s expiration was a campaign promise that the people knew he would keep, and so them elected him.

This was no fluke. People of his village knew that Neculai was necrotic. After all, how long does it take for such news to reach all corners of a Romanian village? A Neculai voter said “I know he died, but I don’t want change.”

Here in America we have the opposite problem. Our dead people vote, most often for Democrats. Since even the Democrats have not figured out how to tax the dead, deceased voters have fewer fears in electing Dems, and perhaps they have faint hope that the socialized medicine promised by Obama will eventually provide resurrection benefits.

Where the Romanians have gone horribly right is that they now have history’s first honest elected official. Neculai Ivascu is a man who can be trusted to keep his word for he is no longer speaking. He can be trusted to do nothing aside from decompose.

We should hope for the same from our elected officials.

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