Ever have one of those days where you’re all, I GAVE Peace a chance and ten years later we’re still in Afghanistan? No? Just me then?
Happy May Day, workers of the world! Enjoy your paid day off, no doubt spent among your fellow labourers, reveling in your special day. Did the head of the local Chamber of Commerce bring you breakfast in bed, or is that just here in Canuckistan? Did you remember to swing by the town square for the big Kick A Newly Homeless Wall Streeter party and bbq? And pick up your share of TARP dollars (application form here)? Remember, today only that cardboard box or ’78 Dodge van you’ve been living in may be redeemed for a 1 bedroom plus den Yaletown condo. Also today only, Urban Fare accepts those food cheques that The Ministry issues, as do C, the chocolate buffet at the Sutton Place Hotel, and Tojo’s sushi.
Fucking Capitalism: how does it work? Here’s a handy-dandy diagram that clears it all up.
This would make an AWESOME tapestry, dude.
UPDATE: Facebook has taken down the Page of Draw Mohammed Day; apparently the Farmville revenue from Pakistan was worth more than their reputation as a platform for nonviolent groups to communicate. Who knew? (we all did, deep down). I’ll give five juicy Canadian dollars to the first person to do an image of Mark Zuckerberg as the Prophet Mohammed. I mean, it makes sense, right? It explains collusion, right?
UPDATE UPDATED: The WordPress.Com blog is still up, and holds nothing sacred (most particularly not the English language, but you don’t see Shakespeare telling Hamlet to off them, now do ya?
Update UPDATE UPDATED: I grabbed a cached version of the FB page, but it’s gibbled a bit gibbled to the point I had to delete it, sorry.
And here is an archive of images of Mohammed through history, including Islamic images of him. Is it like the Catholics and celibacy? Sometimes it’s in, sometimes the Pope has grandkids?
Yes, today is the day we stand in solidarity with terrified Danish ink addicts everywhere and scrawl out our best portraits of the Prophet Mohammed, a day born of controversy, of conflict, of (apparent) confusion. I mean…
Nihad Awad says “freedom of expression does not create an obligation to offend or to show disrespect to the religious beliefs or revered figures of others.”That is quite literally correct; it is important to note that freedom of expression does not create obligations: it creates freedoms.
Here I am exercising mine at Bunk’s invitation by posting this fine image by AdamCrazyPants (I hope I haven’t just sentenced him to death!) of a modern Mohammed, kickin’ it old skool, laying down the radical Islam. Paging Ali Eteraz…
and, last but not least, this. Because it needs to be said as often as possible to those who would interfere with our fundamental freedoms.
there’s irony in those lyrics, if the fascists of one kind or another haven’t killed it off too
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- Draw Mohammed Day (seantheblogonaut.com)
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- Seattleite’s ‘Draw Mohammed’ cartoon draws heat (seattletimes.nwsource.com)
- Hani Almadhoun: Why Did the Cartoonist Cross the Road? (huffingtonpost.com)
- Another Cartoon Attack (andrewsullivan.theatlantic.com)
- Mohammed cartoonist’s home attacked with firebomb (telegraph.co.uk)
- Video: Muhammad cartoonist attacked (trueslant.com)
Blah, blah, blah. Oh, they’re all “reach out and touch someone” right up till you try to put a personal spin on it, like in my headline, and then it’s “oh, somebody needs a little time-out!”
Yes, she does. And she would like to take it at a hotel on Mustique, thankyouverymuch. You know where the Paypal button is.
In related news, apparently I function as a human voodoo doll, and the doctors at Mount St. Joseph’s are actually using me to get back at award-winning actress and international star Marion Cotillard. Behold:
This is what they did to me:
So, that’s about four inches long and three across at the widest part, and a week later it looks much the same. Those dots you see aren’t pores: they’re where the freezing went in. Over and over and over. And yes, it still hurt.
and this is what happened at the same time, somewhere in France; coincidence? Hardly likely!
While being awarded the Order Of Arts And Letters in Paris today, the French Minister pricked Marion in the chichi and pretty much made her nipple bawl blood tears.
The poor woman has tried to protect herself the only way she knows how: by getting in some spares.
I shoulda thought of that myself.
I wonder what she did to piss off the boob docs? Other than stick with her original, home-grown set. I mean, she’ll never get anywhere in Hollywood with those measly flesh pimples!
In any case, and only tangentially related to the above, I’d like to bitch about my new doctor for a second. God knows what happened to the old one; perhaps he was shanghai’d by the Meerkat Army in an attempt to learn the secrets of Operation Global Media Domination (what, whaaaaaat? I’m perfectly sober! Why are you looking at me like that?). That would explain why the hematologist who was on the case the year I had to take off work to battle Hodgkin’s Disease is also missing. Perhaps they ran away together? Won’t their wives be surprised!
So both the doctor I’ve been going to since shortly after puberty and the doctor who treated my cancer have vanished in the last year. And my new doctor is a lovely, lovely person with execrable taste in office decoration (think Dolores Umbrage by way of Olde Russia) but, apparently, absolutely no juice in the medical community.
Socialized medicine works like this, in case you didn’t know (this is where the “social” part comes from, not really the payment system, no matter what they tell you): your doctor needs to refer you to a specialist, so s/he calls up the ones s/he knows socially or who owe him/her favours and s/he gets you in fast if, in his/her opinion what you have needs quick action. And what I may have includes The Big C, and I am something like three years overdue for my checkup.
And I have been waiting since October for a referral to a hematologist, which is entirely too long. When I needed a biopsy the first time, it was a week’s wait and then the head of St. Paul’s thoracic surgery performed it (leaving, may I say, the faintest scar the universe has ever seen; the man is a genius with a scalpel). I mean, I know it takes time to get an appointment with a specialist, but they haven’t even booked the appointment, which is typically six months out from the time of bookage. I’m about ready to take up a station outside the Burrard Medical Building and ambush the next person I see coming out of there wearing expensive shoes, just on the off-chance they’re a specialist.
Oh, and the clinic that set up my tests of last week promised to get the Cancer Agency to set up another biopsy, and it’s been a week and I’ve heard nothing. I mean, it’s not like their calendars only go two weeks ahead. Time to give them a ringy-dingy, methinks, before I have to stalk the Cancer Agency too, and who has time for that?
I mean, my time is valuable. More valuable to me than theirs is, quite frankly.
Banksy may or may not be a man; he may or may not be a collective; but he definitely IS my dream man (when you’re a communist, it doesn’t count as an orgy, it counts as “sharing”). Hey, it’s my dream, I can have what I want in it.
Not only did he give me my best-performing post ever, but he also just unveiled this:
Yes, he put the “MPs” into “Chimps.” But without Boris Johnson in the house, there’s a sad shortage of Bonobos to bring teh sex-ay.