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Amusing lesboslang

3 Nov

Cruising around the internet, one encounters quite a bit of entertaining slang. Some of it is geared toward the gay, lesbian and otherwise queerly-inclined folks. A selection, presented for your amusement:

Hasbian:  One who used to be a lesbian. Often can be counted among the Five Allies in Queerland.

Lesbient: A stoner lesbian. “Ent” comes from the tree people from J.R.R. Tolkien’s famed Trilogy of the Rings, in case you didn’t know.

Lesberina: This is pretty much what I wanted to be when I grew up when I was a kiddo. Just guess the definition.

Lesberjack: Urban Dictionary defines this as “a woman who wears plaid to clearly identify herself as a lesbian.” Clearly, though, nowadays, if one isn’t careful with accessorizing, one could be mistaken for a Mere Hipster.

Lesbaru: A Subaru, driven by a lesbian. Urban Dictionary says this has to be a late-model Subaru, but can be driven by any woman. I disagree, Urban Dictionary, particularly since Subarus in the Pacific Northwest are driven by pretty much everyone. Related: We also need a word for Lesbian Pickup Trucks. Ten points to the first person to come up with a clever moniker for that.

Lesbionic: Again, I disagree with Urban Dictionary here. They define it as “something pertaining to two female robots or cyborgs who are emotionally and sexually attracted to each other.” Since there’s no such thing as robots, clearly what they meant to say was a lesbian with bionic superpowers. Duh.

What internet slang did I miss (no offensive stuff, please)? What slang do you use in your own social group that the internet doesn’t know about yet? Tell me in the comments.

Stick figure families, chill’uns and dolla dolla bills, yo

29 Sep

There was an excellent post over at Sociological Images yesterday on the topic of those stick-figure family bumper stickers/window decals you see on the backs of automobiles nowadays. One of the illustrations for the post is a comic from XKCD, which I enjoy thoroughly:

Via

Yes, yes, yes, I know that children do not equal money (except, you know, statistically). It’s still funny, especially because these stickers drive me bonkers. “Look at me!” the stickers seem to shout. “I’m a cisgendered able-bodied person in a heteronormative socially-sanctioned relationship with an appropriately structured nuclear family unit! I feel the need to proclaim my privilege with a set of pseudo-personalized stickers, because my luxury minivan is not enough of a status signifier for the strangers driving past on the highway!” Of course, even in the comic version, man + woman = the norm, although I suspect that was chosen for contrast more than anything else (the comic would’ve been a different sort of commentary had the cartoonist chosen to swap out additional standard-issue family members).

It’s also funny because, every once in a while, when friends/acquaintances/coworkers email me unsolicited pictures of their children, I get the urge to respond with an unsolicited picture of my paycheck, or something equally inappropriate and totally unrelated to whatever it was we were emailing about. It’s one thing if I ask, “So, how are the kiddos?” and get a photo in response; it’s another thing entirely if we are discussing, say, the political climate in Uzbekistan and the response is something like:

“I don’t know about those Uzbeks, but aren’t my kids just too cute?!”

Yes. Your kids are cute. And so is my paycheck (zing!). But let’s have appropriate segues, okay? There’s no excuse for non-sequiturs in email communications.

Top Six Vehicles Driven by Assholes

3 Jun

About five years ago, I was completely unable to tell the difference between different types of vehicles. A Mercedes and a Ford looked exactly the same to me. I could divine the difference between “truck” and “car,” and might’ve gone so far as to describe a vehicle as a “minivan,” or a “convertible.” But outside of those utilitarian delineations, I hadn’t the faintest what piloting a particular automobile “meant” about the person behind the wheel.

Thanks to my arduous commute, my state of ignorant bliss is, alas, no more. So, in order to provide you all with the benefits of my Significant Life Experience, I give you, without further ado, my Top Six List o’ Vehicles Driven by Assholes:

Mercedes Benz

A Mercedes is the ultimate entitled asshole mobile. Firstly, no one can figure out how to pluralize either “Mercedes” or “Benz,” giving it that unpronounceable je’ne sais quoi beloved to elitist pigdoggies everywhere. Secondly, the totems to materialism that serve as hood ornaments exist for no other reason than to serve as reminders to normal people that we are like tiny, tiny ants just waiting to be squashed by the Mercedes’ superior horsepower. Or whatever it is they have that’s worth a sticker price of about $56,000 (which, according to my Very Scientific Calculations, could keep me in portobello mushroom paninis for about 15 years). The only exception to the rule is if it is a very, very old Mercedes. If it’s rusted out, you can trust the driver. If it’s been converted to biodiesel complete with prominently located bumper sticker, well that’s a gray area.

BMW

The BMW is the jealous, bitter, aspirational younger yuppie sibling of the Mercedes. Again, the name causes problems in that no one knows what BMW stands for, except for some spurious sources that claim it stands for “Brute’s Murder Weapon.*” The Beamer deviates from the Mercedes in that it doesn’t matter how old the Beamer is, the driver will never be absolved of asshole status while barreling down the freeway in a car rumored to be built with the blood of Jews. (For realsies! Other cars too!)

Audi

The people who drive Audis are the same people who sign their e-mails with “Cheers,” or worse, “Ciao.”They’re going for European mystique and/or sophistication, but all they get are repair bills so high they end up selling their Beamers to pay for them.

Saabs and Volvos

I want to like these cars. I really do. Saab buys ad space on public radio, and Volvo reminds me of hippies. I like public radio and hippies, therefore I should like Saab and Volvo, right? Wrong. These car brands are marketing to the wrong demographic, as people who drive them are without fail unable to use their turn signals or let populist cars change lanes.

And, last but not least, the humble Volkswagen:


You’d think VW would get a bye on accounta being responsible for a cute co-opted slogan like “fahrvergnugen” and making those adorable bugs and Scooby Doo vans. But you’d be wrong! Sure, patchouli-scented old-school VW owners do not pass the asshole test. But did you know that VW was invented by Hitler? Fo’ sho’! Also, VW owns Audi, and makes Certifiable Asshole Cars like the Jetta. Unless you live in your VeeDub with your crime-fighting dog and mod posse, you fail.

While the vast majority of my fellow commuters are just normal regular humans trying to get from Point A to Point B in normal regular human cars, taken as a collective, they’re something far more sinister. The commute, after all, is more than just a commute — it’s a microcosmic representation of society, with all the preening, power struggles, and Machiavellian machinations inherent therein, all baldly displayed right there on the pavement.

*I make no claims to truthfulness, honesty or accuracy. I have performed absolutely no research for this article, and am not an expert on cars, assholes or Hitler. These are not the facts you’re looking for. Or more accurately, these are not the facts for which you’re looking.

Vegan Vandalism Pandemic

3 Apr

I found ANOTHER vegan tag. Clear across town, in the Northwest industrial district, stomping ground of the wild, untamed yuppie. I actually stopped so I could photograph this “manchild” tag (imaging the rooftop portraiture possibilities. Go on, imagine!):

I was quite pleasantly surprised when I pulled around the corner of the very same building to come across another pro-vegan (and also pro-anarchy?) missive:

I thought that this dilapidated, graffiti-covered building couldn’t possibly be topped, until I almost slammed into* the back of a car with this rad sticker** on it:

Anyway, happy Friday, everyone! It’s off to the booze-factories for me, starting with this delicious prickly pear martini:

*No, I’m not a careless terrible driver. I just need new brakes.

**I tried taking a picture of the actual sticker, but it just turned out fuzzy and rain-streaked. Google images to the rescue!

Related posts: The Rogue Vegan Strikes Again; Today in Animal Rights

Today in Animal Rights

24 Feb

UPDATE! This afternoon I learned of a most curious incident: A whale named Tilikum at SeaWorld in Orlando killed a female trainer today. I know that I’m not supposed to say this (and I’m equally sure it needs to be said): Capturing wild animals, “training” them to do tricks for an audience using motivational tools like pain, hunger and fear is bound to lead to tragedy. As horrible as this is for the trainer, her friends and her family, it’s far from the first incident of its kind. I hope it will be a wake-up call to people that using animals for entertainment is just not right.

This morning I spied a really groovy piece of street art: The word “Vegan” scrawled on the side of a building in fancy graffitti font*:


I smiled to myself and began wondering why I don’t know any people that go around drawing dietary diatribes on Division Street. Then I remembered that many vegan activists identify as such merely so they can lord their holier-than-thou attitude over everyone else. Either that or they’re just college students still gifted with the charming delusion that their stupid little opinions matter, who’ll grow up to inherit Daddy’s money, join the corporate world and in all likelihood begin plowing their SUVs through flocks of endangered seabirds for fun.

Which is what Charles Belgard did, as reported by NPR this morning in connection with his too-light-in-my-opinion sentence of 45 days in jail and a $1,000 fine. My hope is that, for 21-year-old Belgard, who is the sort of person that breaks speed limits on the beach and thinks killing is AWESOME, $1,000 is a LOT of money. That and an angry seabird or 400 peck his squinty little eyeballs out a la Hitchcock’s “The Birds.”

*Portland people: It’s on 39th and Division.

Related posts: The Rogue Vegan Strikes Again; Vegan Vandalism Pandemic

Mauled by a minivan

8 Dec

Friday, December 08, 2006
Imported from MySpace

and could I have expected any less from the local soccer mom? Why would she yield to the pedestrian already in the crosswalk, anyway? I mean, her cargo is obviously much more precious than my life, or dignity, or ability to walk on two legs. Her rush to get to the soccer field so little Brent or little Madison or whatever ridiculous trendily-named child she had in tow at the time could perform in a mediocre fashion in an extracurricular sports arena while she screams wildly on the sidelines at anyone who will listen, and perhaps starts the occasional screaming match with anyone who challenges her offspring’s abilities, is of course much more important than any pedestrian getting to where said pedestrian is going, namely the other side of the goddamn street. Minivan drivers of the world, beware: there is one pissed-off pedestrian roaming the streets.

Life in the slow lane

24 Oct

Imported from MySpace blog

My maroon hooptie finally bit it. Yes, folks, it’s a goner. Or rather, it needs a new transmission, so it might as well be.

However, during the past couple weeks, while the wife’s car was as yet unrepaired, and my big maroon boat was (and still is) out of service, I discovered a few things.

Life on foot is slower. Sometimes infuriatingly so, other times in a surprisingly pleasant way. Riding the bus, while long, boring and sometimes smelly, is a great way to meet really interesting people. They might not actually be the kind of people I want to hang out with, but you can’t say they’re not interesting.

While riding between Ashland and Medford one day, I had a very pleasant conversation with a teeny tiny old lady about war, men and human kindness. She showed me her book about DNA splicing, and I nodded and smiled a lot. She had a matching scarf-hat-glove set on a very warm day.

Another time, I heard a very loud, very fat mouth-breathing 20-something talk about how her sister makes her money by ripping off men she meets in bars and then sleeps with. Also she talked about how much she hates illegal immigrants. While unpleasant, I guess it’s important to be reminded how seriously messed up a lot of people’s views and lives are.

Walking between home and work another day, I got to experience the power of my voice when I told a couple of shirtless, sweaty transient-types to fuck off after catcalling me on the street. Grrr…

Anyway, my point is this: being constantly encapsulated in tons of glass and twisted metal, while convenient, serves to cut people off from eachother. There’s something wrong in today’s world when someone, alone and unshielded by thick cement walls or car windows, walking from point A to point B, looks out of place. Gets stares. Is the subject of constant worry.

Coworkers’ reactions to the loss of my car has mostly been an outpouring of sympathy. One of them very generously donated a bicycle. Others have been giving me rides home after work, since I get off late at night and live in a semi-bad neighborhood. But I only live a few blocks from work. The bus can take me almost everywhere I need to go, five days a week. While it’s not expedient or luxurious, it’ll do. I wonder why I haven’t been allowed to walk home by myself. Is it because I’m a girl, and can’t defend myself, or because “people just can’t be trusted these days”?

Even though I get visually and verbally assaulted almost daily when on foot, I’m never scared and am fairly confident if faced with a physically intimadating situation, I could hold my own. Mostly, though, I’m just not worried about it. I can’t say that I’m a trusting person, but for some reason I’ve never been scared of other people. It may be naive, but it’s my way.

38 miles to Medford: A tale of terror on the Interstate

27 Mar

Imported from MySpace blog

It was 3 a.m. and the sign read 38 miles to Medford. I thought I was home free.

Then it began to rain.

I had been driving since 9:30, when I left Portland expecting a short jaunt down to Ashland in my brand-new, shiny 1988 Ford Taurus, a gift from a generous friend who had traded up in the automotive world.

I had thought to myself, “Gee, what a fabulous opportunity to get to know my new car and its quirks while listening to some kick-ass mix tapes.”

Quirk number one: semi-functional windshield wipers.

I had already been informed of spiffy traits like brakes without that handy anti-lock feature, an overwhelming lack of airbags, and a tendency to overheat. Additionally, I was running on fumes myself, having a mere three hours of sleep under my belt from the night before, adding to a total of something like 12 hours for the whole week.

Four cups of coffee in the morning managed to fuel me until I arrived in Portland, where I promptly took a fitful two-hour nap. I stocked up on energy drinks and hit the road… only to pull over in Eugene, panic-stricken by the onset of rain with no way to wipe it off the windshield. Then a cop arrived and informed me of Quirk Number Two: no brake lights. Thankfully, he didn’t ticket me, or even ask for insurance information, which would’ve been very confusing to him I’m sure.

A few minutes and several more energy drinks later, I was back on the road, more freaked out than before. I made it to Cottage Grove, a town that consists of a railroad track and a market that says “open,” but isn’t. I checked to see if hazard lights were an option. I couldn’t find the button, so I called the previous owner, who was, as most people would be, almost asleep, and didn’t remember where they were. The handbook was no help, but my taillights weren’t out, so it was back on the road for me. At this point I abandoned all hope of making it home by dawn.

I made it to Roseburg by driving 40 mph and occassionally utilizing that handy shoulder-lane reserved for truckers and old ladies. I breezed through the well-lit and straight roads surrounding that metropolis at a solid 50 mph.

The glittering city of Medford was well within my sights when the rain began again. I slowed to a mere 35 mph during the series of S-curves that lie between Roseburg and Grants Pass.

I eventually made it to Ashland by using a carefully applied method of windshield-wiping madness followed by periods of low windshield-wiping activity.

I rolled into town shortly before dawn, a broken, frazzled, over-caffeinated shell of my former self.

Things I learned from my I-5 experience:

Sleep is not, as previously thought, for sissies.

Caffeine is a poor replacement for said sleep.

Red Bull is a poor replacement for water.

Truckers are brave and noble people, and should be paid more.

Now all my car needs is a name.

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