Mel Gibson arrested for speeding, by the same police precinct that nabbed Nick Nolte.

Y’know, if I was a drunk or drug addled Hollywood celebrity, I’d stear clear of Lost Hills.

I just had some tard call my cell phone. I’m in the “den”, where I get little cell-phone reception, so I had to actually walk out of my apartment and onto the entry to the building to hear what this fucker was trying to say.

I thought it was someone I knew, so I actually explained all this to him — briefly — before asking him who he was.

“Oh. I’m Rodney, I’m looking for my cousin?”

I told him he had the wrong number, and *click* he hung up on me. Motherfucker. Can’t even say sorry? I’m tempted to post his phone number, just to be a dick.

(According to reverse directory, his name is A. English and he lives in Baltimore).

(Trying to get away from all the Friends episode title-ing …)

U.S. Newswire:

The U.S. Army recently discharged a highly regarded Arabic linguist who was the target of an anonymous email “outing” campaign. Former Sergeant Bleu Copas was stationed at Fort Bragg, N.C., and was a member of the prestigious 82nd Airborne Division. A decorated Sergeant who received impressive performance reviews, Copas also performed in the 82nd Airborne Chorus. His dismissal, under the federal “Don’t Ask, Don’t Tell” ban on lesbian, gay and bisexual personnel, brings the total number of Arabic language specialists dismissed under the ban to at least 55. Neither Copas nor his command know who was the source of the email campaign.

When I criticized these firings on a largely right-wing forum, a conservative poster named “Watchman” (if memory serves) replied that the reasons for the dismissals of these gay servicemen and women came down to the fear that if an enemy found out their sexual orientations, the servicepeople could be forced into turning over critical information to keep their sexuality private.

Seems to me that there is a pretty simple solution to keep these trained and valuable translators in service, while at the same time removing the fear of the threat of outing by enemy agents and what that fear might supposedly motivate servicepeople to do. Remove that fear.

Have the Pentagon put out an announcement: “Hey, uh, yeah. If you’re gay and serving? We don’t care anymore. That’s so Bible-belt. Come out of the closet, be open, wear pink camoflauge and tie tassels to your rifles. We’re going to start flying a big rainbow flag right now, because, fuck, face it, they’re here, they’re queer, and they’re vital to national defense!”

Whoever started that anonymous e-mail “outing” campaign: your homophobia doesn’t give you the right to weaken National Security, which is all I can make out that you’ve done. Congratulations.

HT: The Daily Dish.

… it really isn’t funny.

Your Life Path Number is 6

Your purpose in life is to help others You are very compassionate, and you offer comfort to those around you. It pains you to see other people hurting, and you do all in your power to help them. You take on responsibility, and don’t mind personal sacrifice. You are the ultimate giver. In love, you offer warmth and protection to your partner. You often give too much of yourself, and you rarely put your own needs first. Emotions tend to rule your decisions too much, especially when it comes to love. And while taking care of people is great, make sure to give them room to grow on their own.

Tuesday I had lunch with A.F., who was one of my English professors my first time through Towson University. She taught a really excellent Nonfiction Essay course that I took in the fall, and since the previous semester and summer I’d run into something like three or four deer (earning from my friends the title, “Snay: The Deer Slayer”, the title for my first essay was, “Why Deer, As A Species, Are Retarded (and Suicidal).” That may not have been the exact title — I don’t believe I have a copy of it any longer — but that was the general gist of it.

***

So that was my digression. On with the actual post.

I hate being tailgated. I particularly hate being tailgated by motorcyclists. I am very careful to maintain a following distance of three car lengths from other motor vehicles, and I usually try to even stay further behind motorcycles than that. Given their method of travel, even an impact with my tiny little car rear ending them would probably cause for them tremendous physical damage, as well as for me, potential legal consequences and a bothersome conscience.

So I get pissed off when motorcyclists tailgate me. I notice that when I’m being tailgated by a motorcycler, he’s (or she’s) almost always driving a “crotch-rocket.” The folks who ride Harley-Davidsons and other such bikes always seem to have a healthy regard for safe driving.

Anyway, I was being tailgated by a motorcyclist yesterday evening on Jarrettsville Pike. I turned onto Merryman’s Mill and the biker kept going his own way, while some soccer mom started tailgating. Another brief digression: a soccer mom driving a minivan as opposed to a Humvee used as a minivan? A soccer mom I can respect!

It’s a good thing the motorcyclist wasn’t tailgating me, because once I was about halfway between Kilarney and Summer Hill, he would’ve learned a hard lesson about tailgating: you’re not going to see what’s about to pop out from under that Celica you’re practicaly touching with your front wheel.

There was a deer across the road. I couldn’t do anything about it. If I slammed on my brakes, Soccer Mom would probably have hit me. If I swerved into the other lane, I woulda been creamed by the oncoming traffic. I was fearful I didn’t have enough clearance to get over the damn thing — I drive, as I mentioned, a tiny car — but what choice did I have?

Did I mention the deer was already dead? Yes. And spread quite nicely — and largely intact from what I could see — across the lane I was in. I was expecting to cringe a bit when my tires ran over the various sprawled limbs, but I was much relieved when I noticed neither that nor wound up catching the carcass under my car and dragging it along with me (which would’ve been a fucking nightmare).

I was really glad the crotch-rocket wasn’t still tailgating me, because I don’t know how he could’ve hit the deer and not crashed. Then I would’ve been late on my delivery. Inconsiderate bastard.