I believe this qualifies as scaring old people:
I don’t care what Justin Bieber says: Never say never is the dumbest maxim ever.
To wit, I’ll never:
- Vote for Sarah Palin, Michele Bachmann or Newt Gingrich
- Live in Alabama, Arkansas, Mississippi, Orlando or Boston
- Cheer for the Red Sox or against the Braves
- Say something nice about Pat O’Brien
- Laugh at Adam Sandler (unless he causes himself great bodily harm)
- Admonish a smoker
- Listen to a Chris Brown CD
- Watch “Glee”
- Send money to an indignation council
- Hug Rosie O’Donnell
- Defend religious fundamentalists
- Attend Glenn Beck University
Despite accepting the “invitation to receive Christ” on more than one occasion, I wasn’t convinced of my salvation. I was only 11, after all — unprepared to handle the implications of eternal damnation.
My family’s 1981 summer vacation was preceded by a Southern Baptist revival. For those of you lucky enough not to be raised Southern Baptist, revivals feature out-of-town pastors imported to scare the hell out of congregants. I remember a ruddy-faced man with fat cheeks and a bad toupee painting a vivid portrait of life on Earth following the Rapture. I would’ve gone forward again had my parents not stopped me.
It was nearing sunset on Seagrove Beach when I experienced what I thought was the Rapture, complete with swarms of locusts descending from a fiery sky. Or so it seemed to my vivid imagination, which veered into overdrive when I couldn’t find my parents. I went down to the beach. Nothing. I called their names inside and outside the house. Nothing. After about five minutes my worst fears were realized. They’d been “raptured” while I was left behind to deal with the Apocalypse.
Naturally, I went into hysterics, circling the perimeter of the house repeatedly, my arms flailing, screaming for mommy and daddy. Neighbors ventured outside to watch, unsure of how to handle an 11-year-old raving lunatic. They kept their distance.
Finally, my parents emerged from the basement I didn’t know existed. They were clearly disturbed but I couldn’t tell them what had caused my nervous breakdown. I can’t recall my story but know that I’ve always been a gifted liar.
That evening they took me to Panama City to see “Cannonball Run.” I welcomed the distraction though I couldn’t help but wonder: would Burt Reynolds be left behind like me?
“First of all, every player has played with gay guys,” [Charles] Barkley told 106.7 The Fan, adding that any player who says he hasn’t is “a stone-freakin’ idiot.”
“It bothers me when I hear these reporters and jocks get on TV and say: ‘Oh, no guy can come out in a team sport. These guys would go crazy.’ First of all, quit telling me what I think. I’d rather have a gay guy who can play than a straight guy who can’t play,” Barkley said.
Barkley once mused about running for governor of Alabama. I think he should aim higher.
- Barkley: I had no issues with gay teammates (sports.espn.go.com)
Newt Gingrich‘s official spokesman offered this ridiculous assessment of his boss’ first week as a presidential candidate (via Gawker). Note the ever-present victimhood:
The literati sent out their minions to do their bidding. Washington cannot tolerate threats from outsiders who might disrupt their comfortable world. The firefight started when the cowardly sensed weakness. They fired timidly at first, then the sheep not wanting to be dropped from the establishment’s cocktail party invite list unloaded their entire clip, firing without taking aim their distortions and falsehoods. Now they are left exposed by their bylines and handles. But surely they had killed him off. This is the way it always worked. A lesser person could not have survived the first few minutes of the onslaught. But out of the billowing smoke and dust of tweets and trivia emerged Gingrich, once again ready to lead those who won’t be intimated by the political elite and are ready to take on the challenges America faces.