Jane, You Ignorant Slut » Wapatui

Just Sit Right Back and You’ll Hear a Tale…

Jane — Thu, 17 Jun 2010 12:44:54 +0000

A Tale of a Fateful Trip…

QUICK.

If you were to be stranded on a desert island what ten things would you want to have with you? (Assuming a water supply and some kind of food source.)

ipod with everything imaginable on it including the musical equivalent of the cyanide capsule, My Humps by the Black Eyed Peas, in case I couldn’t take it anymore.
industrial sized drum of Dr. Bronner’s soap
I’m thinking I’m not going to get a way with counting a subscription to People Magazine as one thing, so…maybe the Norton Anthology of British Literature, the one with the tissue thin pages – multi-purpose, you know.
a big ass knife
George Clooney. What? Why not?
I guess saying Diet Pepsi would be really short-sighted and silly, but honest to god, it’s what I’m thinking of right now.
shoes – not Jimmy Choos, but practical, wear around the coral reef shoes.
fire, and lots of it
sunscreen, especially now that I’ve got The Cancer
something warm and weatherproof to wear, preferably in pink, bright pink. You never know when the paparazzi might turn up. Do they make Gortex, fur lined Snuggies?

Um, Jane?

This is a deserted island. Clooney would make it decidedly undeserted. Desserted, maybe.

Anyway, my list:

A laminated picture of my family
Laminated dirty picture of my wife
iPod loaded with every Lost and Gilligan’s Island episode
Bag of weed with the seeds in it
Pack of Bic lighters
Voltmeter
Tattooing equipment
Set of Ginsu knives
Wilson brand volleyball
Tuxedo

P.S. Jane: cheater, cheater, pumpkin eater.

Save a Pelican – Dunk Sarah in the Gulf

Jane — Mon, 07 Jun 2010 21:06:44 +0000

Jane says…

Here’s what Sarah Palin said about who is responsible for the oil spill in the gulf:

“With [environmentalists'] nonsensical efforts to lock up safer drilling areas, all you’re doing is outsourcing energy development, which makes us more controlled by foreign countries, less safe, and less prosperous on a dirtier planet. Your hypocrisy is showing. You’re not preventing environmental hazards; you’re outsourcing them and making drilling more dangerous.

Extreme deep water drilling is not the preferred choice to meet our country’s energy needs, but your protests and lawsuits and lies about onshore and shallow water drilling have locked up safer areas. It’s catching up with you. The tragic, unprecedented deep water Gulf oil spill proves it.”

Sarah Palin is a clown. A stupid clown. Not even a fun, non-threatening, balloon animal making clown, but a scary, dumb, John Wayne Gacy clown.

Because environmentalists argue against drilling in environmentally fragile and valuable ecosystems like the Arctic Wildlife Refuge, oil companies are FORCED to engage in deep water drilling and are FORCED, at gunpoint, I believe, by tree hugging vegan environmentalists weilding Kalashnikovs (commies, you know) to install faulty equipment and violate safety standards and claim massive profits. Those nutty, lying, freedom-hatin’ environmentalists are responsible for BP’s 760 safety violations citations. Apparently, the environmentalists were asleep at the switch or else their resources were spread to thin to attack all the oil companies at once, because Exxon has had 1 safety violation citation in the same time period.

Listen up, clownlady. Less yammering on about the poor oppressed oil companies suffering at the hands of greedy environmentalists, more talk about renewable, non-polluting sources of energy. You can’t be a leader, in whatever bizarro incarnation you are hoping to become, if you can’t offer solutions.

…but Dan thinks…

Jane and I aren’t always on opposite sides of an issue. True story.

Take today, for example. I’m pretty sure if you were to ask an environmentalist (a person for whom the term “nutbag” also comes to mind for me), they’d tell you they want cars to run on rainbows and sunshine.

Not oil from the sand.

Not a well on the land.

Not oil obtained using a bore.

Even when it came from way off shore.

I read the Sarah Palin quote indirectly blaming environmentalists for the BP rig explosion and subsequent unabated oil leak, and I’m reminded of a fight I broke up between my kids yesterday. You see, there was a spider on my son’s arm. So he hit my daughter.

Makes perfect sense, right?

I don’t hang out in the Self Improvement section at the local Barnes & Noble, but I’ve dabbled in Tony Robbins. I think Sarah should meet Tony. First, because he could hold her and squeeze her and pet her and love her like a little Daffy Duck (Tony’s ENORMOUS). But second, he could tell her that everyone’s responsible for their own actions/reactions. That you can’t blame someone else for the way you behave. Your behavior, a 3 year old punching his older sister or an oil company operating in a dangerous manner and not having plans prepared for swift intervention should something go wrong, is on you. Your fault. Nobody else’s. That’s the education my son got, and it’s the education I’d give BP and Sarah Palin. Childish for either to think otherwise. But my son’s three, so I cut him some slack. Palin I would totally spank for what she said. And not in the good way. (Ok, maybe in the good way.)

And here’s the other thing. There’s a finite quantity of oil in the ground. Even if you put everything else aside – the oil leak, combustion engines causing harm to Earth’s atmosphere, the pollution of ground water, etc? It’s still a finite resource. One day there won’t be anymore of it. And we need that oil to make plastic. You know, the mouse to your right? The frame of the monitor you’re reading this on? The thing you use when uh, your husband’s not around? Plastic, plastic, plastic.

We can fuel our daily travels on something other than petroleum, but I’ll be damned if we don’t need plastic as much as a diabetic needs syringes full of insulin (which are also made from plastic!).

Sarah. Sweetie. I’ll never be a member of your double entendre party, but I like to consider myself a conservative on many issues. You make it embarrassing for me to admit that in public.

You’re trying to assign liberal blame to everything, everywhere, and it makes you look either nutbag crazy, party blind or just plain old stupid.

What’s the Postage on This Stamp?

dan — Wed, 02 Jun 2010 12:00:35 +0000

Podcast

The use of ink to adorn the human body has been practiced for thousands of years. Tattoos can serve as declarations of love, as a rite of passage or inclusion into a higher status in a tribe or even a gang, as a form of punishment or as simple adornment.

In today’s podcast, Dan and Jane tackle one form of tattoo, disaffectionately called the tramp stamp. A little fluffery for your Wednesday.

Audio gadget not working? You can download the file here. Just click!

So Sinful It Should Be Taxed

dan — Mon, 26 Apr 2010 10:00:25 +0000

Podcast

The city of Philadelphia wants to charge it’s residents a “sin” tax on soda. Dan thinks that’s ridiculous, will only result in other foodstuff taxes, and could lead to the government deciding what you put in your body. Jane thinks soda only has the potential to harm, from leaching calcium from bones to causing obesity. With the city in need of revenue, Jane thinks this is a great way to generate that revenue.

Have a listen. Then let us know what you think (by voting and/or commenting).

Warning (again): Dan’s potty mouth got the better of him again in this podcast. If detonating F-bombs frighten you, you may not want to listen.

Audio gadget not working? You can download the file here. Just click!

Below is Jane, paying the nickel in sin tax Dan assessed her for eating a Rice Krispy treat during the podcast.

Dan’s note: Dan wasn’t actually naked during the taping of the intro to this podcast. He was outside, in front of a warm fire, smoking a cigar. But he was fully clothed.

Dan and Jane Discuss Nipples

dan — Mon, 12 Apr 2010 02:30:22 +0000

Podcast

Maybe it was cold the day Dan went shopping at the mall. Maybe there’s a pragmatic reason to display mannequins with gumdrop-sized nipples. Other than to pique Dan’s interest, that is.

Here’s what Dan and Jane think about it.

Audio gadget not working? You can download the file here. Just click!

A Dog’s Life: Sometimes Longer Than it should Be

dan — Tue, 23 Mar 2010 17:21:46 +0000

Jane says…

Last week when Dan found out how much my husband and I were about to pay to get our dog’s broken leg fixed and to keep said dog comfortable and hospitalized until she could have the required surgery, he geeked his cigar smoke inhale and might just be coughing and wheezing still. Then he suggested that a single bullet would be a lot less expensive and we’d still have a bunch of cash left over to buy a goldfish at Wal-Mart.

And Dan’s a dog person!

So at what point does a pet owner say, “Too rich for my blood” and cash in the pet’s chips? I can only answer this question in terms of dogs…maybe cats, but it would have to be a seriously awesome cat – no shedding and scratching and sleeping on my head. Fish and rodents and reptiles? One of those gets a hangnail and I’d have very little trouble sending it off to enjoy a big dirt nap.

I would not spend so much money that my children had to sacrifice something essential. I would not spend money that I didn’t readily have if there was only a small chance that the treatment would be successful. I would not spend money I didn’t readily have if if I were only prolonging the dog’s life for my own happiness and comfort, rather than the dog’s. Otherwise…I’m paying. I can’t imagine pulling the plug on a pet, a pet who loves and trust and needs me, for any reason other than a humane one. If I wasn’t willing to incur the expense and hardship of dog ownership, whatever that brings – broken bones and complicated surgery including pins and plates included – then I shouldn’t have brought the dog into my home in the first place.

…but Dan thinks…

I think the dollar amounts are relevant here. When we discussed their family pet’s current predicament, she explained that it would likely cost in excess of $4,000 to mend her pup’s broken wheel.

And then she said something about writing a post about universal healthcare for pets.

And then I said “You know what? You go ahead and write that post. Here’s my take on the issue: you can get a brand new dog, with that new dog smell, all legs intact and functioning, for about sixty bucks.” Or put another way, for the same money Jane’s about to spend, she could get SEVENTY new dogs.

I know. They’re a part of the family. And the childless couples are all certain that the dog thinks it’s a person (here’s a news flash: if the dog DID think it was a person, she’d feel at least a little bit guilty about not chipping in for mortgage payments and grocery expenses, and wouldn’t piss on the floor (unless she was watching an NFL playoff game and got really drunk and forgot what a toilet looked like (Mike? Lookin’ at you, my friend))).

I love my dogs. They’re awesome. I’m not sure they’re $4,000 worth of awesome, though.

Roses Are Red, Violets Are Blue, I am Funny, and You Are Not

Jane — Mon, 15 Mar 2010 12:03:04 +0000

Jane says…

At least eleven two times a day, I get an email forwarded by someone’s cousin to someone’s sister to someone’s coworker to everybody on someone else’s email list and then to my mother. Who then forwards said email to me. Inevitably, it’s something like this:

or these:

How are husbands like lawn mowers?
They’re hard to get started, they emit noxious odors, and half the time they don’t work.

What do men and pantyhose have in common?
They either cling, run, or don’t fit right in the crotch!

How many men does it take to screw in a light bulb?
One-He just holds it up there and waits for the world to revolve around him.

How many men does it take to screw in a light bulb?
Three. One to screw in the bulb, and two to listen to him brag about the screwing part.

My very formal research which included asking a few guys at lunch what kinds of jokes they send each other indicates that men do not get the same volume of “wife” jokes as women do about husbands.

Most jokes at wives’ expense go something like this:

“Whenever I go home after we’ve been out drinking, I turn the headlights off before I get to the driveway. I shut off the engine and coast into the garage. I take my shoes off before I go into the house, I sneak up the stairs, I get undressed in the bathroom. I ease into bed and my wife STILL wakes up and yells at me for staying out so late!”

His buddy looks at him and says, “Well, you’re obviously taking the wrong approach. I screech into the driveway, slam the door, storm up the steps, throw my shoes into the closet, jump into bed, rub my hands on my wife’s ass and say, ‘How about a blowjob?’ … and she’s always sound asleep.”

Or this:

“My husband is a fill-in-the-blank” jokes are way more socially acceptable than “my wife is a fill-in-the-blank” jokes. I’m not saying that this is necessarily how it should be, I’m just saying this is how it is. And why is it? Why is it OK to bash the husbands, but not so cool to bash the wives?

1) The content of the jokes is key. In general, jokes about wives are gripes about sex lives or nagging. The recurring “sex life” joke theme is that men aren’t getting it enough. Why is this not OK? We only need to look at the jokes women make about sex for our answer: you are lazy, hairy, beery, and we are tired of cleaning up after you so we’d rather just sleep.

2) Other types of jokes are about nagging wives. Jokes about nagging wives are stupid. Like the sex jokes, they only point back to your own shortcomings. Life imitates art, right? Are you surprised we nag? If you would do the shit that you are supposed to do, that you say you’re going to do, that we need you to do then we won’t nag. Furthermore, when you actually do all that stuff – try to do it the way we said to. Why do we get to say you should do things? Because women run the household. We keep the big calendar and message board in our heads. You don’t. This is why you call us to ask where the Advil is while we’re out enjoying our first family-free night out with the girls in months or you have to check in with us while we’re driving home from the grocery store because you have to know immediately how much the 7 year old weighs because some form needs the info. It’s not that you aren’t necessary and important, it’s that you aren’t as necessary and important as we are.

3) It’s OK to husband bash because we need the solidarity and the validation. Plus we need the laughs. Because some days, it comes down to two choices: laugh or pack a bag.

…but Dan thinks…

You know, I kinda get the need for the husband jokes. It’s like why everyone hates the United States. We own everything. We run everything. We know how everything works. We know how to fix everything.

And we can pee standing up. It’s natural to be jealous.

But I’m pretty sure that holding the title “cruise director” does not make women queens of all they survey.

The household you run? You’re welcome for providing that for you. The long hours we spent separating clients from their money, constructing their constructions, meeting with fart-breathing bosses and filling out TPS reports? Because you didn’t see it doesn’t mean it didn’t happen, and that it wasn’t every bit as grueling as plopping the children in front of Mickey Mouse Clubhouse while you run down the Energizers on your favorite toy. Oh, right. That actually ISN’T that grueling, is it.

You know what Rachel Rae does to prevent every calorie from going to her ass because you have the time. Time to watch television. Time to read gossip blogs. Hell, time to write your own damn blogs.

We’re just too busy to spend all our free time bitching to any other man that’ll listen about how unfair life is.

And the reason we can’t find the Advil? You keep fucking moving it. I get wanting to feel like you control your surroundings, but do you have to do it by constantly shuffling everything around in the house? The answer to “Where’s the Advil” should NOT be “Billy had soccer that one time and he hurt his knee and so we were sitting on the floor and I gave him the Advil while I held ice on his knee and then Miranda came in and distracted me and I needed to put away the Advil so it was out of reach of the kids and so I think I put it with the spices so check there.”

Um, no. The answer should be “It’s in the medicine drawer, where it always is.”

Ok, now I feel the need to wipe away the piggish veneer and be serious for a minute. In general I don’t think men mind that much that women get together and privately dish dirt on their spouses. Some men dish, too. But the thing that I feel is wholly unacceptable? Airing dirty laundry to the world. Like on a blog. I’m not going to name names here, only because Jane has been screaming and pleading that I don’t, for fear that it’ll mean disaster for this blog. But there are women with high profile blogs who write really insulting things about their husbands and family on a regular basis. Husband jokes, but in real life.

Maybe it’s a lack of maturity that makes these women do this. Or maybe it’s a lack of intelligence or foresight. Or lack of respect.

But one of the first rules you ever learn about interpersonal relations, even as a child, is that if you have an issue with someone, you take it up with that person, not everyone EXCEPT that person. Maybe those women who blog nasty on their husbands are really, deep down, unhappy and hoping for a divorce and this is how they subconsciously make that happen. Or maybe they have mice for men (at which point those men should get together for some chest-bumping bro-lidarity, or go buy a t-shirt that says “she may be the woman, but I’m the pussy”). Whatever the reason, it’s pretty much indefensible, and all the harm that gets rained down on that relationship because of that behavior is justified.

Husband jokes? Fine in moderation. Wife jokes? Assume the position more often and they’ll go away.

And? We help out quite a bit around the house. We just don’t fly a biplane dragging a message each time we empty the trash.

Using Jane: A Guide

dan — Thu, 04 Mar 2010 20:00:23 +0000

Dan says…

A blog is a blog is a blog. Words, pictures. Sometimes audio or video. No hidden features, no Easter eggs to entertain or titillate. Right?

Wrong. Jane is different. Jane’s special. Of course, this Jane is special. But this Jane is special, too. And that’s who I’m talking about today. You see, for all of Dan’s attributes, athletic physique, manly occupation, movie star hair, enormous….ego, he’s also a bit of a nerd. In this case, an HTML nerd. What does that mean to you? That means Dan covers Jane in secret tattoos and piercings with every post. And Jane wants you to look. Wants you to find them. Yes, she’s a little naughty.

How do you find them? Jane’s easy. Just hover your mouse over the pictures in a post. Guaranteed to give you a laugh, or your money back. Find a word or phrase with a dashed underline? Same thing – just hover your cursor like it’s your hand hovering a bit too long over the favorite body part of your favorite person. Surprise! More funny stuff, and it’s a secret, just between you and Jane. This Jane. Not this Jane. She doesn’t have any secrets. Or filters. Can’t shut her up, sometimes.

And it’s been that way since the site launched, so if you didn’t notice Jane’s secret body art until now, go back and check out your favorite old posts to see what you may have missed.

Wild at Heart

Jane — Mon, 01 Mar 2010 21:59:32 +0000

Jane says…

I feel a little bit like that stand-up comedian who carries on about why you park in the driveway and you drive on a parkway, but I’m plowing through the cliché anyway.

IT WAS A KILLER WHALE. WHAT THE HELL DID YOU EXPECT??

Anyone who has ever tried to contain a screaming toddler in an enclosed time-out space knows that attempting to keep wild things in captivity is a bad plan. Mother Nature is not a huge fan of the Zoo, or the Wild Animal Park, or the Sea World or Sea World derivative.

My dog is so utterly domesticated that she’s tried to sit in an easy chair and join in conversation during dinner parties. On more than one occasion. Nevertheless, that bitch still tries to bite my arm off if I make the foolhardy error of trying to take a hunk of rawhide away from her. Would you expect anything less from a tiger or lion or bear or predatory sea-dwelling mammal?

“But how do kids learn about animals if they can’t see them in zoos?” I’ve heard this before, and to those of you who would ask the question I say this, “Go away. You aren’t smart enough for me to talk to you.” PBS? The Discovery Channel? The Internet? Wait…wait…I got it…ready? Ready? Brace yourself…Books!!

Wild animals in captivity are entertainment, not education. Pretending otherwise is ludicrous. Zoos and the like exist for profit, not education. Certainly, there are conservation efforts that are supported by zoos, but I refuse to believe that kids wouldn’t be introduced to animals in such a way that they should grow up to care about their welfare if wild animals weren’t trapped and caged.

These animals don’t act like animals in the wild, and often they don’t even look like animals in the wild. They pace and develop other nervous tics, some dangerous to their physical health. They are often subject to changes in the environment to which they are unsuited – their cycles and rhythms are off. Without the opportunity to hunt, or be hunted, they aren’t fulfilling any evolutionary destiny or purpose either. They are bored. Taking another page from the toddler playbook, if you try to keep a bored toddler subdued for too long, you will end up maimed, or at least emotionally scarred.

Mother Nature will put up with a lot from us. But when she has something to say, she says it loud.

Note: I take my kids to the zoo. I’ve taken them to Sea World (boring and expensive). So, mommy’s a bit of a hypocrite. Mommy’s also a bit of a buzz kill, because the whole time we’re at the zoo, I’m pointing out how miserable the animals look, especially the elephants.

…but Dan thinks…

It’s funny. When we discussed our angles on this post, I was certain that for the first time, Jane and I were going to be on the same page. We were actually. going. to agree. I was considering calling The Guinness Book. But maybe that’s premature.

It’s not called a Snuggling Whale. A Happygoodtime Whale. It’s a killer. For prey like seals, they swim up from underneath them, wheel and swat them out of the water, into the air with their massive tails, knocking the seals unconscious; sometimes killing them with that single stroke. Then it’s lunchtime.

And they know how to hunt in groups. They are organized killers.

I love zoos. We have an annual membership to our local zoo and still find time to attend one or two others. For those that think that you can learn about the visceral experiences of life by reading about them or watching television, I’d suggest that they live pretty sheltered lives, and that thrown out into nature, those books will do little to help a person cope with dangerous encounters without real-life experience to back it up. Unless it’s a really heavy book and you have perfect aim.

In my basement I have a beautiful bearskin rug I got from my father, a bear he killed while out in the woods, hunting. He hadn’t been planning on it. Wasn’t even hunting for bear. But he was in the woods, saw a 250 pound black bear and tried his best to stay out of it’s way. And he did, right up until it smelled him, or smelled his prospective next meal, turned and charged at my father.

Tiny black eyes, enormous head, mouth agape, slobber dripping in anticipation as he lumbered toward my father.

Kill or be killed. Right there. My father raised his rifle, drew a bead and placed a slug between the bear’s eyes, dropping his would-be killer. There’s absolutely no way a book or a made-for-television movie can convey that pants-filling experience. But being able to see a live animal in a less-than-natural habitat can at least expose us, our kids, to the size and majesty and strength and potential danger of these animals.

I want to make sure this stays focused – this post isn’t about how terrible it is that animals are in captivity. At least that’s not what Jane and I discussed before we started writing. This post is about the arrogance, naivete and even stupidity of intentionally courting danger with animals that can kill.

Like the actor who thought he he could show the world how humane and lovable wild bears are, by embedding himself in their habitat, talking in falsetto to them, and then oops. Getting too close when food was scarce. Turns out that B-list actors are delicious.

Or Seigfried and Roy. “She was just trying to protect him.” Right. From not getting his head bitten off?

Or the three drunk guys in the Siberian zoo who decided to taunt the bears. And then one fell into the bear pit. Did you know whiskey makes an excellent marinade?

You can’t get the feel for rapelling down the side of a cliff, your stomach leaping into your throat, your bladder almost emptying as you look down, without actually strapping on the harness, leaning over that cliff, then jumping. But you do so knowing that if the rope is frayed, the harness unsecure or your technique is poor, you might plunge straight down to the rocks below.

So yes, it’s sad that that trainer lost her life to that killer whale. But as Jane and I said to each other in our post-planning meeting, “What’d you expect?”

In Fact, I Was A Terrible Waitress

dan — Fri, 29 Jan 2010 00:08:40 +0000

My feet are enigmatic.

They have great potential, but rarely live up to it. When they are clean and smooth and tended to, my feet are my favorite part of my body.

In winter, however, after they’ve been hidden away and virtually ignored save the cursory scrubbing in the daily shower, they are the stuff of monster legend.

I develop calluses on my heels so thick that you can stick a straight pin a good ¼” in before I’ll feel it. The calluses occasionally crack and bleed and are painful. The top layer of skin on my feet has the consistency of the rawhide my dog chews on and could be a reasonable substitute for 40-grit sandpaper. It’s not a good scene.

Two products rescue my feet from hideosity. Yes, I know that’s not a word. If you had seen my feet last week, though, you might place a call to Mr. Webster. The first of these miracle workers is this:

AmLactin Moisturizing Body Cream is decidedly NOT glamorous. You won’t see any movie stars hawking it, and it doesn’t turn up on the shelves of any of the finest stores. It is, nevertheless, the only lotion I’ve ever used that can soften the concrete that the skin on my winter feet becomes.

This, also, saves the day:

I’m Not Really A Waitress, by OPI is my winter toenail color. In the spring and summer I wear Cajun Shrimp, also by OPI.

And behold the evidence.

Before:

After: