Dear Dumbass: No, I am not stealing “your man,” Gerard Butler

So, like, you know, I keep up with the search-terms on this blog.

Recently, I noticed that I’ve been getting a lot of hits off of the name “Gerard Butler.” There’s no conspiracy going on here: I’ve featured Gerard, and, coincidentally, people are now searching for Gerard, because “RockNRolla” is out. Nothing out of the ordinary, right?

Except that, this morning, I noticed several bizarre, rambling, accusatory comments in my queue. Now, I was a bit harried this morning, seeing as the power kept going out, and I had about forty e-mails to get through before my coffee got cold, so, irritated, I just pressed “delete.”

Now that the day is almost done, though, I have remembered that oddly similar comments were thrown at One Female Canuck, when she wrote about meeting Gerard briefly somewhere. It’s a strange coincidence, and it has me wondering, is there, like, one truly special individual who stalks the blogs of anyone who dares mention Gerard Butler and then goes off on a weird little rant that accuses the author of having a clandestine relationship with this actor?

I suppose there are worse things to be accused of; I’ll take the accusation of bagging Butler over, say, being accused of serial-killing orphans or wearing shoulder-pads, but still, there’s nothing pleasant about being told something along the lines of “you were SEEN with him recently, you home-wrecker, and soon you’ll be EXPOSED!”

It just really annoys me, because I’m a fan of Gerard, and if there is one thing I take seriously it is my fandom. DO NOT IMPINGE ON MY FANDOM. Don’t tell me who I can and cannot write about, whose pictures I can and cannot post, and whose awesomeness I can and cannot speculate upon. My fandom is like a sweet baby tiger with adorable little whiskers, and I am the enraged, roaring mother tigress standing at the cave entrance, about to flail your miserable ass alive for daring to come anywhere near my sacred domain.

OK, seriously now… If you show up on people’s blogs and endlessly prattle on about how “Gerry is [your] man,” chances are, that’s news to him. And, if I were to give you any advice at all, it would be this:

Take a walk. Get out and meet people who exist in close proximity to you, in more than just the two-dimensional sense (action figures of King Leonidas do not count). Your fantasy life, while certainly rich and elaborate, is turning you into a major creepy jackass. It’s sad, it’s pathetic, and it’s not the kind of stuff I want to be staring at when I have my deliciously bad Nescafe.

Pictures of Beautiful People, the May Edition

May is my favourite month. May is my favourite month in Kyiv, specifically. It’s a month of rain, birdsong, and violets. I am not there to witness rain, birdsong, and violets. Instead I’m busy smashing cockroach guts all over the bathroom floor in Amman.

I’d like to say that I am handling this humbling experience well, you know, learning important lessons about the way the world works while learning the topography of the insides of a cockroach. Deriving an all-encompassing metaphor about the transience of life: one minute the cockroach is scuttling, the next minute he is a mass of crumpled exoskeleton and pus (cockroaches being, of course, one part exoskeleton, one part pus, and one part pure unholy evil). Who needs violets when you have the eternal wisdom of splattered corpses waiting to be scraped off of the bottom of a shoe?

I’m trying really hard to convince myself here.

Trying.

Trying.

FAIL.

I’ve nothing to get by on except for pictures of beautiful people. This is the May edition – dedicated to elemental beauty, timeless as nature.

Helen Mirren (is a goddess with Russian roots – from, appropriately, Sexy Celebrity Photo Galleries):

Whitney Thompson, winner of Cycle 10 of America’s Next Top Model (the show is like crack, and Whitney is easily my favourite addiction – she is old glamour. From CW. ):

Mark Dacascos and Samuel le Bihan, from one of my favourite movies, “The Brotherhood of the Wolf” (from Electric Dragonfly):

Rajaa al-Sanea (author of “The Girls of Riyadh”. From The New York Observer):

Anne Sexton (a stunningly beautiful poet with stunningly hideous problems. From From The Vault Radio):

Zadie Smith (who needs no introduction, really. From The Institute of Contemporary Arts):

Frank Lampard of Chelsea F.C. (from Defected):

Michael Essien, also of Chelsea F.C. (for those of you keeping up with football this week, you may now have a good idea as to what team I am rooting for. From Bloggers Music):

Chimamanda Ngozi Adichie, another noted author (who, once upon a time was severely overlooked by some folks… folks who ought to be eating crow. From Jamati Online.):

And, last but never least, Mr. Orlando f*ckin’ Bloom (star of the improbable film known as “Kingdom of Hotness” in rarefied circles. From… crap, can’t find the source of picture. Whups.):

And now, back to cockroach pus!

PETA’s “Worst Dressed List” – About as progressive as Rush Limbaugh’s big toe

Every year, PETA, the darling of clueless celebrities everywhere (dear actors & pop stars of the known universe, don’t just check with your publicist if the PETA people are “nice,” or whatever, do research), puts us through the hypocritical indignities of their sanctimonious “Worst Dressed List.”

Of course, PETA is that classy organization that once compared Holocaust victims to chickens, so what the hell can you expect?

Still, the language of the “Worst Dressed List” continues to astound me. Last year, PETA was gleefully making fun of Nicole Ritchie’s suspected eating disorder, and guffawing about Christina Ricci’s big forehead (my forehead is big too, and I will personally eat a big juicy steak in honour of PETA’s third-grade lunchroom tactics).

Now they’ve compared Eva Longoria to a “streetwalker” and made fun of Aretha Franklin’s weight. Because, you see, to encourage people to think progressively you must first attack them in a fashion that would make Rush Limbaugh proud.

Ever notice how PETA reserve most of their venom for women? I don’t usually hear about PETA activists insulting, say, a biker gang in public. Why? Because old ladies in fur coats make for easier targets, of course. And hey, sexist language, fat-shaming, and other such insults will surely inspire people to be kinder and more thoughtful.

This is all beside PETA’s tragic hipness, of course. That holier-than-thou, fundamentalist cause célèbre packaged as enlightenment.

Note, I am not picking on individual members. I just hate the overall sentiment.

Like many people, I have serious problems with the fur and leather industry and the food industry. Having said that, I am not vegetarian, and I don’t have any immediate plans to become one. I don’t believe that humane pet ownership translates into pet slavery either. I think a balance can be struck between higher industry standards and evolving lifestyle choices.

I think good synthetic meat, fur, and leather are the way to go for the future. I put faith in science. I can only hope science will be sufficiently touched by such a statement, and makes my dreams come true. Have at it, science.

But that’s just me.

Bottom line? PETA, you suck.