WHO DAT say dey own WHO DAT?

NFL Orders Shops to Stop Selling 'Who Dat' gear

Who Dat Say Who Can Use 'Who Dat'? Trademark Holder Speaks Out

The NFL is doing this under the delusion that the small business owners either won't have the time or the money to fight back.

First of all, this is the Who Dat Nation. Ever seen what happens when you rile us? BBQs and poker runs raise the money while professionals and volunteers among us donate their time. We help our neighbors come back from fires, cancer, car accidents, hurricanes, pompous football organizations, and anything else the universe wants to toss our way.

Secondly, look at the history of "Who Dat". If you believe wikipedia.org, King Leopold of Austria started it in the 1890s. If you believe your mom, dad, or grandparents, then "Who Dat" started in the 1950s at St. Augustine in NOLA.

Finally, the fluer de lis is not specific to the Saints. Look back over French history and you'll see the fluer de lis repeatedly. Neither the NFL nor the Saints originated the fluer de lis either.

All told, the NFL can suck a bag of fetid donkey dick. Bunch of douche nozzles over there trying to money grub the Saints' success.

2010

This I shall carry with me into the New Year...

Four Letter Words

A friend on Falebook postulated that "socialism" is now a four letter word and that people must be illiterate for not wanting a socialist government. My reply:

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The short of it is that everyone screaming for socialism seems to think that it's all going to turn out like Star Trek.

Okay, let's start with the fact that Star Trek is *fiction*. Yes, we've been able to make plenty of the science gizmos from that world work, but it is still *fiction*.

Then let's progress to the fact that the story world of Roddenberry's socialist utopia was only able to happen long after shit like the Eugenics Wars, Bell Riots, and WWIII where the populace nuked the hell out of itself, killing 600 million and destroying most of the world governments.

Why did it take that much for socialism to work? First, because the people actually living in today's real reality suck. Given the opportunity *not* to work, most won't. It took having so few people left to be able to affect the cultural change needed to ensure that all members of the society contribute. Secondly, in today's "global economy", no one is going to let another government become purely socialist because, in theory, a purely socialist culture is self-sustaining and needs no outside trade - which would ruin other economies.

Resign yourself to the fact that where we're headed is Idiocracy, not Star Trek.

An Excerpt

I was "in the zone" tonight. I sat down to puzzle out why my character wasn't following the story line I set out for her. I meant to do a simple character outline and suddenly found myself writing a scene for her. When I had finished, I re-read what I'd written and was flabbergasted by how visceral it was, in my opinion. So, I've decided to share it here because, to completely toot my own horn, I think it's fabulous. This is also completely unedited. It is the original brain dump that fell out of my fingers. Enjoy, or don't. Either way, say something!

      "You're la-ate!" she sang out over the doorbell.
      The wet rip as the door peeled away from the humid exterior paint of the frame might as well have been the sound as her smile peeled off her face when she laid eyes on her ex at the foot of the steps.
      "Look, I know that I've done alot to you, and that I'm asking alot standing here now..." he began as her reflexes clutched her right arm, still in its cast, to her stomach. "...but I wanted you to know that I'm sorry. I didn't mean any of it."
      He slid his hand into his pocket and she cringed hard enough to make him wince in response. He seemed to slow his movements to keep from frightening her further as he produced a small box.
      "I really.." he trailed off while his sausage fingers fumbled with the lid. "I really do love you."
The lid snapped back to show a diamond ring nestled in its velvet folds. She gasped as she felt her face and hands go cold, just before the voice of an old memory poured through her head.
      "From the feet, to the hips." it said.
      She turned away slightly as he hesitated as he slipped it on to her shaking hand. Her weight shifted with the turn as she raised her arm to bring the flawless brilliance that now circled her finger into view.
      "Then into the shoulder, like a spring let loose." the voice finished.
      Her hand flew forward, the white flash turned ruby as a gash appeared in his cheek, fueled by the hundred pounds of her body weight behind the blow. Now lubricated, the ring slid off with ease as she tossed it at his feet and slammed the door. She threw the lock and collapsed against frame, bloody smears following her to the ground as dry heaves took over her body.

Windmills

I expected to sit down this evening and have the hours to myself. I planned to sift through the stories I'd written and the ones I hadn't. It didn't work out.

Besides suddenly finding myself with unexpected company, I realized a few of the stories I'd been mapping had already been written. Perhaps not in the exact form that I'd planned to write them, but there they are... already out in the world. A few are considered "timeless classics". How do I live up to that? Insanity.

I suppose I could write the stories anyway. Perhaps I'm seeing parallels where there are none. Or perhaps I'm just working with themes so universal that I could look at classic after classic and see the stories I have in my head and heart. Who would read them? Who would want to read a repeat story? Wouldn't it get to be stale? Or are all stories just reincarnations of tales already told?

Thin Read Line

I don't know why my red pencil makes me so damn happy. I really, truly enjoy editing work. Why the hell is that?

Personally, I think that editing is more difficult than creating. During the creation process anyone can justify tossing just about anything on the pile because they are constructing an entirely new thing. The hard part is weeding out what doesn't quite belong - the refinement, polishing and tightening of a piece: the finish work.

The finish work has so long been my preferred portion of the process that it has lead me to either never completing a project or starting the project in the first place. Completion eluded me due to the massive amount of time spent fussing over the final "polish". Failures to launch were simply because I could not get to the self editorializing within a satisfying time frame.

I suppose my red pencil makes me happy for the same reason that a fresh, glossy coat of paint on the sanded out body of a '59 Chevy makes a car buff happy: we both get to watch our ugly ducklings become swans.

Gameday

Dear Assholes who want to knock Saints fans for enjoying the current season: Fuck right the fuck off. We have every right to take our team as seriously as you take yours. The number of times a team went to the playoffs in the past is not an indicator of what that team is today. You're just pissed that the geeky kid at the back of the class showed the prom king that he's not the biggest cock on the block.