Ringing In The New Year

Like many of you, I celebrated New Year’s Eve with friends, food, and the depressing remains of Dick Clark’s New Year’s Rockin’ Eve or as I like to call it, “Why am I unable to power on a television and not see Ryan Seacrest?” The show featured in-depth reporting from Jenny McCarthy, wearing a headset left over from the Apollo 13 mission control center, and Fergie, wearing a bedazzled piece of air-conditioning duct-work, not to mention a stellar lineup of some of the most talented voices in modern music.

Unfortunately, the talented voices of modern music had better offers in Las Vegas so ABC presented us with a Backstreet Boys / New Kids on the Block reunion show instead. For the better part of an hour we were treated to a dozen grown men singing and dancing their way along the precipice of obscurity while gaggles of teenage girls looked on and wondered why their mothers were so excited.

Lucky for us, ABC wisely chose to balance this middle-age career triage with the fresh sounds of Ke$ha who performed her party anthem “Tik Tok” as gaggles of mothers looked on and wondered why their teenage girls were so excited. During her moving rendition of her chart-topping hit, Ke$ha also managed to desecrate not one, but two Judeo-Christian holidays by grinding on what appeared to be a biker-gang enforcer dressed as Santa Claus and then savagely beating a piñata of the Easter bunny.

As if this wasn’t enough, she peppered the underwhelmed crowd with inspirational nuggets such as encouraging them to “make 2011 our bitch” and publicly resolving not to “become a douchebag” in the coming months.

Ke$ha

At the conclusion of the aforementioned music performances, I could not help but wonder which held the greater cache of talent; the artists performing on the stage, or the roadies who helped assemble it. I felt disappointed by the entertainment and the only effort exerted on my part was turning on the television.

Having seen enough, we decided to flip over to CNN and follow their coverage of the groundbreaking “guitar drop” in Nashville, TN. I couldn’t help but be filled with pride as I took in the throngs of people gathered in my state’s capitol to witness our historic New Year’s Eve debut. The pride quickly passed as I watched CNN’s Nashville correspondent, painfully overplayed as a cow-girl, trade banter with Anderson Cooper and Kathy Griffin.   

Then, as midnight approached, we became witnesses to a televised train wreck. Since there was no clear official countdown, the guitar arbitrarily began its descent almost a full minute early only to stall halfway and slightly re-ascend before stopping again. I am still unsure as to whether this was a deliberate attempt to correct the premature drop or a mechanical failure. At any rate, the powers that be decided to distract from this embarrassing monstrosity by setting off the fireworks early leading to a chain reaction of confusion and, even more heinous, unnecessary cutaways to Kathy Griffin.

It got bad enough that at one point I envied the celebration staged by Biloxi, Mississippi for both its understated simplicity and chronological accuracy. To Nashville’s credit, I have heard no reports of fatalities or gang violence at the celebration which means it is still ahead of Memphis, where the only things that normally drop at midnight are the shooting victims.

Guns & Roses

Arthur "Firearm Safety" Sedille

Just before Christmas 2010, the emergency operations center in Oklahoma City, Oklahoma got an unusual call from one of its citizens. Twenty-three year old Arthur Sedille called 911 to report that his wife had been shot in the head and needed medical attention. When authorities arrived they found Rebecca Sedille, 50, deceased in the couple’s bedroom.

As the night progressed, Arthur admitted that he and his wife often engaged in “fantasy love play” involving firearms. On the night in question, Arthur was lovingly holding his pistol to the side of his wife’s head when it discharged. He claims to have been unaware that the weapon was loaded and insists that the incident was a tragic accident. Pending further investigation, he has been arrested on suspicion of first degree murder but as of this writing he hasn’t been formally charged with a crime.

At the risk of sounding prudish, exactly how does a person discover that they enjoy having a handgun pressed to the side of the melon while engaging in carnal activities? Did Arthur just shoehorn that little nugget into dinner conversation one night?

“You know honey, I couldn’t find the newspaper again this morning. Maybe we should call again.”

“I will take care of that tomorrow…..By the way, what are your feelings concerning homicidal fantasy role-play?”

Perhaps it was just how I was raised, but the gentlemanly thing would involve starting out slowly with a knife or a vial of weaponized anthrax before moving on to the big leagues. I realize that it can be difficult to keep the romance alive (especially when one half of the couple had the ability to rent a car before the other was even born) but I cannot help but wonder if they had actually exhausted their other options before purchasing the N.R.A. Valentines Day kit.  

If, as Arthur claims, Mrs. Sedille enjoyed having a Desert Eagle .50 join them in the bedroom, common courtesy would dictate that you check the chamber before playing the dirty version of “Who wants to see grandma again?” Forgetting the scented massage oil is easily remedied, forgetting to check the safety and un-chamber the hollow points is a slightly more complicated “oops.”

Of course, the other possibility is that Arthur has created a near-perfect cover story for a premeditated act of murder. After all, how is a prosecutor to prove beyond a reasonable doubt that Mrs. Sedille didn’t enjoy sexual gun-play? There is no proof one way or the other and I doubt that she listed it under Hobbies and Interests on her Facebook profile. This means that he could have shot his wife, fabricated a story about violent fetishes, and then used her modesty to explain why such a story cannot be verified.    

I would be interested to know whether or not the late Mrs. Sedille happened to be covered by an unusually large life insurance policy or was the recipient of a robust trust fund. I realize such a view is cynical, but I will not be shocked when the Lifetime movie premiers next fall. I have even taken the liberty of penning a few prospective film titles for them to use:

• Semi-Automatic Lover (The Rebecca Sedille Story)
• Shotgun Wedding (The Rebecca Sedille Story)
• Weapons of Mass Seduction (The Rebecca Sedille Story)
• Colts & Deadbolts: The Secret World of The Sedilles
• What’s The Worst That Could Happen? (The Rebecca Sedille Story)

I fear that if such a fetish were to become widespread, an onslaught of bad country songs would not be far behind:

• My Smith & Wesson’s Got Her Undressin’
• She’s Got a Round In The Chamber And A Bun In The Oven
• Budweiser, Buck-shot, and Becky-Lynn (The Manslaughter Song)
• Hair-trigger Hoedown
• You, Me, & and a Remington Makes Three
• 5 Hours, 6-Shooters, and 7 Years Upstate

White Supremacy & You!

Recently, I watched a documentary about the Imperial Klans of America, a white supremacist organization based in Kentucky. A subsidiary of the original Klu Klux Klan, the IKA currently has the second largest membership of any Klan organization and sponsors a yearly music and cultural celebration known as NordicFest where hundreds of able-bodied crackers gather to reaffirm their commitment to the white race.

Like the KKK before them, membership in the IKA is restricted to “pure” Caucasians who have never been in a romantic relationship with a member of another race. They hate Jews, Asians, Latinos, African-Americans, Indians, and presumably, Mariah Carey.

There were two aspects of the IKA in particular that struck me. The first was that they opened their rituals (such as the annual cross-burning) with a prayer, specifically because they wish to pay homage to Jesus. Unfortunately, the documentary did not capture the full prayer so I began to wonder what a white supremacist prayer preceding a cross burning might sound like, and this is what I came up with.

Heavenly Father,

                     We just thank you for bringing us together on this beautiful day to hate the Jews and the Mexicans. Though we may walk through the valley of the shadow of Negros, we fear neither Asians nor Native Americans for you are with us. We ask that you bless us as we ignite the device used to crucify your Anglo-Saxon offspring and may the racial slurs of our mouths and the meditations of our hearts be pleasing unto you. May your ethnically-specific grace continue to shine on our genetically translucent skin tone.  

Amen

The second thing that struck me was how heavily the IKA leaned on white power music as a recruiting tool. This seems rather unwise since it appears that quality songwriting is not the strong suit of those espousing the idea of a “master race.” I realize of course that I shouldn’t be expecting The White Album (pun absolutely intended) from a band named “Jew Slaughter” or “Grinded Nig,” but perhaps a little variety in subject matter would expand their fan-base. After all, how many songs can you reasonably compose with “white power” in the chorus? What they need are more love songs because there cannot be a large number of Aryan couples in these movements who exclaim “that’s our song!” every time “Kansas City Kike Massacre” comes on.

Surprisingly, many studies corroborate the group’s claim that white supremacy music brings in hundreds of young men to IKA and similar organizations. This means that in a majority of cases it isn’t overwhelming hatred that drives youth into their ranks, just a lack-luster music collection. If this is indeed the case, we could disband the entire white power movement with a few well-placed Led Zeppelin albums and an iTunes account.

All joking aside, you guys really are embarrassing the rest of us white people. We are having a hard enough time recovering from Gary Busey’s last stint on Celebrity Rehab without you claiming that you and your unnecessarily-camouflaged Uncle Jimmy represent the pinnacle of human evolution.

And by the way, Jesus was a Jew and I am pretty sure he would tell you that your music sucks too.

Roid Rage

In response to my wife’s chronic sinus maladies, we finally broke down and decided to consult a specialist. He spent an hour or so giving the misses a once-over and decided that she needed a strong round of Prednisone to clear up any remaining intranasal inflammation. For those of you unfamiliar with this wonder drug, it is a steroid that suppresses the immune system to reduce swelling and inflammation. In our case, my wife was given double the normal adult dose. Partially because her condition was somewhat severe and partially because the prescribing physician is not married to her and knew her return appointment was scheduled for well after the effects would have worn off.

I had taken Prednisone before to somewhat dramatic effect, its euphoric highs being balanced out by long philosophical soliloquies that usually ended with me crying on the couch. I silently prayed that Ashley did not suffer a similar fate, but it was not to be.

At first, the effects were negligible; but after several days a change began to overtake my spouse and I became a man living in fear. Rudderless anger was the most conspicuous side effect and it would erupt with no warning. Something as innocuous as a misplaced hand-towel or the asymmetrical arrangement of periodicals on the coffee table would lead to a heated confrontation.

One particular evening I had gotten home from work early and was sitting on the couch when I heard the familiar humming of the garage door opener. Sweat began to adorn my brow as my eyes swept the living room for points of contention. Were the television remotes arranged by button quantity? Was the ottoman askew? Were my soiled boxers still adorning the entertainment center?   I felt like the kids in Jurassic Park staring hopelessly at the glass of water as the T-Rex approached to devour them. Unfortunately, seven years of marriage had taught me that lying motionless on the couch did not prevent my wife from seeing me nor did such behavior mitigate her anger.

Oddly enough, her contempt was not limited to waking consciousness. The tiny pills also produced what I referred to as “violent insomnia” in which she would grunt and flail wildly at the slightest noise or mattress vibration. One night as I lay motionless in a fit of paralyzed terror, she kept yelling at me to stop “jiggling around” although I hadn’t moved in ten minutes and my heart rate had dipped to dangerous levels. Had the sink started dripping, I feared she would have to be sedated and restrained. I remained motionless until she huffed the words “finally” (although I hadn’t shifted for the duration of the episode) and she fell back into a fitful slumber.

That is not to say that unbridled wrath was the only result. One particular day, after we had spoken a few cross words about the arrangement of the mail, I retreated to my man cave to gather my thoughts and plan the easiest way to slip her a barbiturate. However, after about ten minutes had passed I heard uncontrollable sobbing from the living room and immediately emerged expecting to be informed that all of my in-laws had perished during a Harry Potter screening. I hadn’t seen my wife that distraught since the matrimonial debut of my “dance of seduction.”

Between the violent bursts of tears I was able to discern only a single word: “Wolfie.” I quickly racked my brain searching for a childhood friend or distant relative who could have acquired such an unusual moniker but could produce nothing. It was only minutes later, after finally regaining her composure, that she revealed the source of her heartbreak. 

It turns out that “Wolfie” was the heroic canine who had just been shot on a stirring episode of Dr. Quinn Medicine Woman. This chilling act of poorly-scripted animal cruelty had sent my wife into an emotional tailspin. I instinctively changed the channel (to avoid any other ill-timed frontier hijinks) and began consoling my wife by assuring her that Wolfie’s sacrifice had not been in vain. She seemed to accept this, and for the remainder of the evening I made sure to only approach her position at perpendicular angles.

After two weeks of chemical enhancement, my compassionate loving wife was returned to me and I was able to shift positions in the night without having a pillow firmly placed over my airway. In the future, I may stipulate that any physician wishing to prescribe Prednisone to my wife be required to board her for the duration of treatment.