You may have seen an article in The Hartford Courant detailing the behavior of a bunch of teenage turds from Canton. Here’s the gist:
Kids from Canton chanted “Trump! Trump!”(and even made signs) during a basketball game at their opponents from Classical Magnet School.
I’m not sure I can think of a lamer, less creative chant to use on your opponents, but hey, what can you expect from Trump fans?
One might rush to associate this kind of incident with the sentient cheese doodle we elected President and the outburst of racist a-holery that has swept the country since then. You’d be partially, kinda, sorta wrong, though. (more…)
For reasons I can only assume have to do with our current President, researchers are suddenly interested in how profanity relates to honesty. As such, researchers have found that Nutmeggers swear more than the rest of America, and we also have more integrity than our fellow citizens. This should be good news for Governor Porcupine, who could make a sailor blush.
How would anyone measure this, you ask? Facebook! (more…)
Westport’s Diversity Council had the seemingly progressive idea to hold an essay contest on the subject of “White Privilege”…and were surprised to find themselves facing backlash. Now, I don’t know what’s surprising about the push back because, if anything, the past couple of years have taught us that people who believe they are basically good don’t like the implication that they might not be perfect. Especially “good white people” which I’m sure Westport is full of…because the law of averages says that when there are that many white people in one place, many of them have to be good humans. (more…)
Okay, so technically it wasn’t a march, it was more of a rally. Nonetheless, it was impressive. After spending The Farmer’s birthday ignoring anything else that might have happened on that day–and reminding those that joined us around the bonfire that they were not allowed to talk of such things–we suited up for a protest. For me, that meant choosing between t-shirts and then strapping on my hiking boots.
The Trumpocalypse is upon us. Inauguration Day is less than 48 hours away, Connecticut’s senators Dick Blumenthal and Chris Murphy are planning to attend (a questionable decision but as long as they resist when it matter, we’ll let it slide), and we’re still hoping Trump will suffer a panic attack before taking the oath and run screaming from the stage.
On inauguration day I hope to completely ignore the entire affair. It happens to be The Farmer’s birthday (he spent his 30th birthday at Obama’s first inauguration–this year isn’t looking quite as bright) so we’ll be pretending the inauguration isn’t happening. We’ll be doing the New England in January version of this:
(For the record, that entails hot toddies, a parka that fits just right, and a bonfire.)
I hope that you’ll help crush Trump’s ego, turn off the TV, and make sure his ratings are abysmal, but more than that I hope you’ll consider joining the rally in Hartford on Saturday. Get involved!
Many years ago I was rushing from a friend’s Hartford apartment to the car on a cold winter night. I tripped a little, and assumed I’d hit a bump in the sidewalk with the toe of my shoe. But my friend, who was walking behind me, yelled, “Oh my God. A rat!” Yes, dear readers, a rat had run between my feet as I was jogging to the car, and I’d unwittingly kicked the little guy. At this point I screeched, broke out into a full out run, and started scratching at the car door! I had to get out of there, and go home and shower for hours.
Then I spent years in New York City where rats are like furtive little squirrels. You see them hanging out on the train tracks, and they scare the bejesus out of you when you’re sitting in the park and you see one scurry into a tree grate out of the corner of your eye. This is all to say, I thought I was used to rats.
This summer proved me wrong. I was digging around in a friend’s West End basement looking for painting supplies. Just as she finished saying the words, “My neighbor says there’s been a rat down here…” we heard the tell tale squeak of a frightened rat. I turned on a dime and sprang up the basement stairs, and then up another flight of stairs to her apartment. Somewhere in there I hit my hand on something and scratched it all to hell. It’s a miracle I’m not dead. (more…)