There's an old saying that I just love: A man's reach should exceed his grasp, unless he's an outfielder for the Chicago Cubs.
Okay, I'm kidding. The quote actually goes "Ah, but a man's reach should exceed his grasp, or what's a heaven for?" Robert Browning said it. He meant that we should all strive to achieve our dreams, not just settle for what is easy to obtain.
And I believed the dumb son of a bitch. So I assembled a crack team of moose flunkies and large-breasted typists (actually, just one of each, but it sounds better the other way), and set out to conquer the world.
After a few fits and starts, it all seemed to be heading in the right direction. And I still believe it is. But I also believe that the journey has been the most enormous pain in the ass any moose has ever suffered. I have learned more about what absolute shitheads some people can be than I ever wanted to know.
Which leads to my urgent need for clown balm. As many of you know, when I am anxious or stressed I soothe myself by boxing my clown. It's cheaper than therapy, not as messy as pulling an Ernest Hemingway, and not likely to land me in jail like some of my other ways of "decompressing" might. (Think exposing myself to the hot young waitress at Buffalo Wild Wings.)
So, in this trying time leading up to the consummating of my deal (don't you love the word "consummate"?), my poor clown has been getting a serious workout. I'm talking raw and bleeding here, folks. With pee pee callouses and everything. It is a dire situation.
The only thing that can help at this point is a generous application of clown balm, preferably by a large-breasted Russian ballroom dancer, while on the road to consummate my deal. (There's that word again. Consummate consummate consummate.)
If you are of a religious persuasion, please pray that I get clown balm and consummation. If you are not religious, good vibes will do. In either case, your well wishes are appreciated, so send lots of them, before my poor clown gets infected and falls off or something.
.
Saturday, February 28, 2009
Wednesday, February 25, 2009
When Teddy Croaks, Can We Finally Be Over The Kennedys?
Please? Pretty please?
My big-titted secretary is 45 years old. (Actually, she's more like 45 years young, but don't tell her that. She'll get a head bigger than mine, and there ain't room for two of us.) She talks about being "Kennedy-ed" her entire life. Hearing bullshit about how the Kennedy family is the closest thing to royalty that America has.
Um, didn't you guys fight a fuckin' revolution to get AWAY from a monarchy? How stupid do you have to be to want "royalty" running your country?
Now, I'm a simple moose, but I'm fairly well-read, and I watch the Hitler Channel a lot. From what I can tell, Joe Kennedy hauled his family to prominence by hauling 'shine and being a soulless rat bastard. I believe in capitalism, and I believe prohibition was a bad idea. Those two convictions are not incongruent with my belief that Joe Kennedy was a first-rate douchebag.
But, douche or duke, ol' Joe was a determined man. He wanted one (or more) of his sons to become President of the United States. I give him points for being ambitious if nothing else. (All those points are deducted with extreme prejudice, of course, when one considers that he was the one who authorized the lobotomy that turned his slightly slow yet quite functional daughter Rosemary into a drooling tard.)
Unfortunately, the douche apple doesn't fall far from the tree. John F. Kennedy was a deeply flawed man. And for every good idea he had politically, he had two that were almost criminally stupid. It's tough to say what his legacy might have been if he hadn't been cancelled by Lee Harvey Oswald. But in 1963, cancel him Oswald did, and thus, he became JFK the myth, JFK the legend, JFK the prince and god all rolled into one.
The Kennedy family, of course, has never been above nepotism. That's why Bobby was Attorney General, and a "place-holder" Senator was put into JFK's seat after he was elected President, with the promise that when Drunken Ted turned 30, the Senate seat would be given to him.
Bobby never ascended to the Presidency because Sirhan Sirhan ventilated him in 1968. Therefore, his never-to-be Presidency is almost as idolized as that of his older brother.
Ted never took up the Presidential scepter because he got drunk and killed a girl in 1969. Oh, I know, there were other reasons given - family problems and whatnot. But I think we all know the truth. You can't leave a young lady to die while you sleep it off in a hotel room, and still expect to become President, even if your last name is Kennedy. That name will protect you from paying the piper for your crimes, but it won't let you rule over the piper.
So here we had Jack dead, Bobby dead, and Ted as good as dead. In a perfect world, that would have meant the end of the Kennedy dynasty. But no, we were not by any means rid of America's Royal Pains In The Ass. That picture of little John-John saluting at his father's grave was just too fucking cute by half. We were in for another generation of the putative monarchy.
Fate intervened, though. Okay, it wasn't fate. It was abject stupidity. John-John lost his horizon, and piled into the Atlantic Ocean, killing himself, his wife, and her sister. How do I know he lost his horizon and became disoriented? Because Little Miss Big Tits talked to her Dad the day after it happened. An old-school aviator himself, he said, "You would be amazed how easy it is for that to happen, even to good pilots. And that guy wasn't a good pilot."
(Momentary Moose Flunky segue: At the time, the Moose Flunky remarked on the fact that there were thousands of Coast Guard personnel out searching for the Dead Kennedys. "If it had been you or me," he snarked excellently, "we'd have rated a one-legged seaman in a dinghy." He's right, and that is sad, but it's still pretty fucking funny.)
That wasn't the end of the Kennedecline. Baby-Sitter Fucker Kennedy (aka Michael) took a header into a tree on the lovely ski slopes of Aspen. He was skiing without poles, a video camera in one hand, and a "skiing football" fashioned from a water bottle packed with snow in the other.
Yes, Virginia, some people really ARE too stupid to live.
And who can forget that incident a few years back when Teddy's son Patrick got all liquored and drugged up, and seemed to think he had to go to the Capitol building for a vote at three in the morning? I presume crashing into the building was his way of making his vote known or something? He entered rehab shortly thereafter. Wise choice, loser. No doubt he will remain in politics for the rest of his life, given that he is too imbecilic to do anything else. But the rehab gig, that little domestic violence thing with his dick coozie that they had to call the Coast Guard in to break up, opening a can of whoop-ass on some poor wage slave security dude at LAX, and the rest of his fuck-ups, are more than enough to insure that this particular Kennedy will not rise far in the political sphere.
Then we've got the Kennedy relation who's a rapist, Bobby's son who died of an overdose, and the nephew who beat a 15 year old girl to death with a golf club.
And recently, we have Caroline, who wanted to walk in Hillary Clinton's verruca-infested shoes, as the junior Senator from New York. Unfortunately for her, tax problems, illegal employment issues, and a little hanky-panky kept that from happening. I think we can all breathe easier knowing that's one more Kennedy who has torpedoed herself.
That is why I truly do not understand the Kennedy worship. You humans pick such odd heroes. At best, this family is appallingly irresponsible. At worst, they are flagrantly criminal. And yet they are treated like they are something special.
Here's a hint: Truly exceptional people do not get through life based on their surname, or the sympathy that their dead brother or father or uncle evokes. These people are a cancer, and as the Secretary puts it, not worth half the powder it would take to blow them all straight to hell.
So when Teddy goes tits up, can all you Kennedy-lovers do me a favor? Daub the last square on you Kennedy Karma Bingo Card, and stop treating the Kennedy assclowns as if they're the second coming. Seriously. They're not worth it.
.
My big-titted secretary is 45 years old. (Actually, she's more like 45 years young, but don't tell her that. She'll get a head bigger than mine, and there ain't room for two of us.) She talks about being "Kennedy-ed" her entire life. Hearing bullshit about how the Kennedy family is the closest thing to royalty that America has.
Um, didn't you guys fight a fuckin' revolution to get AWAY from a monarchy? How stupid do you have to be to want "royalty" running your country?
Now, I'm a simple moose, but I'm fairly well-read, and I watch the Hitler Channel a lot. From what I can tell, Joe Kennedy hauled his family to prominence by hauling 'shine and being a soulless rat bastard. I believe in capitalism, and I believe prohibition was a bad idea. Those two convictions are not incongruent with my belief that Joe Kennedy was a first-rate douchebag.
But, douche or duke, ol' Joe was a determined man. He wanted one (or more) of his sons to become President of the United States. I give him points for being ambitious if nothing else. (All those points are deducted with extreme prejudice, of course, when one considers that he was the one who authorized the lobotomy that turned his slightly slow yet quite functional daughter Rosemary into a drooling tard.)
Unfortunately, the douche apple doesn't fall far from the tree. John F. Kennedy was a deeply flawed man. And for every good idea he had politically, he had two that were almost criminally stupid. It's tough to say what his legacy might have been if he hadn't been cancelled by Lee Harvey Oswald. But in 1963, cancel him Oswald did, and thus, he became JFK the myth, JFK the legend, JFK the prince and god all rolled into one.
The Kennedy family, of course, has never been above nepotism. That's why Bobby was Attorney General, and a "place-holder" Senator was put into JFK's seat after he was elected President, with the promise that when Drunken Ted turned 30, the Senate seat would be given to him.
Bobby never ascended to the Presidency because Sirhan Sirhan ventilated him in 1968. Therefore, his never-to-be Presidency is almost as idolized as that of his older brother.
Ted never took up the Presidential scepter because he got drunk and killed a girl in 1969. Oh, I know, there were other reasons given - family problems and whatnot. But I think we all know the truth. You can't leave a young lady to die while you sleep it off in a hotel room, and still expect to become President, even if your last name is Kennedy. That name will protect you from paying the piper for your crimes, but it won't let you rule over the piper.
So here we had Jack dead, Bobby dead, and Ted as good as dead. In a perfect world, that would have meant the end of the Kennedy dynasty. But no, we were not by any means rid of America's Royal Pains In The Ass. That picture of little John-John saluting at his father's grave was just too fucking cute by half. We were in for another generation of the putative monarchy.
Fate intervened, though. Okay, it wasn't fate. It was abject stupidity. John-John lost his horizon, and piled into the Atlantic Ocean, killing himself, his wife, and her sister. How do I know he lost his horizon and became disoriented? Because Little Miss Big Tits talked to her Dad the day after it happened. An old-school aviator himself, he said, "You would be amazed how easy it is for that to happen, even to good pilots. And that guy wasn't a good pilot."
(Momentary Moose Flunky segue: At the time, the Moose Flunky remarked on the fact that there were thousands of Coast Guard personnel out searching for the Dead Kennedys. "If it had been you or me," he snarked excellently, "we'd have rated a one-legged seaman in a dinghy." He's right, and that is sad, but it's still pretty fucking funny.)
That wasn't the end of the Kennedecline. Baby-Sitter Fucker Kennedy (aka Michael) took a header into a tree on the lovely ski slopes of Aspen. He was skiing without poles, a video camera in one hand, and a "skiing football" fashioned from a water bottle packed with snow in the other.
Yes, Virginia, some people really ARE too stupid to live.
And who can forget that incident a few years back when Teddy's son Patrick got all liquored and drugged up, and seemed to think he had to go to the Capitol building for a vote at three in the morning? I presume crashing into the building was his way of making his vote known or something? He entered rehab shortly thereafter. Wise choice, loser. No doubt he will remain in politics for the rest of his life, given that he is too imbecilic to do anything else. But the rehab gig, that little domestic violence thing with his dick coozie that they had to call the Coast Guard in to break up, opening a can of whoop-ass on some poor wage slave security dude at LAX, and the rest of his fuck-ups, are more than enough to insure that this particular Kennedy will not rise far in the political sphere.
Then we've got the Kennedy relation who's a rapist, Bobby's son who died of an overdose, and the nephew who beat a 15 year old girl to death with a golf club.
And recently, we have Caroline, who wanted to walk in Hillary Clinton's verruca-infested shoes, as the junior Senator from New York. Unfortunately for her, tax problems, illegal employment issues, and a little hanky-panky kept that from happening. I think we can all breathe easier knowing that's one more Kennedy who has torpedoed herself.
That is why I truly do not understand the Kennedy worship. You humans pick such odd heroes. At best, this family is appallingly irresponsible. At worst, they are flagrantly criminal. And yet they are treated like they are something special.
Here's a hint: Truly exceptional people do not get through life based on their surname, or the sympathy that their dead brother or father or uncle evokes. These people are a cancer, and as the Secretary puts it, not worth half the powder it would take to blow them all straight to hell.
So when Teddy goes tits up, can all you Kennedy-lovers do me a favor? Daub the last square on you Kennedy Karma Bingo Card, and stop treating the Kennedy assclowns as if they're the second coming. Seriously. They're not worth it.
.
Monday, December 29, 2008
Crazy People Shouldn't Blog. Yes, I'm talking to you, Heather Larson.
The saga of The Infant Formerly Known As Talon (I would refer to him henceforth as TIFKAT, but since he has a new name, that just wouldn't be polite) continues.
Natasha Roybal allegedly phoned the Larson family last Sunday. Read the gory details here.
This is the part that left my moose-jaw gaping:
-- There are a few things about this conversation that strike me as funny. First of all, we would never have started this blog if this battle hadn't happened. I would have just gone about life, mailing Christmas cards, and never saying a negative word about her. --
How magnanimous of you. If she had allowed you to steal her child, you would have refrained from slandering her, and mailed Christmas cards instead. I'm sure if you had told her that, she would have dropped her case and let you keep her son.
Not.
Is it dicky of her to torment you about her legal victory in this case? Indubitably. But yet, was it dicky of you to broadcast the personal details of her and her son's life all over the internet and the airwaves? Without a doubt.
Therefore, the Cosmic Dickiness Quotient in the universe is in balance.
Meanwhile, the tribe issued a press release.
-- LEECH LAKE THANKS LARSONS, BABY SAFE AND HAPPY
The Leech Lake Band of Ojibwe (LLBO) thanks the Larsons for taking good care of one of our newest tribal members, Destino (Talon). Contrary to reports in the news, the baby known as Talon in Utah was never adopted by the Larsons. In fact, the adoption proceedings were not initiated in Utah until a month after the LLBO Tribal Court issued an order for pick-up and return of the baby to Minnesota under the jurisdiction and custody of the Tribal Court.
It is unfortunate that Heart and Soul Adoptions failed to follow-up on the “red flag” responses the birth mother gave on their Intake questionnaire. Heart and Soul knew a pick-up order had been issued by the Tribal Court within two (2) weeks after the baby was born. Instead of complying with the court order, Heart and Soul and the Larsons initiated a “flawed” adoption process in Utah courts.
Under Utah law, when the birth parents are married, both parents must give consent to the adoption. In this case the married father never gave his consent. It is regrettable that adoption agencies are able to prey on pregnant mothers in poverty. Equally disturbing is giving false hopes to their paying clients, who they present with a baby, who is actually someone else’s child. The Indian Child Welfare Act (ICWA) protects tribes, tribal members and their children and our collective Anishinabe culture. The Band did respectfully intervene in the Larson’s Utah adoption proceedings. That Judge carefully reviewed the facts and evidence, as well as federal law trumping state law, and followed the law.
Heart and Soul should have returned the child in June to avoid this unnecessarily long duration and consequential attachment by the Larsons. ICWA, Indians and Indian tribes are not the problem here. The Leech Lake Band of Ojibwe hopes the Press media and Utah’s agency licensing adoption agencies will critically examine Heart and Soul. --
Destino. I like that. A very strong, manly name.
And the press release is correct. The ICWA and the woo woos are not at fault here. The blame lies with the adoption agency, and the would-be adopters who tried to keep a child that wasn't theirs. This placement wasn't just legally flawed. It was morally flawed. Who would tell a mother that has decided to parent that she should instead give her baby to the highest bidder?
You know, I'm a cynical bastard. So if *I* think a situation is incredibly fucked up, it's really REALLY fucked up. Trust me when I say this White Superiority Complex attempted adoption was a cluster-fuck for the ages waiting to happen. Kind of makes you wonder what life must be like for Kade-Who-Needs-Therapy, doesn't it?
Somehow, in my moose heart, I know this woman will work through her problems and be reunited with her children. Even if she doesn't, though, the kid doesn't belong with people who say shitty things about his mother. No one needs to grow up being told that the person who gave him life is a loser.
.
Natasha Roybal allegedly phoned the Larson family last Sunday. Read the gory details here.
This is the part that left my moose-jaw gaping:
-- There are a few things about this conversation that strike me as funny. First of all, we would never have started this blog if this battle hadn't happened. I would have just gone about life, mailing Christmas cards, and never saying a negative word about her. --
How magnanimous of you. If she had allowed you to steal her child, you would have refrained from slandering her, and mailed Christmas cards instead. I'm sure if you had told her that, she would have dropped her case and let you keep her son.
Not.
Is it dicky of her to torment you about her legal victory in this case? Indubitably. But yet, was it dicky of you to broadcast the personal details of her and her son's life all over the internet and the airwaves? Without a doubt.
Therefore, the Cosmic Dickiness Quotient in the universe is in balance.
Meanwhile, the tribe issued a press release.
-- LEECH LAKE THANKS LARSONS, BABY SAFE AND HAPPY
The Leech Lake Band of Ojibwe (LLBO) thanks the Larsons for taking good care of one of our newest tribal members, Destino (Talon). Contrary to reports in the news, the baby known as Talon in Utah was never adopted by the Larsons. In fact, the adoption proceedings were not initiated in Utah until a month after the LLBO Tribal Court issued an order for pick-up and return of the baby to Minnesota under the jurisdiction and custody of the Tribal Court.
It is unfortunate that Heart and Soul Adoptions failed to follow-up on the “red flag” responses the birth mother gave on their Intake questionnaire. Heart and Soul knew a pick-up order had been issued by the Tribal Court within two (2) weeks after the baby was born. Instead of complying with the court order, Heart and Soul and the Larsons initiated a “flawed” adoption process in Utah courts.
Under Utah law, when the birth parents are married, both parents must give consent to the adoption. In this case the married father never gave his consent. It is regrettable that adoption agencies are able to prey on pregnant mothers in poverty. Equally disturbing is giving false hopes to their paying clients, who they present with a baby, who is actually someone else’s child. The Indian Child Welfare Act (ICWA) protects tribes, tribal members and their children and our collective Anishinabe culture. The Band did respectfully intervene in the Larson’s Utah adoption proceedings. That Judge carefully reviewed the facts and evidence, as well as federal law trumping state law, and followed the law.
Heart and Soul should have returned the child in June to avoid this unnecessarily long duration and consequential attachment by the Larsons. ICWA, Indians and Indian tribes are not the problem here. The Leech Lake Band of Ojibwe hopes the Press media and Utah’s agency licensing adoption agencies will critically examine Heart and Soul. --
Destino. I like that. A very strong, manly name.
And the press release is correct. The ICWA and the woo woos are not at fault here. The blame lies with the adoption agency, and the would-be adopters who tried to keep a child that wasn't theirs. This placement wasn't just legally flawed. It was morally flawed. Who would tell a mother that has decided to parent that she should instead give her baby to the highest bidder?
You know, I'm a cynical bastard. So if *I* think a situation is incredibly fucked up, it's really REALLY fucked up. Trust me when I say this White Superiority Complex attempted adoption was a cluster-fuck for the ages waiting to happen. Kind of makes you wonder what life must be like for Kade-Who-Needs-Therapy, doesn't it?
Somehow, in my moose heart, I know this woman will work through her problems and be reunited with her children. Even if she doesn't, though, the kid doesn't belong with people who say shitty things about his mother. No one needs to grow up being told that the person who gave him life is a loser.
.
Friday, December 19, 2008
Trying To Adopt What's Not Available for Adoption... What The Fuck Is Up With That?
Once again, I am forced to shake my antlers at the arrogance, stupidity, and hubris of some of you humans when it comes to adoption situations. I sure am glad that in moose culture, we don't have to deal with these things. Somehow, though, I have no doubt that we, being creatures with good sense, would handle the matter in an intelligent way. As in, the way you guys don't.
So, for those of you who are not familiar with adoption laws, they vary from state to state. But there is one federal law that trumps every individual state's laws: The Indian Child Welfare Act.
Enacted in 1978, the ICWA was intended to reduce the number of woo woo children adopted out to Evil Whitey's world. The idea was to correct a long-standing problem: The wholesale removal of these children from their tribe, their heritage, and their family. One cannot argue against removing children from bad parents - those who are addicted to alcohol or drugs, or who are negligent and/or abusive. There's a lot of that on the rez, so there were a lot of removals.
Ultimately, though, the woo woo sproggies oughtn't to be deprived of any knowledge of their heritage and ancestry just because their parents are fuck-ups. Thus, the ICWA was born. It gives the tribe a voice in the disposition of any child that is eligible for enrollment in the tribe. Normally, what that ends up meaning is that the tribe can object to a foster placement or adoption placement with a non-woo woo family.
The family in question today are Heather and Clint Larson. They are Mormons, from Utah. They tried to adopt an infant eligible for enrollment in the Leech Lake Band of the Ojibwe tribe in Minnesota. A few days ago, they had to give the child, whom they had named Talon, back to the tribe.
Bummer, huh?
They are now making the rounds of the talk shows, starting with Good Morning America, and using the internet to "get their story out there." The GMA interview was a piece of racist dreck. They might as well have come right out and said, "We are superior parents because we're white."
So how did the whole mess get to this point? Let's go straight to the horse's mouth: Heather Larson's blog.
They had been told by the adoption agency that the birth mother was 7/8 Irish and 1/8 woo woo. Imagine their alarm when a woman showed up who appeared to be, in Heather's words, "full-blown native." Here they were hoping for sweet Molly Malone with a touch of Pocohantas, and instead they get one of those big-boned dark-complected chicks that looks like she's been smacked in the face with a cast iron skillet.
Bummer, huh?
In any case, they decided to proceed with the adoption plan, even though they found out that she was enrolled in a tribe, this was her fourth child, the baby's father was her husband, and she was on methadone to get her off heroin.
Are those red flags blinding you yet? Me too.
Much is made in the blog about how poor little Talon was born addicted to drugs. I suppose the Larsons would have preferred the alternative, where the birth mother (she does have a name; it's Natasha Roybal) weans off of methadone during the pregnancy and it kills the fetus. Yup, that's right. You can't kick the habit, so to speak, when you can't manage the withdrawal symptoms of the bun in the oven. Well, you can, but some states will charge you with child endangerment, or even manslaughter if the thing croaks.
Managing withdrawal symptoms after the birth, on the other hand, is a piece of cake. But hey, it's far easier to demonize the person who took away your plaything than it is to be fair and admit that she did the right thing by continuing on the methadone.
Demonizing the birthmother wasn't enough for these good Christians, though. Nope, they had to drop a dime on her in Minnesota, too, after they were told that she wasn't going to sign the relinquishment papers. That resulted in a home visit from the Department of Human Services up in Minnesota, where they found her husband Luis and all his dope. The situation inspired them to take custody of her children that were in his care while she was down in Utah whelping.
Now, I realize there are three sides to every adoption-gone-wrong story, the would-be adopters' side, the birthparents' side, and the truth. But no consent to adoption is valid if duress or coercion is involved. And I don't think any sane person can believe that Ms. Roybal willingly signed those papers, given that she was threatened with removal of her other children if she didn't, and in light of the fact that she revoked her consent less than 48 hours later.
I have rambled for a while, but it is time for me to get to the point: This child was not available for adoption, and never would be. The would-be adopters knew before the baby was released from the hospital that the birthmother had revoked her consent, and was asserting her rights under the ICWA. They also had been notified by the tribe that they were claiming jurisdiction, and that they expected the would-be adopters to turn the child over to the tribe immediately.
The Larsons didn't do it. They took the kid home, got all attached to him, and then whined when they had to give him back.
Just another bunch of white folks who are trying to adopt a sprog that ISN'T FUCKING AVAILABLE FOR ADOPTION. (Am I the only one flashing back to Anna Mae He?)
Now, we could argue until the cows come home about whether that kid is better off on the rez, or with the Mormon freaks in Utah. Both situations have their positives and their negatives. LDS families tend to be stable and free of substance abuse. They're also notoriously sexist. The woo woo families are sometimes less stable and more plagued with substance abuse. But they can offer him something the white folks in Utah can't. They can give him insight into his heritage, and his place in the universe.
All that arguing is pointless, though. The law is what it is, and it exists for a reason, just as all laws pertaining to adoption exist for a reason: To protect vulnerable birthparents from bullying and exploitation. If you are against those protections, you have no business even thinking about adopting. Yes, I am talking to you, Heather and Clint Larson.
If you don't like the laws, work to have them changed. Start with Schoolhouse Rock. "I'm just a bill, I'm only a bill, and I'm sitting here on Capitol Hill..." In the meantime, stop trying to steal children you are not entitled to.
The would-be adopters then sputter back that this law shouldn't apply, because the kid isn't woo woo enough. Doesn't matter. The ICWA applies to any child eligible for enrollment in a recognized tribe. The Ojibwe folks in Minnesota say Talon is eligible for enrollment. So that's that. End of story.
The next gambit by the would-be adopters is that the child should not have been turned over to the tribe because he would be going into foster care. Doesn't matter. The ICWA does not require reunification with bio parents in order to be invoked. The child can be placed with relatives, other tribal members, or members of another tribe. It is only when none of those four situations can be accomplished that Baby Woo Woo can be placed with a non-woo woo family.
By the by, the foster care is in the same home with his biological siblings that were removed when the Larsons dropped the dime. So there will be family there. It's not like he's being placed with Martians or something.
Is it a cute kid? You be the judge.
Duh. Of course it's cute. I'm sure that's part of the reason they want to adopt it, just like people want to adopt cute Asian kids and cute African kids. But, once more for the cheap seats...
THIS CHILD IS NOT AVAILABLE FOR ADOPTION, AND LIKELY NEVER WILL BE.
Move on, Larson family. Let go of your dreams of Talon, and build your family by finding some white chick to exploit and coerce instead.
Oh, and find a more competent and ethical adoption agency, or you're likely to keep ending up in bad situations. That advice is free, and yet priceless.
.
So, for those of you who are not familiar with adoption laws, they vary from state to state. But there is one federal law that trumps every individual state's laws: The Indian Child Welfare Act.
Enacted in 1978, the ICWA was intended to reduce the number of woo woo children adopted out to Evil Whitey's world. The idea was to correct a long-standing problem: The wholesale removal of these children from their tribe, their heritage, and their family. One cannot argue against removing children from bad parents - those who are addicted to alcohol or drugs, or who are negligent and/or abusive. There's a lot of that on the rez, so there were a lot of removals.
Ultimately, though, the woo woo sproggies oughtn't to be deprived of any knowledge of their heritage and ancestry just because their parents are fuck-ups. Thus, the ICWA was born. It gives the tribe a voice in the disposition of any child that is eligible for enrollment in the tribe. Normally, what that ends up meaning is that the tribe can object to a foster placement or adoption placement with a non-woo woo family.
The family in question today are Heather and Clint Larson. They are Mormons, from Utah. They tried to adopt an infant eligible for enrollment in the Leech Lake Band of the Ojibwe tribe in Minnesota. A few days ago, they had to give the child, whom they had named Talon, back to the tribe.
Bummer, huh?
They are now making the rounds of the talk shows, starting with Good Morning America, and using the internet to "get their story out there." The GMA interview was a piece of racist dreck. They might as well have come right out and said, "We are superior parents because we're white."
So how did the whole mess get to this point? Let's go straight to the horse's mouth: Heather Larson's blog.
They had been told by the adoption agency that the birth mother was 7/8 Irish and 1/8 woo woo. Imagine their alarm when a woman showed up who appeared to be, in Heather's words, "full-blown native." Here they were hoping for sweet Molly Malone with a touch of Pocohantas, and instead they get one of those big-boned dark-complected chicks that looks like she's been smacked in the face with a cast iron skillet.
Bummer, huh?
In any case, they decided to proceed with the adoption plan, even though they found out that she was enrolled in a tribe, this was her fourth child, the baby's father was her husband, and she was on methadone to get her off heroin.
Are those red flags blinding you yet? Me too.
Much is made in the blog about how poor little Talon was born addicted to drugs. I suppose the Larsons would have preferred the alternative, where the birth mother (she does have a name; it's Natasha Roybal) weans off of methadone during the pregnancy and it kills the fetus. Yup, that's right. You can't kick the habit, so to speak, when you can't manage the withdrawal symptoms of the bun in the oven. Well, you can, but some states will charge you with child endangerment, or even manslaughter if the thing croaks.
Managing withdrawal symptoms after the birth, on the other hand, is a piece of cake. But hey, it's far easier to demonize the person who took away your plaything than it is to be fair and admit that she did the right thing by continuing on the methadone.
Demonizing the birthmother wasn't enough for these good Christians, though. Nope, they had to drop a dime on her in Minnesota, too, after they were told that she wasn't going to sign the relinquishment papers. That resulted in a home visit from the Department of Human Services up in Minnesota, where they found her husband Luis and all his dope. The situation inspired them to take custody of her children that were in his care while she was down in Utah whelping.
Now, I realize there are three sides to every adoption-gone-wrong story, the would-be adopters' side, the birthparents' side, and the truth. But no consent to adoption is valid if duress or coercion is involved. And I don't think any sane person can believe that Ms. Roybal willingly signed those papers, given that she was threatened with removal of her other children if she didn't, and in light of the fact that she revoked her consent less than 48 hours later.
I have rambled for a while, but it is time for me to get to the point: This child was not available for adoption, and never would be. The would-be adopters knew before the baby was released from the hospital that the birthmother had revoked her consent, and was asserting her rights under the ICWA. They also had been notified by the tribe that they were claiming jurisdiction, and that they expected the would-be adopters to turn the child over to the tribe immediately.
The Larsons didn't do it. They took the kid home, got all attached to him, and then whined when they had to give him back.
Just another bunch of white folks who are trying to adopt a sprog that ISN'T FUCKING AVAILABLE FOR ADOPTION. (Am I the only one flashing back to Anna Mae He?)
Now, we could argue until the cows come home about whether that kid is better off on the rez, or with the Mormon freaks in Utah. Both situations have their positives and their negatives. LDS families tend to be stable and free of substance abuse. They're also notoriously sexist. The woo woo families are sometimes less stable and more plagued with substance abuse. But they can offer him something the white folks in Utah can't. They can give him insight into his heritage, and his place in the universe.
All that arguing is pointless, though. The law is what it is, and it exists for a reason, just as all laws pertaining to adoption exist for a reason: To protect vulnerable birthparents from bullying and exploitation. If you are against those protections, you have no business even thinking about adopting. Yes, I am talking to you, Heather and Clint Larson.
If you don't like the laws, work to have them changed. Start with Schoolhouse Rock. "I'm just a bill, I'm only a bill, and I'm sitting here on Capitol Hill..." In the meantime, stop trying to steal children you are not entitled to.
The would-be adopters then sputter back that this law shouldn't apply, because the kid isn't woo woo enough. Doesn't matter. The ICWA applies to any child eligible for enrollment in a recognized tribe. The Ojibwe folks in Minnesota say Talon is eligible for enrollment. So that's that. End of story.
The next gambit by the would-be adopters is that the child should not have been turned over to the tribe because he would be going into foster care. Doesn't matter. The ICWA does not require reunification with bio parents in order to be invoked. The child can be placed with relatives, other tribal members, or members of another tribe. It is only when none of those four situations can be accomplished that Baby Woo Woo can be placed with a non-woo woo family.
By the by, the foster care is in the same home with his biological siblings that were removed when the Larsons dropped the dime. So there will be family there. It's not like he's being placed with Martians or something.
Is it a cute kid? You be the judge.
Duh. Of course it's cute. I'm sure that's part of the reason they want to adopt it, just like people want to adopt cute Asian kids and cute African kids. But, once more for the cheap seats...
THIS CHILD IS NOT AVAILABLE FOR ADOPTION, AND LIKELY NEVER WILL BE.
Move on, Larson family. Let go of your dreams of Talon, and build your family by finding some white chick to exploit and coerce instead.
Oh, and find a more competent and ethical adoption agency, or you're likely to keep ending up in bad situations. That advice is free, and yet priceless.
.
Thursday, September 11, 2008
Seven Years
In some ways, it doesn't seem that long, and in other ways, it seems much longer.
It was seven years ago today that nineteen fucked up Islamic jihadists pulled their stupid stunt. The twin towers fell, a plane plowed into the Pentagon, and a bunch of people died in a field in Pennsylvania.
The big-titted secretary found out in a rather unusual way. She visited the now-defunct BRATS! rant board, and someone had posted that they didn't want to bring children into a world where planes hit the World Trade Center.
She went to CNN.com, and nothing was available on the site except a small photo of a huge-ass plane hitting the WTC. So she turned on the television.
Now, I was a talking moose by then, but I really hadn't grown into my voice. So I just watched as Little Miss Big Tits stared at the TV, shaking her head.
Then, she called the Future Moose Flunky. He was at the time working for a company we'll call Bait & Switch Widgets. She told him what was going on, and kept him updated as events unfolded.
After that, they said one of the hijacked planes had crashed in western Pennsylvania. She called her Dad, because he lives there. He's an elderly fellow, so he was still asleep. By then, both towers had fallen. When her Dad heard that, he began to cry. "Not twice in a lifetime," he said forlornly, a reference to Pearl Harbor. "That's too much."
The day and the following days saw America mourning for the dead, for the innocence lost, for a time when a plane hijacking meant some Cuban freak wanted a ride home, for a past when almost no one had ever heard of Osama bin Laden or Islamic jihadists.
But that was the past, and the future was still out there, waiting for all of us to move on.
My big-titted secretary and the Future Moose Flunky boarded a plane for Australia on 7 October, 2001. That date sticks in all of our minds because that's the day America started lobbing bombs at Kabul. The secretary drooled over the well-armed military dudes in the international terminal, while poor Flunky had to endure body cavity searches. (Okay, I'm kidding about the body cavity searches. But the scrutiny was still... intense.)
The secretary was skittish about the behavior of the middle eastern looking men waiting to board the plane. The Flunky hissed, "If everyone was fucking staring at you, you'd be acting funny too!" That's wisdom on almost a moose-like level.
The folks in Australia were warm, empathetic, and comforting about what America had endured. That was touching. And Australia is where I really started being me.
Now, we are getting to the point of today's rambling. It is only in America that two degreed engineers and a plush moose can team up to find fame and fortune. America is the place where you can say, at a moment's notice, "Oh, piss on it! I want to do something else."
America is the place where your family and friends will support you in your dreams. It is a place where you are free to fail miserably, then stand up, dust yourself off, and try again. How much more "land of the free and home of the brave" does it get than that?
America is that 'hood where you don't need the government's permission to live your life as you see fit, or make your living as you see fit. It is a Wonderland of opportunity, challenge, and liberty.
That is why anyone who tries to fuck with America should be punished. They should be made to die, slowly and painfully.
Does that sound harsh? Good. It's meant to. This is BY FAR the best country in the world, in spite of all its flaws. And that is something worth protecting. Something worth living for, and something worth dying for.
So hey, jihadist assclowns. You brought down our twin towers, but we are rebuilding them. You tried to bring down our spirit and determination, and you failed. After seven years, all I can say is... Fuck off and die.
May all of those victimized by radical Islam on September 11th, 2001, and at any other time, rest in peace. You are all on our minds and in our hearts, today and every day, and this moose will make sure you did not die in vain.
God bless America.
.
It was seven years ago today that nineteen fucked up Islamic jihadists pulled their stupid stunt. The twin towers fell, a plane plowed into the Pentagon, and a bunch of people died in a field in Pennsylvania.
The big-titted secretary found out in a rather unusual way. She visited the now-defunct BRATS! rant board, and someone had posted that they didn't want to bring children into a world where planes hit the World Trade Center.
She went to CNN.com, and nothing was available on the site except a small photo of a huge-ass plane hitting the WTC. So she turned on the television.
Now, I was a talking moose by then, but I really hadn't grown into my voice. So I just watched as Little Miss Big Tits stared at the TV, shaking her head.
Then, she called the Future Moose Flunky. He was at the time working for a company we'll call Bait & Switch Widgets. She told him what was going on, and kept him updated as events unfolded.
After that, they said one of the hijacked planes had crashed in western Pennsylvania. She called her Dad, because he lives there. He's an elderly fellow, so he was still asleep. By then, both towers had fallen. When her Dad heard that, he began to cry. "Not twice in a lifetime," he said forlornly, a reference to Pearl Harbor. "That's too much."
The day and the following days saw America mourning for the dead, for the innocence lost, for a time when a plane hijacking meant some Cuban freak wanted a ride home, for a past when almost no one had ever heard of Osama bin Laden or Islamic jihadists.
But that was the past, and the future was still out there, waiting for all of us to move on.
My big-titted secretary and the Future Moose Flunky boarded a plane for Australia on 7 October, 2001. That date sticks in all of our minds because that's the day America started lobbing bombs at Kabul. The secretary drooled over the well-armed military dudes in the international terminal, while poor Flunky had to endure body cavity searches. (Okay, I'm kidding about the body cavity searches. But the scrutiny was still... intense.)
The secretary was skittish about the behavior of the middle eastern looking men waiting to board the plane. The Flunky hissed, "If everyone was fucking staring at you, you'd be acting funny too!" That's wisdom on almost a moose-like level.
The folks in Australia were warm, empathetic, and comforting about what America had endured. That was touching. And Australia is where I really started being me.
Now, we are getting to the point of today's rambling. It is only in America that two degreed engineers and a plush moose can team up to find fame and fortune. America is the place where you can say, at a moment's notice, "Oh, piss on it! I want to do something else."
America is the place where your family and friends will support you in your dreams. It is a place where you are free to fail miserably, then stand up, dust yourself off, and try again. How much more "land of the free and home of the brave" does it get than that?
America is that 'hood where you don't need the government's permission to live your life as you see fit, or make your living as you see fit. It is a Wonderland of opportunity, challenge, and liberty.
That is why anyone who tries to fuck with America should be punished. They should be made to die, slowly and painfully.
Does that sound harsh? Good. It's meant to. This is BY FAR the best country in the world, in spite of all its flaws. And that is something worth protecting. Something worth living for, and something worth dying for.
So hey, jihadist assclowns. You brought down our twin towers, but we are rebuilding them. You tried to bring down our spirit and determination, and you failed. After seven years, all I can say is... Fuck off and die.
May all of those victimized by radical Islam on September 11th, 2001, and at any other time, rest in peace. You are all on our minds and in our hearts, today and every day, and this moose will make sure you did not die in vain.
God bless America.
.
Sunday, August 3, 2008
Saving Melvin's Privates
Melvin's privates are in danger. If the situation at Assclowns Inc. persists, he will likely chew off his own sausage and meatballs and bleed to death, just to put himself out of his misery.
Perhaps some of you are curious as to how Melvin ended up in this predicament. I think it's only fair to go into a little background about Melvin. After all, those who are wont to save him deserve to know. And I'm sure the rest are just morbidly curious.
Melvin has a degree in a technology field. When he graduated college, that particular field was deader than four o'clock. (Think "Need Another Seven Astronauts" if you want to figure out what Melvin's degree is in.)
But, he did find a job in a field that used some of his applicable skills, and soldiered forward from there.
His career didn't progress as expected because of a few unusual circumstances. One company he worked for got involved with a cult. (No, I'm not kidding.) Another had the burden of a vice-president too ethical to show favoritism, so a lady we'll call Moanica Knob-Slobber ended up in the manager development program instead of Melvin. And the shortage of Kiwi® shoe polish in Affirmative Action Tan was another huge issue.
After a few full stops and bump-starts, Melvin found himself grading standardized tests written by blithering retards. The situation was desperate. Money was short, and Melvin was crushed to learn exactly how many of America's young'uns thought Tupac was a role model. Still, he never gave up.
The Retard Test People were so impressed with Melvin that they offered him a job answering phone calls from a different demographic of retards. His rise through the ranks was swift and positive. He became Senior Speaker To Retards, then Supervisor Of Speakers To Retards, and finally Operations Guy Who Has To Deal With Way Too Many Assholes But At Least He Doesn't Have To Talk To Retards Anymore.
Fast forward to the current situation. Melvin didn't ask to work for Tuna Twat. She was thrust upon him like a pestilence. And I do not know her personally, but I know the type: A chick who could suck the joy out of an orgasm.
There needs to be less of those in the world.
The point is, Melvin has done everything right, and still finds himself under the wart-infested thumb of someone like Tuna Twat.
Yet, Melvin still sits on the cusp of greatness. Okay, it's not greatness exactly. More like being the personal assistant to an arrogant, arbitrary, autocratic, inflexible plush moose with a giant ego and an even bigger penis. Still, that's got to beat working for Tuna Twat.
Damn. How sad is that?
Anyway, details will be forthcoming about the Save Melvin campaign. We don't have to fund Melvin for life. He just needs to be tided over until he assumes his new position. Otherwise, he may do something he'll forever regret, like cutting the cheese right in Tuna Twat's nasty face.
Help if you can. If you can't, the moose still loves you. Especially if you have big tits.
.
Perhaps some of you are curious as to how Melvin ended up in this predicament. I think it's only fair to go into a little background about Melvin. After all, those who are wont to save him deserve to know. And I'm sure the rest are just morbidly curious.
Melvin has a degree in a technology field. When he graduated college, that particular field was deader than four o'clock. (Think "Need Another Seven Astronauts" if you want to figure out what Melvin's degree is in.)
But, he did find a job in a field that used some of his applicable skills, and soldiered forward from there.
His career didn't progress as expected because of a few unusual circumstances. One company he worked for got involved with a cult. (No, I'm not kidding.) Another had the burden of a vice-president too ethical to show favoritism, so a lady we'll call Moanica Knob-Slobber ended up in the manager development program instead of Melvin. And the shortage of Kiwi® shoe polish in Affirmative Action Tan was another huge issue.
After a few full stops and bump-starts, Melvin found himself grading standardized tests written by blithering retards. The situation was desperate. Money was short, and Melvin was crushed to learn exactly how many of America's young'uns thought Tupac was a role model. Still, he never gave up.
The Retard Test People were so impressed with Melvin that they offered him a job answering phone calls from a different demographic of retards. His rise through the ranks was swift and positive. He became Senior Speaker To Retards, then Supervisor Of Speakers To Retards, and finally Operations Guy Who Has To Deal With Way Too Many Assholes But At Least He Doesn't Have To Talk To Retards Anymore.
Fast forward to the current situation. Melvin didn't ask to work for Tuna Twat. She was thrust upon him like a pestilence. And I do not know her personally, but I know the type: A chick who could suck the joy out of an orgasm.
There needs to be less of those in the world.
The point is, Melvin has done everything right, and still finds himself under the wart-infested thumb of someone like Tuna Twat.
Yet, Melvin still sits on the cusp of greatness. Okay, it's not greatness exactly. More like being the personal assistant to an arrogant, arbitrary, autocratic, inflexible plush moose with a giant ego and an even bigger penis. Still, that's got to beat working for Tuna Twat.
Damn. How sad is that?
Anyway, details will be forthcoming about the Save Melvin campaign. We don't have to fund Melvin for life. He just needs to be tided over until he assumes his new position. Otherwise, he may do something he'll forever regret, like cutting the cheese right in Tuna Twat's nasty face.
Help if you can. If you can't, the moose still loves you. Especially if you have big tits.
.
Saturday, August 2, 2008
I Hate Idiots
The saga of Melvin and Assclown Inc. continues.
Melvin has been given a PIP (Personal Improvement Plan). Back in the day, they used to call such a thing a "written warning." But I guess that was just too harsh and un-politically correct. So now instead of warning you, they PIP you.
Melvin's manager - let's call her Tuna Twat - listed several grievances on his PIP. They boil down to the following:
"Melvin needs to be more proactive."
"Melvin doesn't work and play well with others."
"Melvin had the temerity to make a small mistake due to a lapse in memory."
"Melvin sometimes uses bad words."
"Melvin needs to communicate more with his peers and supervisors."
Of course, Tuna Twat didn't expect Melvin to read between the lines, and hear what she was REALLY saying:
"I'm a control freak, and need to be up my employees' ass all the time."
"I hate people that are smarter than me."
"Melvin needs to brown-nose more."
"When I go down in flames because I suck at my job, I'll need a few scapegoats."
"I'm so ferociously envious that Melvin is getting out of this shithole that I could spit nails."
"How dare Melvin walk, talk, or take a shit without consulting me?"
"Anyone who has the courage to point out the Emperor's lack of clothes needs to be severely punished."
All of this would be a whole lot more giggle-worthy if it weren't so fucking sad. The Peter Principle stops being funny when it starts being you.
But what the hell. Melvin really will be fine. I'm just continually aghast at what a fucked up place corporate America is. Maybe that movie Idiocracy wasn't too far off the mark.
.
Melvin has been given a PIP (Personal Improvement Plan). Back in the day, they used to call such a thing a "written warning." But I guess that was just too harsh and un-politically correct. So now instead of warning you, they PIP you.
Melvin's manager - let's call her Tuna Twat - listed several grievances on his PIP. They boil down to the following:
"Melvin needs to be more proactive."
"Melvin doesn't work and play well with others."
"Melvin had the temerity to make a small mistake due to a lapse in memory."
"Melvin sometimes uses bad words."
"Melvin needs to communicate more with his peers and supervisors."
Of course, Tuna Twat didn't expect Melvin to read between the lines, and hear what she was REALLY saying:
"I'm a control freak, and need to be up my employees' ass all the time."
"I hate people that are smarter than me."
"Melvin needs to brown-nose more."
"When I go down in flames because I suck at my job, I'll need a few scapegoats."
"I'm so ferociously envious that Melvin is getting out of this shithole that I could spit nails."
"How dare Melvin walk, talk, or take a shit without consulting me?"
"Anyone who has the courage to point out the Emperor's lack of clothes needs to be severely punished."
All of this would be a whole lot more giggle-worthy if it weren't so fucking sad. The Peter Principle stops being funny when it starts being you.
But what the hell. Melvin really will be fine. I'm just continually aghast at what a fucked up place corporate America is. Maybe that movie Idiocracy wasn't too far off the mark.
.
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