Who funded that?

Tonight, some guy stopped to talk to me who said that it was all well and good to teach kids about tolerance, because it wasn't gays' fault that they were like that, it was their parents' fault. See, kids turn gay because parents don't love them enough, and that means the first time they feel affection for somebody, they confuse it with sex.

"Uh, I don't think that's right at all," I say.

"No, they proved it with studies. There was a study in Germany where they took ten kids and the nurse only touched three of them, but five of them could hear her singing. The ones that were touched turned out normal; the ones that only heard singing grew up messed up, you know, gay; the other five died," he said.

"When was that study done?" I ask, because my guess is, Sir, that's some Nazi shit you're spouting.

"I don't know, but two years ago, they did the same thing at UCLA."

"Sir, I'm sorry, but there is literally no way at all that they did that study again at UCLA."

"I read about it in the Times."

"Well, then, either you're misremembering it, or the Times got it wrong, because there is literally no way that an Institutional Review Board would let researchers kill kids."

"I read about it in the Times."

"There is absolutely zero chance that either of these studies happened after World War Two, and I know enough people in academia that there is no way that could happen. I'm sorry. Anyway, back to the Fair Education Act — it protects kids now, since you agree that it's not their fault that they're bullied."

"Oh, bullying, that's terrible. We just need to get parents to stop plopping the kids down in front of the TV, ignoring them, you know, so they can work an extra job to buy more cars or whatever. Then they won't be gay or bullied."

"So, can I count on your support for the Fair Education Act?"

"No, it's the parents we need to work on, not schools. If parents just loved their kids, no one would be gay."

"Uh. OK. You have a great night then," I say, thinking that this guy needs professional fucking therapy, and if I have to talk to him for 30 more seconds, I'm going to slip and tell him exactly how stupid I think he is.

I get home, and I start talking to Amy about it. Like, seriously, what kinda department would let you just start killing babies? And what's the lit review there look like? What are the previous baby-killing experiments? "Multiple Modalities in Confined Infant Head Traumas?" Oh yeah, that's when we put 'em in a sack and hit 'em with hammers. But, you know, small sample size. To be sure, we're going to have to kill a lot more babies.

"Oh yeah, Amy says, "what about throwing them in rivers?"

"What kind of sample size do we need to get this published?" I say.

"What methodology are you using to distinguish your sacks of babies in the river from other people's sacks?" she asks.

"How long do we have to keep the bodies to make sure they stay dead once they're drowned?"

Amy and Josh show dialogue (old)

Josh: Now everybody likes the Slits. If we had a band, we could be this good. We don't have a band, or instruments.
Amy: I don't like the Slits.
Josh: Well, then, we don't have to have a horn section.

Packzi day!

Through the magic of this Chowhound thread, Amy and I found paczkis in some weird retirement home on Adams. They were prune, and the best damn paczkis I've had, since they had a much better balance of tart and sweet than the usual gloopy ones from Detroit. I've still got one left, which I will eat with gusto tonight! GUSTO!

It was easy, too, all I had to do was go through the giant metal gate, tell the overall-wearing guy who looked like a bouncer that "I read on the internet that you can get paczkis here," and he grunted and motioned me inside. There, a bunch of families in total church finery were drinking coffee in a room that my grandmother would have loved (curio cabinets full of porcelain dolls and lace). We waited for the woman behind the counter to get done chatting with some woman wearing a plum business dress (with shoulderpads), and bought eight. The plum woman lamented the fact that they're now $1.50, telling us conspiratorially that they used to be a dollar. She then tried to get us to go to the mass that was just starting, but luckily I was able to brush her off because I wasn't "dressed for church."

Slobbery saves the day!

Amy and I later learned that Isaac and Amanda apparently don't have the same crazy memories of ZOMG PACZKIS, but dutifully ate theirs in front of us (we thought about bein' total grubbers and asking for the other ones back, but it seemed beneath me, someone so recently mistaken for church-going).