Alarming News: I like Morgan Freeberg. A lot.
American Digest: And I like this from "The Blog That Nobody Reads", because it is -- mostly -- about me. What can I say? I'm on an ego trip today. It won't last.
Anti-Idiotarian Rottweiler: We were following a trackback and thinking "hmmm... this is a bloody excellent post!", and then we realized that it was just part III of, well, three...Damn. I wish I'd written those.
Anti-Idiotarian Rottweiler: ...I just remembered that I found a new blog a short while ago, House of Eratosthenes, that I really like. I like his common sense approach and his curiosity when it comes to why people believe what they believe rather than just what they believe.
Brutally Honest: Morgan Freeberg is brilliant.
Dr. Melissa Clouthier: Morgan Freeberg at House of Eratosthenes (pftthats a mouthful) honors big boned women in skimpy clothing. The picture there is priceless--keep scrolling down.
Exile in Portales: Via Gerard: Morgan Freeberg, a guy with a lot to say. And he speaks The Truth...and it's fascinating stuff. Worth a read, or three. Or six.
Just Muttering: Two nice pieces at House of Eratosthenes, one about a perhaps unintended effect of the Enron mess, and one on the Gore-y environ-movie.
Mein Blogovault: Make "the Blog that No One Reads" one of your daily reads.
The Virginian: I know this post will offend some people, but the author makes some good points.
Poetic Justice: Cletus! Ah gots a laiv one fer yew...
Okay, we’ve gratified the horny females with flashy-pictures of my Adonis-like physique plenty enough. Time to return to our roots.
Can’t remember where I read this. Someone was describing what was going on in the late 1960’s and early 1970’s, for the benefit of those to whom this is ancient history…and if you’re old enough to recall those bygone days like me, there are more young people like this than you’d care to admit.
Anyway, wherever I was reading it, they had such a delicate way of phrasing the following:
Miniskirts the size of cocktail napkins became stylish because the feminists wanted to piss off their dads. And so the ladies cavorted around in these bits of fabric leaving very little to the imagination from the waistline down…and then just as I was about to become old enough to appreciate all this…the feminists said to themselves “Hey, men are finding this enjoyable, better put a stop to it like now.” They had some word to describe this like “submissive” or something. And so, on cue, the oh-so-independent-minded ladies took their orders dutifully from the feminist field marshals and started covering up. So the lads my age had to make do with ogling Daisy Duke and Princess Ardala. Hey, thanks a ton.
But that sums it up. They flashed thigh to honk off daddy — started bumping uglies indiscriminately with whatever bloke came along to elevate the old man’s blood pressure some more. Then they figured out the blokes were men too, and had to be dealt with. So the Prime Directive of Postmodern Feminism was born, namely: Wherever there is something male with a smile on its face, there lies an unfinished task. Change something. And so it continues…today. Meanwhile, hemlines went up and then the hemlines went down.
Well done, ladies. Like, duh.
As all this was going on, the vinyl album industry figured out right-quick how the toast was buttered. And the result was & is hundreds and hundreds of items of historical artwork featuring one of the best parts of the female anatomy.
Hundreds and hundreds of each. And it’s not like there’s a great deal of other redeeming cultural value from the era. Womens’ bare legs…muscle cars…Saturday Night Live’s first season…Star Trek. Lots of other stuff was & is worth watching from time, but the rest is all cheesy. Anyway. The artwork is there. Have a happy Friday.
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