Hello, my name is TJ Shroat, and I’d like to talk to you today about grief and sadness. Within the next 24 hours, millions of Americans will become very, very sad. Their beloved candidate for president will have lost, and they will feel certain that America is now doomed.

Whether it’s the Obamaniacs or the McCainiacs who are crying into their breakfast tacos on Wednesday morning, I am here to help. (Having already voted straight Bull Moose Party, I’ll be flying high.) As a former satirical writer, and sometimes sad man, I am in absolutely no position to offer advice on how to deal with grief. Let’s begin, shall we?

The five stages of grief or loss, also known as the Kubler-Ross model, was invented in 1969, shortly after the invention of things that suck. Actually, things sucked prior to 1969. However, people had the decency to silently sublimate their grief; to twist it into a little, imaginary ball and bury it inside their soul. There it would fester and consume them, but quietly, and without inconveniencing others. Then, Elisabeth Kubler-Ross had to go and publish the book “On Death and Dying,” and make a big production out of dealing with suckage. As with any good model, it has five stages which correlate with a person’s five fingers. (Fast Fact: People with hook hands cannot experience grief. Lucky!!!)

Denial (Index finger: wag it back and forth while saying “nuh-uh”)

The first stage is my favorite. Stay in it as long as you can. Deny, deny, deny. I like to start this stage by walking around my neighborhood, muttering “no, no, no, no” or “this isn’t happening, this isn’t happening, this isn’t happening” or “la, la, la, la, la.” Eventually, that gives way to honking at cars stopped next to me at traffic lights. I grin at the neighboring driver/passenger, make an exaggerated roll-down-your-window pantomime (always clockwise), wait for them to do so, yell “nooooooooooo,” then give them an exaggerated roll-your-window-back-up pantomime (counter-clockwise), which, by then, usually needs no prompting.

(Fast Fact: Shroatmobile 4.0, a used economy car, the most green of vehicle choices, actually has manual windows. Electric windows guzzle gasoline. Thus, I am well practiced with the roll-down pantomime. That’s fortunate, as the down-turned-index-finger-power-window pantomime is not universally recognized, and in some cultures, indicates that I have cuckolded your eldest cousin, which in many cases, I have, but see no reason to boast or advertise.)

While in denial, you should also construct an elaborate fantasy world. Retreat into it. Feel free to give yourself super powers. Eventually, denial will lead to the construction of an effigy, an idealized version of that which will never be. Kiss it. Grind on it a little bit. DO NOT have intercourse with your effigy. Even a well-crafted effigy will lose structural integrity after repeat throttlings. But of course, no one can resist banging a good effigy forever, and that’s how we move from the first stage to the second.

Anger (Middle finger: extend it and point it upward in the universally recognized obscene gesture)

Your effigy has fallen apart, so of course you are pissed. You may also find yourself angry at the state of Florida and the Supreme Court. But, you probably won’t have the opportunity to punch Florida in the mouth or give Anthony Kennedy an Indian burn (sorry, Native American burn). And so, others must suffer instead.

Mount a spring-loaded boxing glove on the handle bars of your bicycle and cruise town looking for teens selling magazine subscriptions.

Pretend to accidentally step on the toes of a child while waiting in a grocery checkout line. (Blond boys, age 6 to 10 work best. They get so red-faced when they cry.)

Scream obscenities at passersby, constantly.

Froth at the mouth.

Now that you are hoarse and headache-y, it’s time for stage three.

Bargaining (Ring finger: twist off your rings and say “how much will you give me for this”)

This stage is fraught with misconceptions. Many people think that while in the bargaining stage, the griever becomes a shrewd bargainer. In fact, the opposite is true. The subject can’t get a decent deal on anything and becomes susceptible to grifts of all kinds. Avoid three-card monte and shell games. Unfortunately, many falsely confident bargainers immediately hold yard sales upon entering this stage. But nobody wants to buy a pre-throttled effigy. Unless you are prudent, you may find yourself trading all your home electronics for a sack of bruised turnips. (Fast Fact: this is the origin of the term, sad sack.)

Bargaining dangers can be mitigated if you happen to be able to hire former Secretary of State James Baker. He’s an evil genius. If you cannot afford James Baker, just say “please baby, please” a lot. It won’t work.

Depression (Little finger: it’s so small, weak and useless)

With little more than a turnip sack to your name, you’ve hit bottom and are feeling low. But, that doesn’t mean you can’t attract the opposite sex while wallowing in depression. Red, puffy eyes are beautiful. Punch yourself, if you haven’t cried enough. Gentlemen, consider a streamer of snot, extending from one or both nostrils, to the end of your chin. Moan constantly. Your voice will have sufficiently recovered from all the stage two screaming. Don’t be afraid to mix it up with an occasional panic attack. Huffing spray paint or model glue can deepen your depression, but if you huff your way into a coma, you’ve gone too far. It’s a fine line. Experiment with it.

Acceptance (Thumb: Think Fonzie. “Aaay!”)

Also known as the “uncle” stage. Also known as the “pussy” stage. Also known as the “oh-you’re-just-going-to-take-that-laying-down” stage. In fact, you are going to take it. You aren’t going to run away from home. You aren’t going to move to Canada or to Branson.

Remember, life has so many other disappointments in store for you. Don’t blow your wad on this one. Save something for your candidate’s demoralizing defeat in 2012.

I’m so glad I could help.

By TJ Shroat

I had a personal religious experience on Easter Sunday. I saw Christ. I was at my usual place of Sunday worship, Cisco’s, having just knelt before the altar of huevos rancheros. Normally, Ben Crenshaw rolls in just as I’m finishing and kicks me out of my table. But on Easter, while paying my bill and trying to find a pineapple-coconut Dum Dum in the candy basket, Jesus walked through the door instead.

Fortunately for me, it wasn’t the actual Lamb of God, which would have resulted in profound religious ecstasy and thus, ruin my plans to do nothing for the rest of the day. Instead, it was Willem Dafoe, the finest portrayer of Jesus in television or movies, and his hot wife. I guess it says a lot about the state of my Catholicism that The Last Temptation of Christ is far and away my favorite movie about Jesus. William Donohue is not happy with me.

Willem Dafoe died for your Peeps.

An IMdB search reveals that the character “Jesus has appeared in hundreds, if not thousands, of films worldwide. Many of these are Hispanic characters named Jesus, usually pronounced “Hey-Seuss” but not always, e.g. John Turturro — Jesus Quintana, The Big Lebowski. Still, Jesus-Son-of-God-Jesus is probably the most popular historical figure character in all of film, rivaled only by Yuri Geller and that Democrat who ran for president in 1984 (can’t recall the name right now.)

FACT: The Italian Movie Commission requires that every movie produced in Italy have Jesus Christ as at least a minor character. Also, the Jesus character must be depicted eating spaghetti, which he pronounces as “Pa-sketti.” If filmed in Sicily, the Jesus character must also carry a trombone.

So who are the most memorable JC’s of film? A discussion of the most iconic Jes-i always includes Jeffrey Hunter from 1961’s King of Kings and Robert Powell from the 1977 mini-series “Jesus of Nazareth.” Blue-eyed Powell was my image of Jesus when I was a child, and he was surrounded by an incredible cast (among others, Anne Bancroft, James Earl Jones, James Mason, Ian McShane, Laurence Olivier, Donald Pleasence, Christopher Plummer, Rod Steiger, Peter Ustinov and Anthony Quinn). But blue-eyed Hunter played Captain Pike in the pilot episode of Star Trek. Also, the narration for King of Kings was written by Ray Bradbury. Winner: Jeffrey Hunter.

FACT: Jesus is rarely depicted in movies sporting the shoulder- mounted rocket launcher described in the Gnostic Gospel of DarthDale_123.

Here are other, memorable Jesuses Christ (grammar in previous sentence approved by William Safire):

• Max von Sydow in The Greatest Story Ever Told. “Hey, let’s get a 6’4″ blonde-haired, blue-eyed Swede to play a Jew from two millennia ago. You know, for verisimilitude.”
• James Caviezel in The Passion of the Christ. Jesus as loser of an Ultimate Fighting Championship bout. Christ should never be depicted with cauliflower ear.
• Ted Neeley in Jesus Christ Superstar. Singing hippy Jesus. Version of Jesus most likely to show up at an Obama rally.
• Blair Underwood in The Second Coming. Described by Don Imus as “Nappy Jesus.”
• Tom Savini in Zombiegeddon. Grindhouse Jesus.
• John Hurt in History of the World: Part I. Elephant Man Jesus.
• Ralph Fiennes in The Miracle Maker. Self-loathing, Nazi Jesus.
• Jeremy Sisto in Jesus (1999) (TV). Elton from Clueless? The self-mutilating brother from Six Feet Under? Really? Who’d they get to play Mary Magdalene in this version, Debra Messing? Ha ha ha! Wait, she did? Oh man.
• Christian Bale in Mary, Mother of Jesus. Most of the gadgets on his utility belt incorporate fish and/or rags. Predictably, the Jesus Cave under Stately Christ Manor is always found to be empty.

FACT: A handful of females have also played Jesus, usually the adorable Baby Jesus (the bestest Jesus) since He is rarely depicted needing a diaper change or doing math.

I’ve been working on a treatment for a feature film about the life of Jesus, updated for modern audiences. Here are just a few of the previously unexplored elements of Jesus’ life that I will illustrate: kung fu, hoof-and-mouth disease (curing of), light sabers, backgammon, fried eggs, ventriloquism, breakfast tacos, Lazurus’ MySpace resurrection, hard boiled eggs, Jesus as private investigator, dog training, the miracle of the rebuilt small-block V8, walking on Appletinis, Blogger Jesus.

But what thespian can play my cinematic version of Jesus and subsequently run into me at Cisco’s (or maybe Polvo’s)?

• Daniel Radcliffe. Jesus plays Quidditch in my script. Lots and lots of Quidditch. Also, may or may not show his wiener, which may or may not be chocolate.

• Steve Buscemi. My version of Jesus is written as Mr. Pink from Reservoir Dogs meets Carl Showalter from Fargo.

• Robin Williams. After Patch Adams, who can’t he play? Am I right? Huh? Huh?

• Scarlett Johansson. Tappable.

• Adewale Akinnuoye-Agbaje. My version of Jesus is also written as Mr. Pink/Carl Showalter meets Simon Adebisi from Oz meets Mr. Eko from Lost. Plus Quidditch.

Tonight’s Mega Millions jackpot is a record $370 million (estimated cash value: $221 million). I’ll be the sole winner. I just know it. How, you ask? After all, I’ve never lived in a trailer, I’m not a septuagenarian, and I’ve barely even set foot in West Virginia. Don’t I need to curry favor from Baby Jesus (the bestest Jesus) before receiving a financial windfall? Well, let’s just say I have a good feeling about tonight. I’ve always known I was better than everyone else. At long last, I will have demonstrative proof.

Consider this my goodbye as I retire from public life. There are two kinds of mega-rich, give-back-and-save-the-world-philanthropic rich and mysterious-rarely-seen, haunt-a-mountain, what-the-hell-goes- on-up-there, I-heard-he’s-been-dead-for-years rich. I will opt for the latter.

My newfound, ridiculous wealth will empower the lifestyle I’ve always dreamed of having. Here are just a few of my plans:

• Insist on payment in the form of giant novelty check. Insist that the check’s size ratio be one square foot per $10. Cover all of Kansas with resulting check. Endorse with secret Chinese satellite laser. Get picture taken with Andy Brown.
• No more haircuts, ever. No more shaving. Braid eyebrows. My back hair will be harvested semi-annually by Rapanui weavers and fashioned into blankets which I will give to my friends on Guy Fawkes Day.
• Construct a swimming pool filled with a mixture of fried egg yolk, ranchero sauce and refried beans, leftover from Cisco’s huevos rancheros. I usually sop up this delicious smoky, peppery slurry with a biscuit. Finally, I will be able to afford to swim in thousands of gallons of it. I will hire the finest yolk-ranchero-bean-sauce pool tender in the world. With specialized scuba gear, I may also be able to sleep submerged in a tank of the concoction while listening to the calls of humpback whales and Mariachis.
• A big, honking Tuscan-style house on a teeny, tiny lot in Hyde Park that looms over the neighboring lots. A Tuscan-style SUV. A Tuscan Great Dane. Tuscan clothes. Tuscan laptop. Tuscan codpiece. Tuscan dental fillings. I will drip with terra-cotta. I will also buy all the property in Tuscany and burn it to the ground, thus enhancing the value of all my Tuscan stuff.
• Immediate membership in the Republican Party Inner Circle. I already have the sense of self-righteous entitlement. Finally, the wealth to match. With a net worth of over $150 million, I will get to go on guided hobo-hunts. Monthly Bag Limits: 1 trophy, crazy-Vietnam-veteran bum (white) OR 3 amputee-veteran winos (assorted browns) OR 5 crazy-off-meds, non-veteran mendicants (all colors).
• Purchase the word “turgid” and retire it from common usage.
• Become an odd-ball, reclusive gourmand-industrialist, a la Willy Wonka, except with pork instead of chocolate. Invite five bratty kids into my wonderful, bacon-y funhouse-labyrinth. Sing some songs. Teach some lessons. Ultimately, kill them all.
• Commission the construction of a cyborg version of beloved dead dog Eli. Fund quantum mechanics research to bend space-time and download his past consciousness into new body. Take Eli 2.0 swimming on Town Lake. Lament that scientists couldn’t figure out how to make him less of a crazed a-hole while riding in the car.
• Corner the world market on happiness. Remove as much as possible from circulation, but without actually using any of it for myself. Become king of the ensuing miserocracy.

By TJ Shroat

Yesterday, I received an unsolicited email from my mother that opened with the following paragraph:

It is probably good that you don’t have a girlfriend as it’s Valentines Day almost. We both know gift selection is not something you enjoy. So, stress free Valentines Day for you.

Aren’t mothers great? Valentines Day might have come and gone and I would not have remembered to feel bad about my shameful singleness. I like the use of the word probably. It’s probably good I don’t have a girlfriend, but we don’t want to completely rule out that it may, in fact, be quite awful. The comment about gift selection is also good stuff; a reminder of (perceived) shortcomings from previous (failed) relationships. Can a Hang in There poster depicting a kitten dangling from a rope be far behind? Is this because she’s not a grandmother?

Still, I’m happy that someone has taken up the slack of fretting about my singleness. Tickled Pink has reported on the concept of smug marrieds. That smugness goes away after kids arrive. My life is now the envy of many bleary-eyed parents. When I visit these friends, as soon as I walk in the door, they say, “Here,” and plop a kid in my arms on their way to their liquor cabinet.

Ladies, form an orderly line.

The fact is, I’ve probably forgotten more about women and romance than most of you will ever know (Austin Chronicle Critics Pick, Best Sensitive Womanizer 1998-2002, 2004). I don’t like to toot my own rusty trombone, but many a woman romanced by me has said, Wow, do you have Asperger’s Syndrome?, which of course, really means, Wow, you really know a lot of trivia and are good at math, the two most essential skills in lovemaking. And whether you’re a single man or in a relationship, I’m more than happy to impart some of my wisdom.

Valentine’s Day Tips for Impressing That Special Lady:

• No matter what my mother might think, I’m a great, romantic gift giver. Here are just a few examples: coupon for an oil change, stamps, cans of soup (assorted)
• Sending flowers to a woman demonstrates that you know how to operate a telephone and/or the Internet, both highly desirable traits in a mate.
• If possible, undermine your sweetie at her place of work. Once her self-esteem has been sufficiently lowered, swoop in and cement your hold on her. Remember, for you to win, she has to lose.
• Everyone knows women are primarily visually stimulated. Present her with tasteful nudes of yourself (e.g. nekkid workin’ on your car, nekkid on a ladder, nekkid playing Zaxon). Also, having a good buddy take the photos is a hilarious way for you and your pal to spend an afternoon and not in any way question your sexuality.
• Putting your d!ck in a box is sooo Christmas 2006. Man-nipples in a box are the way to go for Valentines. Just make sure the knife you use is really sharp. You need to do it quickly, and get them both before you pass out from pain and blood loss. This is another fun one for you to get help from a buddy: Okay, now you do me.

But just because you have no woman in your life doesn’t mean you have to spend Valentine’s Day perusing the Craigslist Missed Connections section or the Chronicle’s Shot in the Dark page, hoping that your future wife noticed you sitting in traffic at the corner of 38th and Lamar and recognized all your wonderful, unique qualities through four lanes of cars as she passed by in the other direction at 35 miles an hour and is now desperate to find you, fall in love and start your life together. Here are some other, proactive steps you can take:

• Make a little cut on your arm for every rebuke you’ve ever received from a woman going all the way back to Kindergarten. Maybe start wearing long sleeves.
• Set up a dummy email account from a PC at a public library. Send an email to every woman who’s ever filed a restraining order against you. Include photos of them sleeping, going into their places of business, shopping, etc., to let them know that you understand their lives better than anyone else. Sign it: “See you soon, Your Secret Admirer.” DO NOT tell them they’ll be sorry about the decisions they’ve made, as it’s just not romantic.
• Stop dwelling on women. What about all the other failures in your life? Aren’t they worthy of your depression and self-loathing? Prioritize.
• It’s cold outside. Brown liquors are warm.
• No women is bad? Consider that there’s probably no God. Feel better?

Oh, and for your single ladies on Valentine’s Day:

• Continue to cry yourself to sleep ever night.

By TJ Shroat

Yesterday, after shuffling out to his mailbox wearing a housecoat, slippers and curlers in his hair, Governor Rick Perry discovered an envelope addressed to him which contained a threatening letter and mysterious white powder. Don’t worry, the powder did not damage the governor’s hair in any way. Hazmat-suit clad police, fire, and FBI officials descended on the scene, quarantined the building and shut down part of San Jacinto Street. The powder proved to be harmless, and once again, Americans demonstrated that the terrorists aren’t winning, as we are not afraid of (this) powder nor of dead grackles.

Okay, Ricky P. doesn’t actually open his own mail. How could he; he gets more fan letters than Donny and Marie Osmond. The letter was discovered in the State Insurance Building and was sent by an inmate at a maximum security prison in Amarillo. The Statesman article reports that a spokesperson for Texas DPS declined to name the inmate. With no further explanation, the article also includes a mug shot of one Cesar Mendoza. Perhaps as a non-native Texan, I’m missing something here? Are Texans smiling wanly, nodding and saying, “Oh sure, Cesar. It’s always something with him.”

I was able to obtain a transcript of the letter:

Dear Governor Poopy,
Your (sic) a jerky fartface and I don’t like you and you smell.

Your pal,
Cesar

And so, that’s that.

But of course, I wasn’t named the University of Texas, Oliver Stone Chair of Conspiracist Theory and Crackpottery because I believe in plausible theories and likely scenarios. Here then, is the truth about the envelope and the powder. Several versions of it. All 100% true:

1. The letter came from a certain former boss of Perry. The powder was Uncle President’s Old Fashion Good-Timey Nose Candy, guaranteed to make an a-hole into a hyperkinetic a-hole. The note said, “Use as much as you like. Then redeem yourself by giving it up (wink) and being born again. Then deny you ever used it in the first place. Then become president. Am I forgetting a step? Oh well, enjoy.”
2. The powder was snow from the Wasatch Mountains, sent by Utah governor Jon Huntsman to taunt Perry about the fine-ass skiing available in the Beehive State. Mormons!
3. The letter was a warning to Perry from Steely Dan. The meticulous pop duo wants Perry to stop singing “Rikki Don’t Lose that Number” as he shambles around the governor’s mansion on his off days, scratching his package.
4. The letter was from coal industry lobbyists encouraging Perry to build more plants, thus guaranteeing a Victorian, steam-punk retro-future. The powder was coal dust, bleached white. The note said, “See? White. Pure. Harmless.”
5. The powder was sand from an hour glass. So are the days of our lives.
6. The powder was partial cremains from my beloved dead dog, Eli. I mailed his cremains to public officials across the world. When the cremains come into contact with moisture, thousands of tiny Eli’s will be reconstituted. All nations will be brought to their knees, their public buildings rife with tiny-Eli infestation. Then, the leaders of the world will bow to me, the only person capable of making the tiny-Elis mind (sort of). I’ve been practicing my maniacal laughter takes in the mirror and have gotten to the point where they rarely trigger coughing fits anymore.

Remember, all of these theories are 100% true. Disagree? Then explain Jack Ruby, smarty-pants.

By TJ Shroat

Almost a decade of Central Texas living has left me a thin-blooded, cold-vulnerable sissy. During my undergraduate days at Notre Dame, I routinely walked across campus in 20 degree weather wearing nothing but a pair of L.L. Bean Duck Shoes, a codpiece, and a scowl. (My efforts to be Notre Dame’s answer to Cal-Berkeley’s Naked Guy, were not well received by the administration or student body. I was ahead of time.) But now? Temperatures of 65 and lower send me scrambling for my complicated flow chart which matches temperature gradients to appropriate base layers and outerwear. According to my chart, last Monday morning, when the temperature dropped to a very wet 28 degrees, I should clothe myself in “All of them.”

Tan/brown was also my choice for codpiece colors.

How did I even notice the ice storm that shut down Austin last week and almost caused the collapse of western society, you ask? Aren’t I an unemployed blogger who never leaves the house? Yes — and no. In fact, I leave the house every day to swim, then look for jobs. I find an office building with appealing architecture, proximate to good hamburgers. I sit in the lobby and ask attractive women passing by, “Hey, y’all got jobs here?” I get asked to leave by security. I get tasered and thrown to the curb. I dust myself off and go browse the discount table at BookPeople. I go home and drink in the dark. Part of the problem is that I often forget that I’m still wearing flippers.

None of that happened last Monday. I awoke to radio instructions to stay at home. Not on my clock radio. The radio in my head, put there by either the CIA or the editorial board of Ladies’ Home Journal (I’m not sure which, perhaps they acted jointly.) I confirmed the message by checking KGSR and one of the Internets (the good one). Little did I suspect that I was about to embark on an epic struggle for survival that would test me physically, mentally and spiritually.

Jan. 15
8:30 am Mirror time. Perform my daily 45 minute exercises of mugging and takes. I’ve concentrated lately on my “Who? Me?” take. Looking great.
9:15 am Fried and ate all the bacon in my fridge.
10:00 am The ice in my backyard doesn’t seem that bad. Perhaps I’ll get dressed and walk around.
10:10 am Sweet Jesus! Barely made it back inside. Soooo cold. Huddling in front of space heater.
1:00 pm Still not warm enough. I stack all my wooden furniture into a pile in my den and light it on fire. Plenty warm now, but house nearly burns down.
2:30 pm After putting out fire, I realize that my thermostat was set on 58. I turn it up a tad. More huddling.
5:00 pm Ate all my pork fajita leftovers. Leftover salsa from Cisco’s also depleted. Grim.
7:00 pm Conditions expected to worsen on Tuesday. I must begin rationing the rest of my pork.
8:00 pm Watch Pirates of the Caribbean 2. Looks warm. That Keira Knightley is delightful.
10:30 pm Per my usual, cry myself to sleep.

Jan. 16
8:00 am Ablutions then mugging. This morning, I concentrate on forming a tableau of Elvis meeting Nixon. Nixon props need work.
9:00 am Ate all of the country ham reserves. House is now porkless. Uh-oh.
10:00 am Ate all the almonds.
10:30 am Ate all the potato chips.
11:00 am Ate all the walnuts.
11:30 am Ate all the filbert nuts.
12:00 pm Ate all the tamari pumpkin seeds, which had lingered in the pantry since July. I am now out of Central Market bulk food items and salty snacks. Situation desperate.
12:30 pm Perhaps Taqueria Arandas #3 is open? I’ve seen some movement on the streets. Is it possible that some businesses are open? Aranda’s is only about 1200 yards away. I suit up and venture out, counting on the strong Hispanic work ethic as my alimentary salvation. Maybe they’ll make an exception in light of the weather and serve pozole even though it’s not the weekend.
3:00 pm Disaster. Barely made it home. Halfway back, my tauntaun froze up. Had to cut him open and warm myself in his guts. Aranda’s was closed. Foolishly, I’d forgotten that despite having a stronger work ethic, our south of the border friends are far more cold intolerant than we are.

FUN FACT: In Mexico, water freezes at 38 degrees Fahrenheit. In Belize, water freezes at 41 degrees. In El Salvador, they use the metric system, so water can never freeze. In Costa Rica, they have no water, and delicious Pepsi Cola falls from the sky and flows through the streams.

And I thought they smelled bad, on the outside.

4:30 pm I’m born again! Jesus will get me out of this mess. Ate all the cottage cheese.
5:30 pm As-Salamu Alaykum! I’m now muslim, after Jesus failed to come through. Figure I’ll give this a try as I’m out of pork anyway. Also briefly considered converting to Judaism, but figured if they were right, why aren’t there more of them.
7:30 pm The religion thing didn’t take. Tried Hinduism, Buddhism and animism over the last few hours. Still cold and hungry. Will look within myself now.
9:00 pm Finish drafting plans for new society based on my teachings. Ate remaining lint reserves.
10:00 pm Try, not for the first time, to fashion a companion by adding water and soy sauce to the cremains of beloved dog, Eli. This fails to reconstitute him and once again, the result is a dead-dog slurry, though I am able to mold it into a dog-like shape as it dries and hardens. Slurry-Eli is less playful than original Eli.
10:30 pm Pass out under pile of coats.

Jan. 17
7:00 am Up early, as I have a Shroatopia to build. Fashion a Washington-esque tri-corner hat out of toilet paper, despite dwindling reserves. Looking great.
8:00 am More street activity today. I’m not the only survivor. My future subjects!
9:00 am Notice that two of my neighbors have 12 year old daughters. In five or six years, they will be useful in repopulating the Shroatopia; only three or four years if I decide to make it a Kentuckopia.
10:30 am Caught, killed and ate neighbor’s cat in backyard box trap. Cat is the new pork.
12:00 pm Smooch calls to tell me that Dog Almighty is closed. Well, duh. Society is collapsing and stuff. She then tells me that the roads aren’t that bad and that lots of other businesses are open. I hang up and immediately head to Aranda’s.
1:30 pm Salvation! Aranda’s was open and crowded. Al pastor plate. My first taste of salsa in over 48 hours. I want to live! As I returned home, neighbor asked if I’d seen her cat. Awkward.

Coda
Lawrence Collins invited Ice Storm ’07 survivors to his home on Wednesday for a pasta sauce cook-off and in celebration of the triumph of the human spirit. In what had to be a sick joke, none of the sauces incorporated ham.

By TJ Shroat

Because we at ITPT can’t secure press passes or media credentials, we have to devise more inventive means for gaining entry to events where we’re not necessarily wanted (everywhere). In preparation for yesterday’s taping of Texas Monthly Talks, I had carefully been cultivating a beard over the last few months as part of my disguise. At the last minute, Eileen decided that my beard wasn’t convincing enough and made me shave it. I wore a clip-on beard instead. However, Eileen used my beard trimmings and electrical tape to fashion her own disguise beard. I won the coin toss, so I got to be the Sikh guru while Eileen had to settle for the Hasidic rabbi. We breezed past the security check.

Rick Perry is a handsome man and a consummate politician. He stayed on message for most of the interview, only stumbling slightly when Evan Smith (no relation) brought up that Texas is 49th (out of 50 states, dummies) in educational spending. Perry’s right though. Statistics can be massaged to support any conclusion. Well, statistics can’t be massaged by Texas schoolchildren, they aren’t smart enough. But liberal elites–from Harvard probably–are misleading us…or something. More than anything, I learned that Rick Perry doesn’t care about process. He cares about results. I know, because he said so eleven times, and I have the tick marks on a crumpled piece of paper to prove it.

Eileen failed to mention in her post that she left early (during the questions from voters segment) because she had a hair appointment. I thought she was kidding when she told me she had to leave early, but suddenly she was up and clomping down the steps. I tried to trip her, because I thought the resulting scene would be funny, but she high-stepped and stiff-armed her way out of my grasp. However, Perry still noticed and stopped the interview. “What the f&*k?”, he asked. Eileen responded, “Gotta go get my mop lacquered, dude.” Perry extended his arms over his head while curling his hands down and pointing to his own coif. “Sister, you’re preaching to the choir. Go in peace.”

Perry did not take questions from the studio audience. I chucked several crumpled up pieces of paper with my own written questions toward Perry, but KLRU had erected a chicken wire cage around the stage to foil such attempts. It probably didn’t help that I lit the wads on fire before hurling them or that I kept yelling “Sic semper tyrannis” with every throw. I bet they edit that out.

A series of health studies once again concluded that the number one cause of injuries to children was having dumbasses for parents. Actually, the studies broke the injuries down further and attributed them to things like shopping carts, lawn mowers and escalators. But come on, if you run over your own kid with a lawnmower, it’s not due to a Toro design flaw. It’s because you’re a dumbass.

“We live in a world that has been designed by adults primarily for the convenience of adults, and the safety of children is often not thought of,” said lead researcher Dr. Gary Smith. Really? Has Dr. Smith (“oh, the pain, the pain”) collected any data after the 1970s? Sure, I grew up in a world of sharp, metal Tonka trucks, helmetless bike riding and no car seats. I didn’t start wearing a seatbelt until I got my driver’s license and once put a dent in the dashboard of our car with my chin when my mother rear-ended some old people while I was sitting in the front seat.

But when I see children at play today, with their soft, amorphous toys and their extensive padding that makes them resemble SWAT teams in primary colors, I’m inclined to think that we’ve got safety pretty well covered. I also think they look ridiculous. The head to body ratio of children is already comical. Slapping on a helmet amps it up to Charlie Brownian proportions. But clearly, additional safety measures are needed. If only there was a way to encase children in some sort of protective shell and make them look even funnier. Wait a sec -it’s so obvious! Sandwich boards! Kevlar and titanium sandwich boards.

The author has demonstrated a lifelong commitment to safety. Yes, those are tinted glasses. Yes, that’s a poster of KISS. Whoa, ladies. Please form an orderly line.

In 2005, 20,000 children were treated in U.S. emergency rooms for shopping cart-related injuries. “Shopping cart design must be looked at,” said Susan Cox, director of trauma services at Rady Children’s Hospital. I envision a roll cage, an escape hatch with explosive bolts and a fighter jet ejection seat. Or, how about not leaving your kid in the cart, unattended, as you waddle your fat ass back three aisles because you forgot to get Wonder Bread.

A second study found that an average of 9400 children, 20 years old and younger, are treated in hospital emergency departments each year for lawn mower-related injuries. The study did not find out why 20-year-olds were suddenly considered children. Suggestions for improving mower safety include installing a more effective ‘no-mow-in-reverse’ option, because so many parents back over their kids. Or, how about using your f&*$ing eyes to look at the spot you are about to move the mower. If aforementioned spot contains a child, DO NOT MOW.

Yet another study found that 2000 children are injured each year on one of 33,000 escalators in the United States. Okay, on this one, I’m with the Chicken Littles. In fact, I’m going to go a step beyond. Escalators are horrible, frightening contraptions with long, jagged metal tongues that continuously pull people into a maw that never ever stops feeding. I advocate the demolition of all 33,000 escalators in this country. In the meantime, I will continue to use a rope and grappling hook to get to the mezzanine level in hotel atriums.

Once, when walking into a Krogers in suburban Atlanta about 10 years ago, I saw a family coming out of the store with a full cart. Earl and Lurlene looked to be in their mid-60s. Their boy, Fat Jimmy, was 10 or 11. I imagined that he was their late-in-life, unexpected child, with siblings at least 20 years his senior. Regardless, Earl and Lurlene had long since lost the will to oppose the butterball’s tantrums.

So, as I approached, they had just acquiesced to Jimmy’s whining demands to let him push the cart. Jimmy seized the handle, gave a push, and jumped on the back. The cart immediately tipped backwards, landing on Jimmy along with all the groceries. Big Red bottles exploded on the asphalt. Chef Boyardee cans rolled through the parking lot. Jimmy laid there, covered in food, his mouth a soundless O. Two seconds later, he uttered a caterwaul that vibrates in my wisdom teeth to this day. Later, as I continued to chuckle in the produce section, tears of laughter finally drying on my face, I couldn’t help but think that it would have been even funnier if that little fatty had been wearing a sandwich board. Safer too.

By TJ Shroat

For better or for worse, 2006 will likely be forever known to me as The Year My Friends Had the Rest of Their Children. It may also finally produce the Yoko moment that breaks up the band. My so called Inner Circle of Friends (they’ve been given codes, secret hand signals and tote bags) consists of five married couples in three cities. At the beginning of October 2005, these five couples had a total of four children. By the end of October 2006, they will have eleven. Who could keep this many faux-nieces and nephews straight? I’ve started a spreadsheet to track names and what books I’ve gifted. Somehow, these children will be viewed by their parents as “More Important than TJ.” Little bastards. So I may be dropping my multi-child friends.

A recent Washington Post article talks about the stress placed on friendships as a person progresses from carefree single, to newly married, to parent, to trapped husk waiting to die. Curtis McCormick, after marrying Meg Beaver (!), eventually had to drop his whiny, piteous, bestest buddy. The buddy couldn’t accept that McCormick’s attention was necessarily more focused on first his wife, then his child. Compounding the problem was the fact that the buddy had no Beaver of his own. (Please note the photo in that article. “Help us, we’re trapped in funlessness. Come back, passive aggressive friend.”) Included with the Post article is a guide to managing the likes of Mr. McCormick’s pathetic, insecure single friend. If you can’t think of a reason to keep a suck-ass like that around in the first place, skip the guide.

Unlike that pussy, I had no trouble clearing the hurdle of friends’ marriages. Fortunately, none of my friends married (or were already married to) anyone that sucked. None of my friends changed their personalities when they acquired spouses, so neither did I. In fact, my friends’ marriages proved to be a net gain for me. Married couples are more likely than singles (men or women) to invite you to dine at their homes. More importantly, the single man can have no greater allies than his married women friends. When it comes to matchmaking, women friends are far more astute than men. Male friends typical criteria: “She’s got breasts. She’s free of active sores and lesions. Why don’t you ask her out?” When the married women are in your corner, quantity and quality improve significantly. Is there a hint of pity in their endeavors to put me on top of their eligible friends? Maybe, but we’re all polite enough to ignore it. If anything, I’m able to forge better relationships with women once they’re married, because there’s no longer sexual tension — well…for me, anyway. The married women probably can’t help but still feel it, but hey, I figure it ultimately enlivens their marriages.

(more…)

By TJ Shroat

He who opens a school door, closes a prison. - Victor Hugo

Or goes to one. Dawn Reiser is currently serving an eight-year prison term in Gatesville for having sex with one of her 13-year-old seventh grade students from Holy Trinity Catholic School in Grapevine, TX. Catholic schoolgirl = hot. Catholic school-marm = not. She appeared on Oprah Thursday to “accept responsibility for what really happened.” She then “accepted responsibility” by blaming it on her own past as a victim of sexual abuse. Just paying it forward, I guess. Reiser, who was 30 at the time of the liaisons, will be played by Mary Steenburgen in the movie. She says the relationship escalated because the boy flattered her and made her feel better about herself. A seventh grader. Flattered his way into a 30-year-old’s embroidered jumper. Police would eventually find perfumed love letters from Reiser to the boy. (Note: The ITPT Honor Code states that no staffer will use his or her writing for the purpose of procuring sex. All staffers signed the Honor Code with their fingers crossed behind their backs.)

Finally, we have experts from the Texas education system to help us make sense of it all. Mike Sacken, professor of education at TCU says, “We send 22-year-olds out to teach 18-year-olds. That’s a tough issue.” With the slight age difference, the teacher and the student often have a lot in common, like watching the same movies and listening to the same music.” You like Star Wars? I like Star Wars! Wanna f#%k?” (Note: I have extensive empirical evidence that this approach never works.) I can’t recall a single case in which the age delta was less than 10 years, so this line of reasoning is nonsense.

According to Larry Shaw of the United Educators Association of Texas, misread intentions (looking too long) can lead to over-reporting. One quarter of male coaches will be investigated at some point in their career for sexual misconduct. Perhaps if they didn’t wear two-sizes-too-small Bike coaching shorts, we wouldn’t be able to tell how long they look. Or perhaps the too-tight shorts are a form of self-castigation; a chastity belt sold at Academy. Of course, no one is surprised when a paunchy, middle-aged man turns out to be a perv. My coach always gave the seventh and eighth grade girls in my gym class the option of being paddled, in his private office, for infractions like tardiness, while the boys had to stay for detention or run laps. But while he undoubtedly found paddling girls titillating, no one really worried about further escalation since his cirrhosis-distended abdomen likely rendered the rest of his equipment inoperable.

Charol (sic) Shakeshaft (painful handjob alert!) of Hofstra University believes that educator sexual misconduct is actually under-reported. Not on this blog, toots. Hofstra is not in Texas, so Shakeshaft’s comments can be summarily dismissed.

Many Texas universities do not offer courses on teacher ethics. To address the epidemic, SMU plans to add Ethics 242: Don’t Boink 14 Year Olds, to the core curriculum. To make room in the class schedule, Seminars in Teaching 481: How-To-Go-With-A-Herd-Of-Other-Teachers -To-A-Suburban-Chain-Restaurant-Just-Off-The-Interstate-And-Get-Picked -Up-By-Jimmy-From-The-Cingular-Store-Who-Never-Calls-Again, will now be an elective. Fort Worth school district also provides training to students about setting boundaries and reporting misconduct, including “good touch, bad touch” training (also called “Head vs. Shaft” training).

None of this is enough, according to Sacken. He suggests unmarried teachers wear wedding rings and display photographs of their family (real or imagined) on their desks, to show that they have lives (sometimes fake) beyond the classroom. “And this one is my quick-to-anger husband, Marsellus Wallace, and this one is our imbecilic son Bertram. Horny yet?”) Clearly, Sacken thinks it’s because they’re not married.

As usual, my solution is more religion in the schools. Health classes/sex education fill teenagers’ heads with nonsense. The flesh is corrupt and weak. Boners are caused by tiny homunculi that live in your wiener and act as Satan’s proxies. Repress, repress! I mean repent, repent! Problem solved.

By TJ Shroat

We were the victims of an audacious and brilliant hacker. And yet, despite his mind-boggling and awesome display of computer programming prowess, the perpetrator of this act is still no closer to ever touching an actual woman’s booby. The hacking of inthepinktexas.com has left Pink Lady furious and for the second time in two months, a massive purge is underway at ITPT World Headquarters. Most of the IT staff, brought on board in the wake of the domain name fiasco, has been sacked. I just said goodbye to Stanley Q. Kuchenbrod, formerly our CTO, as he visited the flamingos in the atrium one last time. He and his staff, escorted by security, sadly wheeled their office supply laden Aeron chairs to the out-processing queue, where they were then loaded onto railroad cars in sub-basement C, destination unknown.

During an obscenity filled, three-hour conference call this morning, Eileen railed against the senior ITPT staff for failing her again. Upon learning of the attack, attended by only her most trusted bodyguards and retainers, Eileen boarded Pink Jet 1 and has since been flying in a holding pattern somewhere over the Atlantic. An agreement with the Portuguese government allows for aerial refueling. She has not set a date for her return to ITPT Tower, though I did notice that both her trapdoor repairman and crocodile/piranha handler just finished some work in her office.

As a punitive measure, free abalone and sea urchin roe is no longer available in the commissaries on levels 26-50. The chef in the executive penthouse kitchen refused to top my Kobe beef burger with foie gras unless I paid him $2. As a result, I’ve had to reduce my major-domo’s salary by 40%.

I can’t help but wonder if Smooch should receive more scrutiny following the attack. This has the feel of one of her crazy machinations to buy herself more time before turning in her Bachelor report. Other deadline extending schemes have included: phoning in a bomb threat, pretending to have amnesia, faking her own death, blaming guileful Canadians for stealing her post, claiming her cats ate her post, claiming her dog ate her post, claiming King Coozie ate her post. In her defense, Smooch’s Bachelor article from two weeks ago was late after she was tricked in an elaborate confidence game by a fast talking, musical flim-flam artist.

JCBT seems to be the only staffer unaffected by The Terror at ITPT International. He continues to haunt the gothic, subterranean sewer labyrinth beneath ITPT Tower, poling his gondola through the gloom, wearing his half mask, and seducing the latest ITPT ingenue by singing ‘Music of the Night’ to her. Masquerade!

I can’t work in these conditions much longer. Resume forthcoming in my next post.

The entire staff of ITPT assembled for an outing to see Star Wars Episode III: Revenge of the Sith, on Sunday. For obvious security reasons, the three of us rarely appear in public together. For the final installment of the beloved Star Wars film franchise, we decided to dress as characters from the films. I dressed as Princess Leia, circa ice planet Hoth (i.e. subway handle French braids). Pink Lady tried to squeeze her fat ass into a Jabba the Hutt costume, but failing that, had to wear a sandwich board with a crude drawing of the Death Star. Ever the contrarian, Smooch dressed as Kira the gelfling from The Dark Crystal. You can’t tell her anything.

Before the start of the movie, Alamo Drafthouse was showing various bits of Star Wars-related ephemera, including a portion of the sublimely bad Star Wars Holiday Special (featuring Bea Arthur, Art Carney and Harvey Korman). I remember being really excited to see that special when it originally aired in 1978. It’s a wonder I stayed a Star Wars fan afterward. Fortunately, the movie started before any of the musical numbers were shown.

Whenever I see a movie that I’ve long anticipated, I always worry about it being ruined by mouth breathers in the audience who have trouble distinguishing between a movie theater and the living room of their trailer. Luckily, this crowd was well behaved. The 10-year-old boy wearing a cape and sitting behind me shut his scream hole once the previews ended. Pink Lady and Smooch kept their snickers, titters and giggles to a minimum.

The movie, which I really liked, nonetheless left me feeling glum. The subject matter was much darker than previous Star Wars movies. Turns out, the guy who becomes Darth Vader is also the father of Luke and Leia! (WARNING: The previous sentence contained spoilers.) I remember how dazed I felt as a nine year old after seeing The Empire Strikes Back for the first time and knowing that I’d have to wait three years to find out how Han Solo escapes from the carbonite. I felt the same way leaving the theater after ROTS, despite knowing how everything resolves.

I still want more.

So now it’s over. The most important piece of pop culture from my childhood is finished. My project to make a truly functional light saber is no closer to fruition. My droid is nothing but a few old cell phones taped together. The hyperdrive in my Explorer is disabled. The Force is not strong in this one.

Maybe I should check out what those Trek nerds are up to.

By TJ Shroat

If you’re like me, you’ve probably wondered, while lounging on a big pile of cash, I’m rich, yes. But am I private island rich? Fortunately, Sheikh Mohammad bin Rashed al-Maktoum of Dubai can answer that question. Presenting The World, an archipelago of 300, man-made private islands (no need for gender neutral language in the Middle East) in the shape of continents located off the coast of Dubai. File under “Too Bizarre to be Made Up.” I’ve speculated that the best cure to the ills of the world would be to start over completely. The good people of Dubai (Dubai-ians? Dubians? Dubes?) have stolen my idea.

Dubai, the most yee-haw, rootin’, tootin’ of the United Arab Emirates (i.e. the Texas of the UAE), is quickly distancing itself from the likes of Shanghai and Las Vegas in the race to be the world’s leader in freakish, bizarre and overblown architecture. The progressive and futuristic city state, when not constructing crass, gigantic structures, is rapidly turning itself into a financial, media and Internet haven for the Middle East. House of Saud, take note. Your oil won’t last forever.

The marketers are careful to never mention “Persian Gulf” lest they scare European and American potential investors. “How SECURE can you feel?”? asks the site, super-imposed over pictures of gun boats and helicopters. What’s not clear is whether investors are being protected from outsiders or each other. How secure can you feel, given these potential neighbors:

* Bond villains
* theme parks with genetically engineered dinosaurs running amok
* God-playing scientists creating man-animal hybrids
* the movie set of Emmanuelle 9
* pirates and/or pirate ghosts
* elaborate game preserves where humans are the hunters –and the hunted (At least until they chose the wrong man for prey, former special forces sergeant, Jack Riphunk. He just wanted to live a simple life. They should have left him alone. Vin Diesel in, Escape from Rich A-hole Isle.)
* Ted Turner
* Oprah Winfrey

The 300 islands are named for their corresponding real world map locations, but some curious choices were made. Eg., there’s a San Diego island, a Los Angeles island and a California island but no Oregon island. Texas island, unfortunately, is not bigger than France (both are 4 hectares or 9.88 acres). The eventual buyer will probably add on, to rectify that error. But who will be the buyer? Austin computer mogul Michael Dell? Folksy billionaire presidential candidate Ross Perot? Dallas Cowboy owner Jerry Jones? A Bush? Whoever it is, I won’t be able to sleep until they’ve banned gay marriage there.

Maybe the most surreal section of the site depicts the “typical” private island buyers, an American or European couple in their mid-30s with two toddlers? “The footprints in the sand belong only to you and your family. Here on your own private island, life is very different.” A photo shows only one set of footprints in the sand.

Presumably, that’s when Jesus was carrying them.

By TJ Shroat

Eileen has given me publishing privileges and left town for the weekend. I’m going to try to resist my impulse to publish some of my Colonel Sanders fan fiction. (In which a brash, young Harlan Sanders travels from southern Kentucky to Germany and fights Nazis with his arsenal of delicious, fried weaponry. Trust me; these stories are as eloquent and poignant as they are exciting.) (Disclaimer: My affinity for parenthetical statements refuses to be corralled.)

Karol Jozef Wojtyla, a.k.a. Pope John Paul II, finally passed away today. Eighty-four is a pretty ripe old age for a guy born in 1920s Poland, and especially one who was shot at close range while in his 60s. What, was this guy blessed by God or something?

To call myself a half-assed Catholic would be an exaggeration (a sixteenth-assed Catholic is closer to the mark). There are many aspects of Catholicism with which I will probably never agree. (If the Mass doesn’t have to be done in Latin anymore, then why can’t we get a Catholic wedding to clock in at less than one and a half hours?) However, I always felt a fondness and admiration for this Pope. Whether you agreed with his views or not, one thing that you could never call JP Deux was a hypocrite. He walked it like he talked it. (And he talked it a little like Bela Lugosi.) How many other world leaders are that free from hypocrisy?

Now comes the mysterious and bizarre ritual of selecting a new pontiff. I can’t imagine that too many clergy are eager to follow this Pope. It will be like trying to replace a much loved coaching legend. Also, a lot of Catholics had been giving John Paul II a pass on a lot of issues as he grew more infirm and frail. The next man in the big hat will have to answer for more.

Wouldn’t it be exciting if the selection of the new Pope were more like the selection of a new Dalai Lama?

Imagine the College of Cardinals fanning out across the globe, looking for the reincarnated spirit of the Pope, while one billion anxious Catholics wait at home, hoping or dreading that they will be selected. (Whoops, half a billion. Sorry, ladies. Maybe in the next millennium.) It’d probably turn out to be some kid from South Boston. “Okay, Sully. Get your crap together, you’re movin’ to Vatican City.” Wicked.

Instead, the Cardinals will meet and cast multiple ballots. Maybe I’m being an alarmist, but I think hiring Katherine Harris to handle the count was a poor choice on the part of the Church. So, who will it be? Who gets the keys to the Pope-mobile? Cardinal Joseph Ratzinger? I loved him as Cliff on Cheers. Cardinal Dionigi Tettamanzi? Is he as delicious as he sounds? Cardinal Francis Arinze? A black Pope isn’t unprecedented, and he looks good wearing white. Cardinal Norberto Rivera Carrera? He plans to run on the Tony Sanchez platform. I’m pulling for a long shot, Father Theodore Hesburgh. Father Ted, beloved former president of Notre Dame (my alma mater, Go Irish!), lives in an apartment at the top of the library bearing his name. That’s also the building that bears the Touchdown Jesus mural. Who’s closer to God than the guy living above Touchdown Jesus?

Almost as exciting as the appointment of the new Holy Father is the anticipation of the name he will take. Will the new pontiff continue the Beatles theme and become Pope Ringo George I? What about Pope Dirk Diggler (III, if I’m not mistaken)? Or do they employ something akin to the Delta Tau Chi naming process from Animal House?

“Your new papal name is Pinto.”
“Why Pinto?”
“WHY NOT?”

By TJ Shroat

Anyone else been busy crafting a living will this week? I think, maybe, that I’ve overreacted to the Terri Schiavo case. In rereading my own, recently devised living will, I realized that I’d given my parents the right to have me euthanized in cases of personal malaise or ennui, chronic hiccups, or after a particularly heavy sleep. Also, I’ve had DO NOT RESUSCITATE tattooed on my eyelids and gums. Imprudent? I may fiddle a little more with the wording on those will clauses. However, I will definitely keep the clause that requires me to be put down if my handsome visage becomes marred with abrasions, scratches or rashes. Hey, my face is how I make my living.

On Tuesday, a US District judge ruled against reinstating Schiavo’s feeding tube, prompting her parents to appeal the ruling to the 11th U.S. Circuit Court of Appeals in Atlanta. Yesterday’s ruling came after President Bush curtailed his Crawford vacation to return to Washington and sign hasty legislation allowing for a federal judicial review of the case. White House press secretary Scott McClellan said Bush would have preferred a “different ruling.” Not to worry, I’m sure we can find a higher court to rubber stamp the president’s directives.

(Reportedly, George W. is eager for Schiavo, who’s been in a persistent vegetative state since 1990, to wake from her coma and learn that he is now the president, not his daddy, and that when he fights a war against Iraq, he wins big and that, unlike his daddy, he’s a two-termer.)

Curiously, while governor of our fine state, Bush signed the Advanced Directives Act to the Health and Safety Code (also called the Texas Futile Care Act). This allows health care providers in principle, to terminate life support over the objections of family members in cases in which the patient shows little hope of recovery. In practice, recently with a Houston six-month old and potentially soon with a Houston nursing home patient, the law is enforced when the life support care is uninsured or unaffordable. Mainstream press, as of yet, has failed to report on this inconsistency with the President’s stated desire to make a “presumption in favor of life,” although it’s been all over the blogosphere.

Texas’ favorite grandstander, Tom DeLay, also weighed in his opinion:

“The legal issues, I grant you, are complicated, but the moral ones are not. What will it hurt to have a federal judge take a fresh look at all this evidence and apply it against 15 years’ worth of advances in medical technology?”

DeLay is apparently under the impression that neurologists, specialists and Florida state judges took one look at Schiavo, when she first became comatose, and haven’t looked back. In fact, the case has already been carefully considered by the Florida courts. As her husband, Michael Schiavo said on Larry King Live, “You can’t re-grow a brain.” That was true 15 years ago, that’s true today, and that’s likely to still be true, 15 years from now. Since this administration banned federal funding for stem-cell research, be assured that no advances that might benefit Terri Schiavo are anywhere on the horizon.

True, the two Houston cases are terminally ill patients while Schiavo (quickly becoming the vegetative Elian Gonzalez), is in stable condition. But if we’re hoping for 11th hour medical breakthroughs for her, why not for the others as well?

For those of you keeping track of the moral calculus at home, let’s recap:

Value of life of undifferentiated, microscopic stem cells = very high

Value of life of women reduced to undignified urine/feces factory = high

Value of life of young, Cuban rafting enthusiast = somewhat high

Value of life of destitute chronically ill patients = not high at all

By TJ Shroat

Eileen helped me talk my way into a free SxSW Interactive press day pass. We were able to convince someone that I was a ‘writer’ and ‘photographer’ for ITPT. I can only refer to myself as a ‘journalist’ if I use quotation marks. Eileen is qualified to do so without irony. Eileen and I felt like SxSWi outliers (both over 30; have held jobs that didn’t allow us to wear tennis shoes to the office). But poking fun at SxSW tech goobers is plucking a pretty low-hanging fruit. Last night, as I began to write about my observations at SxSWi, I realized I’d just finished eating canned soup directly from the pan and that I had professional wrestling on the TV as background noise. (Ric Flair still wrestles?!? I remember that guy from when I was a kid. Okay, I admit that I already knew that. I occasionally check out wrestling. I think it’s prudent to periodically gauge exactly where society’s lowest common denominator lies. That way, when it all degenerates into Thunderdome, I’ll be able to smugly say, Told ya so.)

Wonkette was articulate and funny and, yes, titillating. The room visibly deflated when Evan Smith mentioned that she was married. However, it perked up again when she said that commuting from DC to NYC (where her husband lives) was tough on a marriage. I could almost see the thought bubbles around the room: “Gee, if she wasn’t married, I just know she’d see how funny and smart I am and how much we have in common. I just know it.“ Actually, that was my thought bubble.

Al Franken was funny enough, but he’s got to get over the 2000 election and the whole 2004 Swiftboat Veterans for Truth debacle. Those ships have sailed (rim shot). Franken said he is constantly asked at events, “What can the Democratic Party do to take back power?” His answer, stop looking for panaceas and one-sentence answers and do something yourself. Franken’s humor and advice was not sufficiently compelling to the girl sitting in front of me. As I watched over her shoulder, she spent the time reading the Invasive Species Weblog. I thought Franken was a little repetitive but surely, live and in person, he’s more compelling than the latest blog entry about Diffuse knapweed (Centaurea diffusa) or the scourge of Lake Austin, Hydrilla verticillata. I did a lot of over-the-shoulder web browsing yesterday. If you’re a non-Apple (me), non-Firefox (not me) user at this event, be warned. You’re likely to receive scorn and derision usually reserved for the likes of Pol Pot.

We also made a pass through the SxSWi tradeshow.

I took it as a bad sign for the forces arrayed against HB 789 (banning muni-lead broadband and wireless) that the booth for the Austin Wireless City Project was being manned by some homeless guy. Was this a post-modern, Brando-esque gesture of protest on their part? How very meta of them.

Having done a stint in Dell sales, I found the tradeshow frippery to be on par with Dell’s bi-quarterly vendor fair, only with more hippies and no fajita bar. Eileen, on the other hand, is a tchotchke whore. You’d think someone who’s covered Comdex in Vegas would be a little more inured. I’ve never seen anyone get so excited about a free mini-Twix bar.

But you can never have too many coozies.