My significant other hails from a place where people actually use the phrase "hails from" in normal conversation. When we go to visit his parents, we have to bring our passports, take a blood test, and pretend we're cousins. It's a place where compost heaps aren't an idiotic "green" initiative, but an unavoidable fact of life. Mail takes an extra 2 days to arrive, no one's ever heard of trash collection services, and there isn't a Nordstrom in the entire state. I graciously tolerate our visits, though, because that's the kind of generous and loving person I am.
The great thing about living in a place like this is how much you can get for basically nothing. His parents live in a veritable mansion made out of two smaller mansions they picked up and moved on flatbed trucks and squished together. They have about 200 acres and 200 year old floors. The entire house is filled with priceless antiques, artifacts from ships sunk during the "War between the States," and paintings of barns. Also guns. The downside is that your neighbors live in trailers and you have to do all your shopping through catalogs, but it's not an unreasonable trade off.
Not satisfied with a mere colonial mansion in the "low country," however, his parents also purchased a mountain house. It lies secluded in a federally-protected forest sanctuary, which means they basically have their own, personal mountain. Yeah, I totally scored with this guy.
We decided to spend some time up at the mountain house, because 1. it was a cheap romantic getaway and 2. we could then use the uber-pretentious phrase "we're going to spend some time up at the mountain house." He gathered our supplies, and I gathered my tolerance for places that took their time ratifying the 14th Amendment. As we headed up the winding mountain roads, however, all my sarcasm melted away: this place was fucking beautiful.
"Wow," I said, "this is so gorgeous. Look at that valley!"
Sig. Other snickered, "You don't recognize that name?"
"That name?" I said, pointing to a school.
"Yeah," he said.
"That's the valley from Deliverance."
Suddenly it looked a lot more like this:
Except that's too many fingers for a hillbilly.
We ultimately made it to the mountain house with minimal anal rape and enjoyed a fantastically romantic weekend which was only enhanced by the misadventures and quirks of country living. The day before we had to head back, we decided to visit a coin shop in the town. One of the many things Sig. Other and I have in common is our belief that 1. the world will soon end and 2. when it does, the only thing that can save you is having enough silver eagles. Also guns.
Fact: zombies are vulnerable to silver and shotgun blasts to the face.
We enter the coin shop, look around, figure the price is right and pick up a few new pieces. Then this old man, who is obviously a regular, comes in with his wife, and he starts talking to the owner and the other customers and us. We chat about the ecomony, and the Fed, and how currency is being devalued and really isn't worth shit anyway since we went off the gold standard. He bemoans how insane it is that we're willing to hand over real value for paper and zinc money, and in the next breath, starts telling us about a penny that's "worth" $5,000 according to some coin collecting book. Sig. Other and I glance at each other, but elect not to point out the logical disconnect. Besides, this guy is *really* excited about this book.
"You have to get this book," he tells us.
"Ok," we say.
"It's only $19.95 for the 2009 edition," he says.
"Ok," we reply.
"This book will be like your Bible," he says in his serious voice.
"Oh," we say.
"Are you Christians?" he asks.
"Um...no, no we're not," I tell him.
"You're not?!" he cries.
"No," I respond.
"Well, you're young, you'll change your mind."
"I don't think so, but thanks."
We figure it's better if we don't elaborate our religious views (we're atheist), and anyway the shop's closing so we all walk outside. The old man and his wife are parked next to us. As we reach our cars, the man looks over at us one last time.
"Not Christian, huh?" he asks.
"No sir," I reply.
He starts to get in the car, then stops and calls after us:
"You're not Moslems, are you?"
"Uh, no," I managed while Sig. Other tried to suppress a snort by burying his head in the steering wheel.
"Oh, alright then," he says, still not getting in the car.
Then, just when I think I can't get any more offended slash amused by the exchange, before I have the chance to wonder what he would have said if we *were* Muslim, and before I can thank him for his generous approval of our religious preferences, his wife yells at him:
"Harold! Leave them alone! They're Jews!"
It was about five minutes before our laughter subsided enough to begin the drive back to sanity.*
*This is way funnier if you know how much Sig. Other and I do not look Jewish, but anyway...
THIS IS THE GRAMMAR POLICE. TAKE YOUR HANDS OFF THE KEYBOARD AND PLACE THEM OVER YOUR HEAD.
Actually I'm not sure if this is the Grammar Police. It might be the "Did you even take 1 second to read what you just wrote?" Police, or the Logic and Sentence Structure Police. Either way, the people who write the advertisements in San Francisco are certifiably retarded.
Ok, so there's this ad around town, on buses and whatnot. Here's what it looks like:
The ad says "Until there's a cure, Tim Lincecum throws strikes." In case you live a hole, Tim Lincecum is the uber young superstar pitcher who basically won the World Series for the Giants. This is a huge, huge deal in SF, because it's the first time we've ever won. Professional sports are important, because they provide us with a relatively safe way to channel those innate tribal urges that make us want to kill people from other places with sticks. They are basically the keystone of civilization, so it's deeply, primally gratifying to have your stick declared the most deadly.
Now that we have that context, let's read this again:
"Until there's a cure, Tim Lincecum throws strikes."
In case the hole you live in is located inside an undersea volcano on Europa, strikes are a good thing. They're what a pitcher is supposed to throw in order to win the game. Lincecum was a hero who won us the World Series because he threw many, many strikes.
Once more now:
"Until there's a cure, Tim Lincecum throws strikes."
So what this ad is saying, is that once HIV/AIDS is cured, Tim Lincecum will stop throwing strikes and the Giants will go back to sucking.
Omg everyone, STOP TRYING TO CURE AIDS RIGHT NOW!
So is this ad sponsored by the Christian Coalition for Hatin' on the Gays? Who would seriously oppose curing a disease?
The answer, of course, is no one. This ad was created by Gilead and Until There's a Cure. Gilead is a pharmaceutical research company that produces a number of antiretroviral medications used in the treatment of HIV, and Until There's a Cure is a charitable organization supporting HIV/AIDS research. Both these groups totally want to cure HIV, they just accidentally made a poorly-worded advertisement. I mean, why would a company that makes its money by treating an incurable disease with drugs that cost $3,000 per month and an organization that will cease to exist once the disease that is the impetus for its existence becomes irrelevant want to stop said disease from being cured?
$25 billion dollars in government funding and a handshake from Bono is why.
It would be a shame for all those nice [Red] products to go to waste, though.
Well ok, so a pharmaceutical research company and philanthropic organization proved to be functionally illiterate. It's not like they're expected to be literary geniuses or anything. It's not as though they're, I don't know, museum curators or something.
Ah, but this is San Francisco, where the museum curators don't do much better. The San Francisco Museum of Modern Art, affectionately referred to as MOMA by SF residents and less affectionately called "that festering dung heap" by me, put a series of banners on lampposts, each showing a different hipster contemplating a different piece of art with a phrase or question written on it. The idea was to illustrate how art can be a jumping off point for interesting contemplation or discussion.
One showed a chubby guy with a bright green shirt and Where's Waldo glasses looking at Andy Warhol's painting of Mao saying "Is it better to be hated or loved than forgotten?"
I'm honestly not entirely sure what this is supposed to mean. I thought at first that it was supposed to be a Machiavellian reference (which seemed likely given the association with Mao), in which case this is a straight-up grammatical error, and a fairly pathetic one, I might add. "Then" and "than" really aren't that similar.
But as it stands, the sentence is a grammatically correct one, it's just that, if interpreted as written, it makes absolutely no sense. It presents your alternatives as being either loved or hated versus being forgotten, as if people having an emotional response to your existence causes them to forget you. Further, since Machiavelli's comparison is usually translated as being between love and fear, not love and hate, it's entirely possible that the MOMA marketing people mean exactly what they say here, in which case their idiocy extends much further than I originally thought.
This is an educational toy for children designed to teach them important lessons about life, the balance of the Universe, and not being a complete tool.
WHAT IS IT?
The Jersey Shorus Rex is similar to the impossibly awesome Roboraptor. Unlike the Roboraptor, however, the Jersey Shorus Rex is programmed specifically to maim, dismember, and ultimately kill cast members of MTV's Jersey Shore.
WHAT DOES IT DO?
The Jersey Shorus Rex will sense, locate, stalk and attack anything related to New Jersey or the show Jersey Shore. Simply activate the Jersey Shorus Rex with your remote control device. It will spend a minute exploring and adjusting to its surroundings. You can then control it's activity by hand, or by selecting one of four modes: roam, hunt, play, or sleep.
In "roam" mode, the Jersey Shorus Rex will patrol the perimeter of the space it inhabits, always on the lookout for signs of New Jersey, but mostly engaged in casual, but vigilant, exploration of its environment.
In "hunt" mode, the Jersey Shorus Rex actively seeks, corners, and annihilates all things New Jersey. Once "hunt" mode is activated, the Jersey Shorus Rex will not rest until it has tasted sweet New Jersey blood, so be sure you have some available.
In "play" mode, rather than destroy its prey, the Jersey Shorus Rex will bring the limp, not-yet-dead bodies of Jersey Shore cast members to you and will bat them around, cat-like, for your enjoyment until you choose to end their suffering.
In "sleep" mode, the Jersey Shorus Rex will remain inactive unless something New Jersey comes within a programmable radius.
WHAT'S IN THE BOX?
The basic product includes the Jersey Shorus Rex (batteries totally included because it's hella lame not to include them) and one generic Jersey Shore action figure, plus remote control and hair gel. You can use the remote control to make the action figure say "It's a Jersey thing," which will instantly drive the Jersey Shorus Rex into a feeding frenzy that lasts approximately 45 minutes.
All of the iconic Jersey Shore cast members are available as well (sold separately), including:
"The Situation" - includes 3 changeable graphic tees, plus hair gel
Ronnie - includes catch phrase "What was I supposed to do?" and realistic punching action, plus hair gel
JWOWW - inflatable for before and after weightloss versions, plus hair gel
and of course Snooki- with a variety of vague grunting noises and unintelligible slang, plus hair gel
You can also purchase the Jersey Shore beach house, car, and satanic duck phone. For more morally advanced children, you can also buy the film crew, producers and MTV executives. This will help them learn that moral culpability does not end with the moron who punches people for no reason, but continues on up the food chain and rests, ultimately, on the viewers who make these shows profitable.
HOW DOES IT WORK?
All people and things from New Jersey emit low levels of a specific type of radiation unique to hair gel. Even the tiniest amount of this radiation is detectable by the Jersey Shorus Rex through sensors on its forehead and snout, enabling it to sense its prey from up to a quarter of a mile away as well as through wood, brick, cement, and fiberglass. Watch out, Jersey Shore cast! You can run, but you can't hide.
Available now! Shipping to 49 states (not available in New Jersey).
Updated 1/30/2011: Corrected spelling. Apparently "Snooki" only has one "i." Normally I wouldn't care, but the correct spelling makes the name even more retarded, so I couldn't let it slide.
One of the suckiest things about San Francisco is the food. I know, everyone reading this is probably like "What? SF is super famous for food!" But as with so many things, San Francisco does not live up to its reputation.
I think of this city as one of those really, really hot chicks who are bad in bed, because they never had to try. She never has to wise up, because there's always another young, horny guy ready to jump in the sack with her to replace the jaded, frustrated one who just left. Ready to buy her expensive things, to shop at her co-op grocery stores, to pay her exorbitant rent.
And so every day, countless SF residents (who have the audacity to consider themselves "foodies") spend ridiculous amounts of money on totally mediocre dining experiences and then rave about said experiences on Yelp, thus adding to the false perception of culinary greatness in this city. Ah, yes, I could relate many a harrowing tale of $150 meals that were barely worth $50, or "prix fixe" menus that seem reasonably priced until you realize that every good thing on the menu is considered an "add on" and costs $25 extra.
But this post isn't about that. It's about the eclectic group of people in SF that have decided to give the one-fingered salute to the restaurant industry by resorting to, nay, embracing the primitive tactic of scavenging.
We're undoubtedly all familiar with the sights, sounds and smells of street people begging for food. That's sadly not at all uncommon. But, before moving to SF, I had never before seen anything like the sight I saw a few months after moving here: a woman sitting in the middle of the Embarcadero sidewalk, facing a glorious view of the San Francisco Bay, with a full-sized trashcan in her lap, nestled snuggly between her thighs, out of which she was directly eating as though it were a cafeteria tray. That's some serious dedication to freeganism, let me tell you.
A part of me really wants to respect this radical method for putting the snooty, overpriced restaurants of SF in their place. But a much bigger part of me is revolted by the idea of living like a feral dog.
Of course, the general idea of random homeless and possibly schizophrenic people eating garbage is not particularly revolutionary. But in San Francisco, this kind of behavior is not limited to the homeless. Hardly. For instance on Monday, an apparently healthy, clean, stylishly-dressed woman came up to me as I was clearing my table at the mall food court and asked if she could have my leftovers.
Confused, I double-checked to make sure she wasn't part of the janitorial staff. In her studded jeans and sparkly top, she most definitely was not. Then I double-checked my plate to see if I had anything really amazing on there that I'd overlooked somehow. I saw pieces of fat I had trimmed from my steak, a half-eaten slice of squash and a quarter of an onion. Then I looked back at her again, wondering if I was somehow hallucinating the whole encounter.
"I'm just really hungry," she said, with a slight twitch. I glanced around at the countless food stands around us, many that were providing free (and clean) samples. I stood awkwardly for awhile, but I found neither an explanation for her behavior nor a sufficiently compelling reason to refuse to let her eat my garbage. Eventually I handed her my tray with a mumbled "I guess..." and she took it eagerly, sat down where I had been sitting moments before, and proceeded to chow down, without even bothering to get clean (and free) silverware first.
My brain was reeling on overload. Why did an obviously affluent, normal-seeming woman risk taking reject-food from a complete stranger? For all she knew, I could be patient zero for mono-herpes-Ebola-AIDS. The saliva she was eagerly sucking off my used fork could be teeming with the rabies virus!
Then I realized:
-It's Monday on a holiday weekend.
-She's wearing party clothes at noon in a food court.
-Her clothes, while nice and new, obviously have more than 3 hours of wear on them.
-I've seen a well-off person get the extreme munchies at this time of day while being mysteriously short on cash, trembling slightly and still wearing party clothes from the night before a few times in the past: my crack head ex-roommate and Katie Holmes in the movie Go.
As my significant other often remarks: meth's a bitch.
Some of you may find it surprising that a blog about the stupid things people do never discusses the greatest systematized practice of stupidity yet invented by man: politics. If you are also familiar with other blogs by adherents of the Philosophy That Shall Not Be Named, you probably find it strange that I write about anything other than politics.
Believe it or not, politics is a deliberate non-entity on this blog. While I am a board-certified masochist, even I can only take so much. Although I don't have the strength to wallow in the muck of political particulars, I do wish to satisfy my dear readers. In that spirit, then, please accept this meta-analysis as a substitute. Just fill in whatever issue of the day you wish I would cover and choose responses according to your desired ideological leaning, and voila! Instant political commentary.
Title: [Person/Place/Thing] Does Something [Stupid/Smart/Cool]
[Person/Place/Thing] has struck again! According to [trusted mainstream news source link/link to completely unsubstantiated claim on some random website], [person/place/thing] has issued a statement that [he/she/it] will be [further violating our rights/saving babies]. This comes on the tail of [other person/place/thing's] declaration that they will be [screwing us way harder/saving far more babies] than [person/place/thing1].
Here's why this is [stupid/smart/cool]:
This move is clearly going to have far-reaching consequences. It will affect the economy, which is in the crapper right now because of [Obama/Bush/Reagan/George Washington]. It's going to make things so much [worse/better], which should be obvious to anyone who has studied [Mises/Friedman/Keynes].
Aside from the practical economic effects, this is a moral [tragedy/triumph] of enormous proportions. This decision will [destroy freedom/restore democracy and social justice], as anyone familiar with the works of [Ayn Rand/Hayek/some obscure postmodern feminist scholar] can tell you.
Of course it's safe to assume that [conservatives/liberals/both] are wrong about this issue and are saying lots of stupid things about it like [link] and [link]. But that's what you've got to expect when you're corrupted by [mysticism/altruism/both/neither]. Until everyone understands that we [are/are not our brother's keeper], everything will continue to suck and there will be no rainbows for anyone. NO RAINBOWS.
Of course all of this ties back to my pet issue of [immigration/gay marriage/ending circumcision/sending trees to college] in a way that I will merely assert rather than explain while linking to a prior post I wrote on the topic. Then I will bombard you with links that no one will ever read. They will make it look as though I am supporting my position, but most of them just link to other opinion pieces. One or two are actually gay porn. Good luck figuring out which is which.
Here's to making the world a better place, one pointless rant that no one reads at a time.
Some number of years ago today, Martin Luther King, Jr. was born, or maybe he died, or maybe neither since Martin Luther King Day is one of those lame floating holidays that always magically attach to a weekend because who wants a winter holiday that can't be turned into a ski trip, am I right?
Martin Luther King was a man so awesome, he remains to this day the one known exception to the "shit doesn't happen just because you talk about it a lot" rule. He accomplished more in death than almost anyone else would accomplish from cradle to grave if they lived forever. He is the only known human being who holds the title of "bad-ass pacifist mother fucker" without contradiction (1).
So what better way to honor the man who died a violent, public death for the dream of a day when black children could attend the same schools as white children, than by throwing children of all races out on the street to fend for themselves for a day?
Seriously, you guys: this man died for your education. He gave his life so that you could have an equal chance at getting a job. If anything, this should be a day when all the black people go to work and all the white people are forced to take unpaid vacation (2), not a day when we all fuck around and do nothing.
And by the way, if I hear one person comparing the assassination of MLK to the attempted assassination of Congressman Giffords today, I swear to God I will punch you in the fucking face. Except not really because I am at work today, exercising my goddamn civil rights. Thanks, MLK!
(1) Don't anyone mention Ghandi now because that jerk had less awesomeness in his entire body and diaper than MLK had in one hair follicle.
(2) "Reverse racism" is still racism, assholes.
Robert Frost's "The Road Not Taken" is not a poem about individualism. The title is not "The Road Less Taken." The point is not that you are better off if you go against the common way. It is not, in any way, a triumphant ode to "going your own way."
I have no idea how this misconception came about. The poem isn't particularly dense. It's written in more or less plain English. Of course it's allegorical but not in a particularly lofty or hard-to-understand way. It's not Shakespeare; it's Robert Fucking Frost. I mean, just read it!
No, seriously: read it. Even if you've read it before and think you remember it, take a look and thoroughly process every word:
"Two roads diverged in a yellow wood,
And sorry I could not travel both
And be one traveler, long I stood
And looked down one as far as I could
To where it bent in the undergrowth;
Then took the other, as just as fair,
And having perhaps the better claim
Because it was grassy and wanted wear,
Though as for that the passing there
Had worn them really about the same,
And both that morning equally lay
In leaves no step had trodden black.
Oh, I marked the first for another day!
Yet knowing how way leads on to way
I doubted if I should ever come back.
I shall be telling this with a sigh
Somewhere ages and ages hence:
Two roads diverged in a wood, and I,
I took the one less traveled by,
And that has made all the difference."
In the first stanza, the speaker reveals that he would have liked to have taken both roads, but has to choose. In the second stanza, he explains that he chose the one that appeared less used. In the third stanza, he tells us that he still would like to take the more traveled path one day but knows the possibility is remote. In the fourth and final stanza, he projects his future state of mind regarding this choice. He says he will speak of this moment "with a sigh," because the path he chose irrevocably changed his life.
Now let's count the ways that this has absolutely nothing to do with the common "individualism" interpretation of this poem:
1. From the beginning, the speaker wants to take both roads, so much so that he hesitates a very long time before choosing. This hardly screams "individualism."
2. Once he makes his choice, he still wishes to take both roads. He plans to come back to the first path later and agonizes over how choosing the second path will affect his future.
3. The speaker believes that many years later, he will look back on the profound affect this choice had on his life "with a sigh." Sighs indicate many things, among them regret, longing, nostalgia, resignation, melancholy, possibly even sadness and desolation. They do not indicate triumph, happiness, self-assurance, or pride. (Sighs do also imply relief, but I don't believe that meaning is intended here given how the rest of the poem suggests the speaker continually desires to take both paths. It is also indicated that both paths lead to good places and that the speaker is concerned about his choice only because the paths lead to very different places, not to good and bad places.)
4. The speaker remarks in the second stanza that "Though as for that the passing there/Had worn them really about the same," meaning that the less-traveled road was only slightly less traveled. He isn't choosing between a safe, paved road and a wild, untamed, unexplored one. He's choosing between otherwise identical roads where one has slightly more grass. In fact, in the third stanza, he reiterates their similarity and relative un-traveled-ness: "And both that morning equally lay/In leaves no step had trodden black."
5. The second path may be less-traveled, but it may actually be the easier road to travel on. It's described as "grassy" and "wanting wear," which could imply that it is softer and less worn out. In any event, no difficulty is emphasized here. The road isn't steeper or overgrown with brambles. While making the choice based on the wear of the road does imply an individualist motivation, this is presented simply as a given rather than the message of the poem.
6. If Frost had really wanted to make a pro-individualist poem, he could have left everything the same except make the speaker take the first path. Then the regret at the end would be turned toward not taking the less-traveled path instead of the other way around. Given the context of the American sense of life, one could then reasonably interpret the poem as being about individualism.
7. Now the final line, which I suspect is 99% responsible for the endless misinterpretations of this poem: "I took the one less traveled by/And that has made all the difference." Ah, there it is, that powerful individualist sentiment, the declaration of the virtue of independence, the...wait, where is it again? So he took the less-traveled road, which we already knew, and that "made all the difference." What difference? Is he happier? Richer? Taller? Stronger? Does he live longer or have more sex? We don't know, and that's the point: neither does he, because he never gets the chance to take the other path.
That's what this poem is about, which any dipshit should be able to tell by looking at the damn title. It's about the overwhelming bitterness of knowing that you're about to make a choice that will change your life forever, in some way, but you will never know in what way. It's about seeing a pivotal moment in your life for what it is while still being unable to do anything about it.
This is an excellent poem. The cadence is beautiful, the emotion evoked is poignant, and the imagery is simultaneously powerful and accessible. The theme is universal and important, and the problem addressed is immortal. As poems go, it's easy to understand. But still, somehow, everyone, even very intelligent, educated people, gets it wrong. Over and over and over.
If this is what people do to Frost, imagine what it must be like for T.S. Elliot. I'm surprised sticking your head in an oven isn't a path taken by more poets.
Some time ago, I began a rant against morning news programs, but I saw something last night that convinced me to stretch my blanket condemnation of news-watchers further to include any and all televised news programs.
The managers of my new gym apparently think cardio isn't painful enough, because they are always showing CNN on the TV. My old gym showed Food Network, which is at least a motivating kind of torture. You watch Guy Fieri eat a 5 pound hamburger and yeah, you run a little faster. But CNN just saps you of your will to live. Whenever I'm stuck in front of that TV, it adds at least 2 minutes to my mile time. They may as well pump aerosolized muscle relaxants into the room via those giant fans.
Anyway there's this one guy who's always on when I go. I thought at first he was Joe Biden, or else John Slattery, but I guess his name is Anderson Cooper. The story last night was these strange bird deaths. On new year's eve, 5,000 red winged blackbirds fell from the sky, dead from some unknown trauma. At this point I'm like "Hey, this is actually interesting." Still not relevant at all to my actual life, but freak occurrences are something I enjoy hearing about. I thought I might actually get some value out of the news for once.
I was wrong.
The next slide after the heart-wrenching picture of a beautiful dead bird (not American Beauty beautiful, this was pure tragedy) read "Apocalypse Now?" Out of knee-jerk generosity, I assumed this was a segue into a story about Marlon Brando or poor people dying in the jungle and it being all America's fault. What I would have given to have been right.
Cooper continued "Many are saying these dead birds are a sign of the Apocalypse." The Apocalypse. Really.
I know what you're thinking. You're thinking "And then he laughed and said 'Aren't those Tea Baggers nuts?'" Nope, not at all. He read that line with complete seriousness. And then with equal seriousness, he introduced his guest, Kirk Cameron.
In case you don't keep yourself as informed as I do of all the moderately successful people who ultimately lose touch with reality and spiral into total lunacy, Kirk Cameron was the star of Growing Pains, the 80s sitcom that also gave Leonardo DiCaprio his start. But while these days Leo is making films like Inception, born-again-Christian Kirk is going on Anderson Cooper to discuss the impending End of Days.
Kirk Cameron is a well-established idiot. I'm not here to beat that horse. My point is that this well-established idiot was a guest on Anderson Fucking Cooper.
Actually, let me back up a second. It's unbelievably retarded that this Armageddon aspect of the bird death story is even being covered on the evening news. Granted I'm sure there are some people who reacted to this event in the standard "Oh my God the Four Horsemen must be just around the corner!" kind of way. They were probably very loud on the internets. But that's no excuse for CNN to be taken in by their bullshit.
But once you decide to address this insane claim, why oh why do you turn to Kirk Cameron? Anyone who knows anything about Christians knows that most of them don't have any clue what's in the book they worship. They are especially ignorant of Revelation, which is unfortunate because many of them would wake up and smell the censer if they were forced to confront the bare lunacy of a dragon raping some woman *who is wearing the sun*. Kirk may really believe this shit, but he doesn't *know* it. Why not consult, I don't know, an *expert* in the field? Like some one who attended one of the thousands of divinity schools in this country? Or better yet, someone who translates it for a living? Then we would have at least learned that no seal-breaking, trumpet-blowing, or angel bowl-dumping leads to bird death, except perhaps indirectly when a third of the world's forests are destroyed.
By the way, even if this were one of the "signs," it's nothing we should be worried about. The signs merely herald a thousand years of famine and death, followed by a thousand years of peace after a sheep throws a dragon into a lake of fire, followed by another thousand years of general misery when the dragon returns. Only when the sheep/Jesus thing returns, apparently taking his sweet time for a millenium, and kicks the Satan-dragon's ass for a final, epic time do we actually get to the whole Last Judgment happy time with a new heaven, new earth, and no more death.
So let's review:
A news show (legitimately) reports on a bizarre and morbid event that has yet to be explained. They then give voice to a psychotic minority of Americans who think this is a sign from God that the Last Judgment is at hand. Then they give even more power to these crazies by taking their delusions seriously and inviting a similarly deluded celebrity (who has no expertise in the matter and no qualifications beyond the lack of a single active brain cell) to opine on the whole situation.
CNN, I know you're trying to reinvent yourself as "fair and balanced," and I know that's going to be a long hard road for you considering your decades of blatant pandering to the left. But you're not supposed to be fair to the crazies. It's not balanced to give equal weight to views that are unbalanced. Your method of covering "both sides" on this issue amounts to "Is there a scientific explanation, OR IS IT THE APOCALYPSE?!"
Well, sometimes, CNN, there aren't sides to a story. Sometimes just the facts are interesting enough to stand on their own. Like when thousands of animals drop dead in one place for no apparent reason. It's really ok to just leave it at that.