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FDA Approves AbstinenceMay 17, 2004 |
Washington, D.C. Snapper McGee Everyone at this rally loves a virgin… but not in the way they would probably most want.
Over-the-counter sales of Plan B were denied despite recommendation of an advisory panel, whose suggestions are almost always accepted by the FDA. The Plan B pill is a contraceptive tool intended to be taken within 72 hours after sex to prevent pregnancy, and has an 89% effectiveness. While less controversial than the more famous RU-486 contraception, which is taken orally to induce abortion, critics can be heard from their moral high horses critiquing the pill for encouraging promiscuity witho...
weetie, the Food and Drug Administration went beyond its usual scope to approve abstinence last week, endorsing the political stance by rejecting over-the-counter sales of the "morning after" birth control pill known as Plan B. Plan A apparently being wait until you're married to bone.
Over-the-counter sales of Plan B were denied despite recommendation of an advisory panel, whose suggestions are almost always accepted by the FDA. The Plan B pill is a contraceptive tool intended to be taken within 72 hours after sex to prevent pregnancy, and has an 89% effectiveness. While less controversial than the more famous RU-486 contraception, which is taken orally to induce abortion, critics can be heard from their moral high horses critiquing the pill for encouraging promiscuity without the punishment of pregnancy.
Pro-Choice lawmakers and women's rights organizations have blasted the proposal's rejection, suggesting politics have guided the decision more than science, and the Bush administration has maneuvered the FDA decision to curry favor with its conservative base. The FDA claimed its decision was formed on the lack of research on girls 16 and under who take the pill, and not on cowardly bowing to special interests.
The FDA formalized its position Friday by releasing an official approval of abstinence.
"We find abstinence to be one hundred percent safe and effective at preventing pregnancy," said the decision. "All of our studies on the subject find that sex is way over-rated, and people who won't be your friend if you don't have sex aren't the kind of friend you need anyway. While some opponents say abstinence is for squares, our research shows that abstinence is the method for kids too cool to play the peer pressure game."
Critics have charged the FDA with exceeding its authority and entering the realm of politics with Friday's decision, as well of being complete dorks. The FDA ruling went on to acknowledge that while the Plan B pill's over-the-counter sales could ostensibly prevent thousands of unwanted pregnancies, that abstinence was the only sure-fire way to prevent "the bad reputations and normal feelings of guilt associated with underage pre-marital sex." Thus concluded the report: "Abstinence… yay!"
Some have called for the resignation of acting Commissioner Lester Crawford and acting director for the Center for Drug Evaluation and Research Dr. Steve Galson, or at least signed confirmation the decision wasn't politically motivated. Galson previously headed a research group for the Abstinence Foundation performing a study on how the use of condoms reduced all feeling in the penis and the connection between teen-age sex and the holding of low-income jobs.
While the FDA has not closed the door to approving the over-the-counter sales of Plan B, it has significantly stalled the approval until, say, after the November election. If political motivation can be proven in the case, it will be more hard times for the FDA. The agency has faced recent scandal for letting so many male enhancement commercials ruin dinnertime television and approving over-the-counter sales of Placebo, the world's wonderful cure-all pill. the commune news believes in waiting until after you're married to have sex, at least when it comes to the actual ceremony. Stigmata Spent doesn't ever have to worry about getting pregnant, of course—in addition to possessing a male anatomy, she doesn't exactly inspire climaxes, let's just say that.
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 September 12, 2005
Seventh HeavenLet's get started. I don't have all day. If I did have it, I would probably charge for its use. I'm thinking $4.50, $5 ought to do it. Not outrageous, but enough to clear a healthy profit.
I have recently taken to wearing hats. And we are no longer a hat-endorsing culture, I remind you. So if you see me on the street, applaud my actions. I mean it. Seriously, applaud. Very loudly, and with whistles.
Ever notice how there are movie-grade celebrities, and then there are TV-grade celebrities? In movies, you have Tom Cruise. On TV, you get Matthew Perry. Every once in a while you'll see an ambitious star claw his way up, like George Clooney. Or you'll witness the sad decline of one star washing up on TV shores, like Geena Davis. Where does that leave Paris Hilton? I'd say straight to video, but I have more class than that.
It just occurs to me I never received any gifts at all on Christmas morning, 1993. God, no wonder that morning went by so slow. I knew something was askew.
What time is it? Drinking time! It's always drinking time, when you have alcohol.
If it's yellow, let it mellow. If it's brown, flush it down. This applies to any packet gravy you can get your hands on it.
It seems like only yesterday I was a bouncing young boy with his future laid out before him. If it was really yesterday, I had one hell of a growth spurt. I'm seriously worried if it's still going on, because I could be dead before I'm...
º Last Column: Vernon Hooper's Sixth Cents
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Let's get started. I don't have all day. If I did have it, I would probably charge for its use. I'm thinking $4.50, $5 ought to do it. Not outrageous, but enough to clear a healthy profit. I have recently taken to wearing hats. And we are no longer a hat-endorsing culture, I remind you. So if you see me on the street, applaud my actions. I mean it. Seriously, applaud. Very loudly, and with whistles. Ever notice how there are movie-grade celebrities, and then there are TV-grade celebrities? In movies, you have Tom Cruise. On TV, you get Matthew Perry. Every once in a while you'll see an ambitious star claw his way up, like George Clooney. Or you'll witness the sad decline of one star washing up on TV shores, like Geena Davis. Where does that leave Paris Hilton? I'd say straight to video, but I have more class than that. It just occurs to me I never received any gifts at all on Christmas morning, 1993. God, no wonder that morning went by so slow. I knew something was askew. What time is it? Drinking time! It's always drinking time, when you have alcohol. If it's yellow, let it mellow. If it's brown, flush it down. This applies to any packet gravy you can get your hands on it. It seems like only yesterday I was a bouncing young boy with his future laid out before him. If it was really yesterday, I had one hell of a growth spurt. I'm seriously worried if it's still going on, because I could be dead before I'm done with this column. But more than likely it was just time seeming relative to me again. If I could have only one thing given to me, I would like a gun. Everything else I could then get myself. I have but one rule to live by: If your teeth are turning black, it's time to start brushing. Live by this rule and you can't go wrong. Several times a month I order a "pizza with everything on it." When it arrives, I'm disappointed to find only extra cheese, green onions, olives, mushrooms, and several kinds of meat. Is this truly everything? Have we grown so unimaginative as a culture we can't do any better? I demanded everything, damn you. Put some backbone into it. Whoops! I fell out of my chair. That time it was an accident. I know I've done it sometimes just to get attention, but that time was for real. I have never been charged with impersonating a police officer, though I do it all the time. Don't worry—I don't wear a uniform or carry a fake badge or anything. It's all in my attitude. I carry myself like a cop. People don't say anything, but they don't believe it. I don't tell them I'm a cop either. That would be cheating. And a felony. They call them sunglasses, but they don't shine the sun directly into your eyes when you're wearing them. They should call them "sunblockers," or "shades." Why is it I'm the one who has to think of these things? That's sufficient. I could give it more, but I don't think you quite deserve that, do you? No, not at all. º Last Column: Vernon Hooper's Sixth Centsº more columns
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|  February 2, 2004
The Deep, Deep SouthTestifying against the mob hasn't been as much fun as I thought it would be. Not only has my life been repeatedly threatened and endangered, I've had to change my name and address more times than Martin Luther, and they've made me give back all those nice suits. But good people, I'm convinced I'm doing the right thing. It feels far too horrible to be the funner brand of wrong thing I'm more familiar with.
Despite my own convictions, however, the mobsters gunning for Rok remain unconvicted. Which brings me to something I once vowed to you, my mother, and the state department I would never do—I, Rockwell T. Finger, must leave the country.
I state it somewhat generally, as I've already left the country. At least now I know the world is not flat, it at least has another hemisphere. I'm living down under, and this time I don't mean in mother's basement. Australia, good people. G'day, queen! Like they say locally.
How can you say anything bad about Australia? Let's try. For one, I'm not certain what they've been told, but this language is certainly not English. Where I come from, America, we invented English, and I know English when I hear it. They have all sorts of oddball names for things down here. Mates, sheilas, kangaroos—I know a five-foot rat walking upright like a man when I see it. Cutesy names don't help me get to sleep any better at night. Maybe once I've finished the giant mousetrap I'll know sleep again.
º Last Column: The Name Game
º more columns
Testifying against the mob hasn't been as much fun as I thought it would be. Not only has my life been repeatedly threatened and endangered, I've had to change my name and address more times than Martin Luther, and they've made me give back all those nice suits. But good people, I'm convinced I'm doing the right thing. It feels far too horrible to be the funner brand of wrong thing I'm more familiar with.
Despite my own convictions, however, the mobsters gunning for Rok remain unconvicted. Which brings me to something I once vowed to you, my mother, and the state department I would never do—I, Rockwell T. Finger, must leave the country.
I state it somewhat generally, as I've already left the country. At least now I know the world is not flat, it at least has another hemisphere. I'm living down under, and this time I don't mean in mother's basement. Australia, good people. G'day, queen! Like they say locally.
How can you say anything bad about Australia? Let's try. For one, I'm not certain what they've been told, but this language is certainly not English. Where I come from, America, we invented English, and I know English when I hear it. They have all sorts of oddball names for things down here. Mates, sheilas, kangaroos—I know a five-foot rat walking upright like a man when I see it. Cutesy names don't help me get to sleep any better at night. Maybe once I've finished the giant mousetrap I'll know sleep again.
Felchyana's taken to the place quite well, but she's a foreigner, no surprise there. All non-America places are probably alike to her. Unroll a sleeping mat out on the tundra and crash for a while, all the same. She has started to add these Australian colloquialisms to her speech though. I thought at first anything was better than gangsta slang, but changed my mind after coming home to, "Oy, bitch!" a few dozen nights.
Not that I have a job. I intended to commute to the commune as I had in the past, but I ran straight into some body of water following the map north. I can still communicate using this "Intro-Net" device, but it's not the same as being "hands-on" in the office. Sitting at my desk, holding my hands tightly on my old Royal typewriter so Ted Ted doesn't take it to hock at the local Pawn & Gun, trying to think about what really pisses me off that hasn't been sufficiently covered in previous columns or constitutional amendments. Working from home is just not for me.
I will say it's been a new experience. And I hate those. Which is good, since I pay the bills with my seething, undying hatred after I allow it to fester and boil up into column inches. Not that I was ever in danger of losing it, not as long as those New York Times liberals are still alive and kicking. So in the end, it may be good fuel for many more columns, but right now, I'm having trouble getting a good hate on.
But you know Rok Finger's way of doing things—always give everything a fair shot. Then when it fails miserably you can sound even more sincere in your complaints. Felchyana and I are going out this week to find where they filmed that boxing movie trilogy in the Z-Land. Afterwards, if I can spare the time, I'm going to reunite Men at Work, a little extra-credit brownnosing for boss Bagel. Eventually, one day, it will be safe to set foot on American soil again. And when that day comes, I'm going to take a hefty dump on Australia before leaving. With affection. º Last Column: The Name Gameº more columns
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Milestones1998: Omar Bricks pees off the world's largest man-made waterfall. Not really relevant to anything else, but still pretty cool.Now HiringYes Man. Agreeable sort needed to attend staff meetings and dilute the concentration of "Huh?" Men presently attending.Top 2004 Blockbuster Busts| 1. | For the Love of Godzilla | | 2. | Jaws 5: Jaws of Life | | 3. | Romy & Michelle's Jai Alai Reunion | | 4. | Gargamel: The Movie | | 5. | Dude, Where's My Cartographer?: The Christopher Columbus Story | |
|   North Korea Pissed Their Real-Life Hunger Games Nowhere Near as Popular as Movie BY Southern Elvis Brandon 6/10/2002 The Negative Sum of NumbersThere was something disappointing about going home from New York Art College. A depression set in as soon as Smythe drove his middle-class luxury car across the borders of his old California hometown, Burnt Pines. He was here to spend a few weeks of his summer vacation before flying first class to Europe to live life as a starving artist, where he would make a killing.
Mom and dad couldn't meet Smythe at the airport because he wanted it to be a surprise. Also, they were emotionally distant and mom was haunted by the sexual abuse of Smythe by an uncle that she couldn't prevent; but mostly because it was supposed to be a surprise.
Only one person knew about Smythe coming in, his best friend Eddie "Big Fucking Junkie" Joneser. Eddie was supposed to meet Smythe at...
There was something disappointing about going home from New York Art College. A depression set in as soon as Smythe drove his middle-class luxury car across the borders of his old California hometown, Burnt Pines. He was here to spend a few weeks of his summer vacation before flying first class to Europe to live life as a starving artist, where he would make a killing.
Mom and dad couldn't meet Smythe at the airport because he wanted it to be a surprise. Also, they were emotionally distant and mom was haunted by the sexual abuse of Smythe by an uncle that she couldn't prevent; but mostly because it was supposed to be a surprise.
Only one person knew about Smythe coming in, his best friend Eddie "Big Fucking Junkie" Joneser. Eddie was supposed to meet Smythe at the airport, but once again, Eddie had let him down. Smythe was forced to fly back to New York City and drive all the way back in his car. You'd think after all this time he'd be used to Eddie letting him down. It was something he had never gotten used to.
Smythe went to Eddie's parents' house, where there was a huge hub-bub going on. Apparently, there was a party in full gear! Shit. Just like Eddie. Saturday afternoon and the party is still going on.
Parking his car, Smythe walked around back and found the yard full of fat degenerates. Ugly, down-trodden, just aching for a fix or to gamble or have sex with a dead person, no way of telling how far these people had slid from society's ranks.
"Where's Eddie?" demanded Smythe. People were confused and a little frightened, one was pregnant, and a guy eventually pointed toward the house.
Smythe stormed through the house, bumping into freak after weirdo, until he found the upstairs bathroom. Two guys were standing around doing God knew what, holding cocktails and waiting outside the bathroom. Smythe kicked it in, and inside, to his suspicions, he found Eddie sitting on the toilet.
"Jesus!" said Eddie, pulling up his pants. "You scared me, Smythe! I had to pinch one off!"
"Stop the act, Eddie," Smythe commanded, looking in the toilet for drugs. "I know you flushed the drugs down the toilet. And then pooed in there so I wouldn't search too good. Why, Eddie?"
"I—"
"Shut-up! I don't want to hear your lies anymore." And he didn't. Smythe dragged Eddie out by the arm as Eddie continued trying to pull his pants up. Smythe tossed him to the floor, as one of the suited guys entered the bathroom.
"C'mon, man, be cool!" pleaded Eddie.
"Knock off the act, Eddie, you're a junkie!" snapped Smythe. "I know you're jealous of me. I went to Art College, Eddie, it doesn't mean I don't still love you like a brother. If you want to be jealous, that's fine, but don't lose yourself in these ridiculous drugs. You're killing yourself."
"I told you, I don't take drugs!" said Eddie.
"Fuck you, Eddie," said Smythe, in a language that would have disappointed his mother. "You not only take drugs, you make them! Everybody knows it, it's no secret."
"I told you this before, man, I make an acid-reflux inhibitor. And I don't make it myself, I'm just CEO of the company that makes it. It's over-the-counter—"
"Aaaah!" screamed Smythe, grabbing his head like James Dean. "Stop the lies, Eddie!"
"It's the truth, you dick," said Eddie, standing up again and straightening his tie. "And for the last time, I'm not jealous of you going to Art School. I told you, I graduated six years ago with a Masters in Business Management from Princeton. Now if you're done interrupting the company picnic, I've got a three-legged race to win."
It was too much for Smythe. He let Eddie exit in peace, talking to another guy in a suit about fourth quarter earnings and appeasing stockholders. He just wanted to walk away, but Smythe knew if he didn't do something Eddie would be dead before he was 30. Next month.   |
