Sometimes I think I'm a little bit strange. Shut up, peanut gallery! I think I'm a little bit strange because I just don't see the world like other people see it and therefore don't quite fit into it like other people do. I have no clue if that is a good thing or a bad thing. And to tell you the truth, I really don't care. It's just the way it is. Period.
Take this thing that happened down in Garland, Texas, recently, when the gunmen opened fire at Pamela Geller's "Draw Mohammed" event. Am I the only one who thinks this woman is completely and utterly nuts? I don't know crap about Islam or any other religion — except the insane one with which I grew up — but did she really have to do this? Did she really have to host an event where people were encouraged to create cartoons making fun of a figure who is to many a spiritual icon? I don't care if you are Methodist, Baptist, Catholic, Episcopalian, Jewish, Islamic, Church of Christ, Pentecostal (well, that one does come with its own set of problems, like speaking in tongues and fainting a lot, which, by the way, I really love, and l do love the coastal part of it, even if it's not spelled that way), Presbyterian, Greek Orthodox, Hindu, Buddhist, Pomeranian, Wiccan, or a voodoo lovin' spastic. There is no reason why you should organize and implement an "art show" just to make fun of someone else's religious beliefs.
Why has the media focused on just the attackers and not on this crazy woman, who took it upon herself to start this mess in the first place? She is such a hate monger that the United Kingdom will not even allow her entry into their country. And they will usually allow anyone in. Hell, I've been there four or five times and the only grief they ever gave me was when I was flying into London from Amsterdam. I was in my 30s wearing black jeans, a black shirt, a black leather jacket, and black sunglasses. They took one look at me and were convinced I was smuggling hash and ripped me out of line and took me into an interrogation room. They asked me if I had any drugs on me. I didn't. I knew better. But they still made me take off my shoes and asked me a hundred questions and went through all of my luggage (well, the duffle bag I've traveled the world with) and, of course, the first thing they found was a printed hash menu and a LOT of loose tobacco. See, over there, you mix loose tobacco with whatever it is you are smoking, but mine was just from a half-dozen empty cigarette packages. The "menu" was just a tourist keepsake. I promise. When they asked me why I had it, I blurted out in the most Southern accent I could muster that my friends back home in Tennessee would not believe what went on in that crazy den-of-iniquity city. I was basically hallucinating at that point and they took pity on me — or just lost interest in my life — and let me go.
It wasn't as crazy, though, as Lima, Peru. I got kidnapped in Lima by a lunatic taxi driver. I'm not making this up to entertain you. I got f-ing kidnapped. I hired some guy to drive me around for the day of my layover. It all started out really sweet. I took him to lunch in a restaurant located at the end of a long pier over the ocean and we dined on the world's best ceviche and some other incredible food and we went to a church museum, where there were a thousand skeletons of dead priests (I mean, skulls and all) all over the dirt-floor basement and he was going to name his next child after me and took me to the church where he got married and then just turned on me. He kept driving to an apartment and going in and coming back out and was getting crazier with each trip. We drove against oncoming traffic in the wrong lane of the interstate expressway, hurled over a median, got stopped by the Peruvian police, got out of being arrested, picked up a prostitute, and just kept going. He drove past the airport exit about a million times and just laughed as loud as he could with a demonic lilt in his voice and finally drove me to the worst slum in Lima, where cans of garbage were on fire in the streets, and made me take out the remaining $350 of the fortune in my checking account from an ATM and then finally took me to the airport, where guards with machine guns and dogs stared at me like they were going to kill me. Like I was scared of that crap at that point.
But I digress. Oh, I think I digressed a lot. Like I mentioned earlier, I think I'm a little bit strange. Duh.