For all you kids watching at home, Megyn Kelly just is white

Poor ol' Megyn Kelly.

It all started earlier this week with these unfortunate comments:

For all you kids watching at home, Santa just is white ... Santa is what he is, and just so you know, we're just debating this because someone wrote about it, kids ...

But just because it makes you feel uncomfortable, doesn’t mean it has to change. Jesus was a white man, too. He was an historical figure (that's a verifiable fact) as is Santa. I just want the kids watching to know that.

oops.

Did you realize that you just told every little boy and girl whose house is decorated with black Santas that they're Santa isn't the real Santa?

Now I rolled my eyes plenty over your god-awful blunder along with everyone else. After all, you stepped in it up to your knees and everyone could smell the results from coast to coast. When I heard you were going to respond to the collective pan, my ears pricked. I honestly thought you might offer up a hat-in-hand apology.

Yeah, right.

Instead you got defensive, saying you were misunderstood. Your comments were tongue in cheek. This was to be a lighthearted segment. No one has a sense of humor anymore. You were just saying the exact same thing as Aisha Harris. You were joking around. The fault lies at the feet of your evil critics with their race baiting.

As for the racism factor, I do not believe you will ever see your folly, but here's a hint: indignantly blurting out "Jesus was a white man" in front of a host of television cameras pretty much says it all. In your response video, you even admitted your white Jesus mistake, but you didn't apologize for it.  

This, little Megyn, is not how a straight up news anchor behaves.  Your response was worse than the original clip. The additional nine minutes of it's-not-my-fault footage only made matters worse.

Fox should fire you, but it will not. That said, you have probably killed any chance you had at becoming anything other than a Fox opinion bubble head. The trouble with shamelessly pandering to the far right is that in today's world, the rest of us can hear you loud and clear; and we see you for what you are.

So keep looking good and stroking that collective conservative member. It's all you've got left.

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Cash for gold and other delights

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Phone cam round-up, gray edition

 I'll have a shot of Tide with a bleach chaser, please.

Behold the newest annex to the Offices of Erin O'Brien.

 Gee, I wonder what what mysteries we'll uncover there!

 Dot in walk.

Will do.

Have you seen my Cheshire cat?

 Don't eat my foot, dude!

He's sort of hot in that guy-drawn-on-the-side-of-a-truck way.

Found can.

 I'll have mine on the rocks ...

... with a splash of lymon.

Pretty, pretty girl.

This cannot be a good omen.

Dude, I found your groceries.

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An Irish Hungarian that got left behind

The Irish Hungarian (left) and associate, circa 1973

The following is a short bit from The Irish Hungarian Guide to the Domestic Arts that ended up on the cutting room floor. In it, I bemoan growing up Irish--but not Catholic--in a predominately Irish Catholic neighborhood on Cleveland's West Side in the 1970's

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The most injurious and unfair insult I fielded on account of my nearly pagan blood came during the spring months of my sixth, seventh and eighth years when each of my Catholic girlfriends was treated to a mysterious rite. With it came a grand party (to which I was never invited) complete with gifts and cake and a special dress. "First Communion" dresses were always fluffy with lace. I'd peer out of the living room window on those gentle Saturday mornings over a soggy bowl of Count Chocula, watching the little Catholic girls twirling in cartwheels across the green green lawns in their perfect white dresses.

They had bevies of brothers who laughed loud and wore jerseys emblazoned with the words "Notre Dame" along with a cartoon Irishman posed in fisticuffs. They had swarms of sisters who wept over boyfriends and prayer cards. My one sibling brooded over Bob Dylan and was the object of bullies' sneers.

The Shaughnessys had a dewy-eyed Virgin statue in their backyard whose hands were forever upraised. I had a smoky-eyed nude woman called Playmate that lived in my father's nightstand and was replaced every month. Patty and Bridgette and Mary ate fish on Fridays while I sat cross-legged in front of the black-and-white television in my parent's bedroom watching reruns of Love American Style. The Gallagher's' living room featured an oil painting of an androgynous man named Jesus who would love them no matter what.

"Don't worry," Mrs. Gallagher assured me despite the note of condescension in her voice, "Jesus loves you too."

Every Catholic household had an odorless oppressive guilt about it that I never understood. Whenever I crossed one of their thresholds, it was as if I was awaiting some unseen judgment that would deem me bad or good. Hence, to hear that Jesus loved me evoked a private sigh of relief. The feeling lasted as long as it took for Mrs. Gallagher to stub out her Kool, tap a fresh one from the pack and say, "Jesus died for your sins." Confusion bloomed. Sins? Me?

Since the tender age of eleven, I did have one way to sin all by myself that was worth risking whatever this Jesus guy had to dish out. I told myself that he couldn't possibly know anything about what I did alone. And wasn't he already dead?

Nonetheless, I worried.

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As the readership has probably surmised, I eventually stopped worrying.

The perfect gift for the ultra conservative on your Christmas list

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In between Earth Day and Easter

Carts of Darkness simply captivated me. It's an hour long and if you can wiggle it in sometime between the egg coloring and ham, you will not be disappointed. Carts could have easily slid into the depths of sanctimonious liberalism, but it never even gets close to that edge. The men of Carts speak for themselves with razor-sharp clarity.

Carts has something loud to say, but it never shouts.  And it is not possible to imagine a film more perfect for this in-between Saturday. You'll not find a more subtle nod to yesterday's Earth Day or a more evocative pose for the WWJD? set just in time for their holiest of days.



Jesus Christ? If you've got your ears on, brother, give this one a look and then tell me: what the hell would you do?

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Belated holiday greetings from Hugh

Ho. Ho. Ho.

Since I'm up to my kringles in elf duties, dig this essay I wrote on Hugh and the girls for the Cleveland Free Times a few years ago. It was one of my better efforts.

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Ask Erin

Dear Erin,

All I want from my girlfriend is to look at her after we DO IT. I mean REALLY look at her. But every time I try to sneak a peek, she rolls over and crosses her legs. Am I being weird?

--Boy who Wonders

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Dear Boy Wonder,

No you are not being weird. Men can't get enough of that thing. I don't know why, but there it is. So you're 100 percent normal, but to get to the (ahem) bottom of your situation, we need to take a a couple of steps back.

So, Boy Wonder, are you or are you not delivering a splendorous orgasm unto Batgirl during the proceedings?

Methinks not.

Because if you were, Batgirl would be so full of glorious human sexual fulfillment, the aftermath would have her breathless on her back, not caring one toot if you were examining the secrets of the ol' batcave with a Klieg light. She'd probably even be giggling with that joyous intoxicated satisfaction only a true-life climax can produce. Hell, given enough big O's, she might even leave her cape and mask on, or show you a few inverted yoga poses (keep plenty of towels on hand in the case of that eventuality).

Instructing you on the ins and outs of how to properly maneuver your Batmobile in order to deliver the big O is a bigger tutorial than I can fit into this here blog post, but you might start by studying up in your spare time. Look at some diagrams and get making with the internet. Maybe upgrade to a nice bottle of vino instead of a six of Natty Light on your next date. If she loosens up enough, you might even talk Batgirl into giving you a live tour of her batcave during the opening acts of the evening, if you know what I mean.

Good luck.

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Have a question about sex, housewifery, politics, culture or goat husbandry? Why not ask Erin?

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Big trouble for big Jesus

June 15, 2010, Monroe, Ohio: A six-story-tall statue of Jesus Christ with his arms raised along a highway was struck by lightning in a thunderstorm Monday night and burned to the ground, police said.

The "King of Kings" statue, one of southwest Ohio's most familiar landmarks, had stood since 2004 at the evangelical Solid Rock Church along Interstate 75 in Monroe, just north of Cincinnati. --Yahoo News

Some things are just too poetic for commentary.

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