Babies are stupid


Study Reveals: Babies are Stupid

LOS ANGELES – A surprising new study released Monday by UCLA’s Institute For Child Development revealed that human babies, long thought by psychologists to be highly inquisitive and adaptable, are actually extraordinarily stupid.

The study, an 18-month battery of intelligence tests administered to over 3,500 babies, concluded categorically that babies are “so stupid, it’s not even funny.”

According to Institute president Molly Bentley, in an effort to determine infant survival instincts when attacked, the babies were prodded in an aggressive manner with a broken broom handle. Over 90 percent of them, when poked, failed to make even rudimentary attempts to defend themselves. The remaining 10 percent responded by vacating their bowels.

It is unlikely that the presence of the babies’ fecal matter, however foul-smelling, would have a measurable defensive effect against an attacker in a real-world situation,” Bentley said.

Another test, in which the infants were placed on a mound of dirt outdoors during a torrential downpour, produced similarly bleak results.

“The chicken, dog and even worm babies that we submitted to the test as a control group all had enough sense to come in from the rain or, at least, seek shelter under a leafy clump of vegetation or outcropping of rock,” test supervisor Thomas Howell said. “The human babies, on the other hand, could not grasp even this incredibly basic concept, instead merely lying on the ground and making gurgling noises.”

According to Howell, almost 60 percent of the infants tested in this manner eventually drowned.

Some of the babies tested were actually so stupid that they choked to death on pieces of Micronaut space toys. Others, unable to use such primitive instruments as can openers and spoons due to insufficient motor skills, simply starved to death, despite being surrounded by cabinets full of nutritious, life-giving Gerber-brand baby-food products.

Babies, the study concluded, are also too stupid to do the following: avoid getting their heads trapped in automatic car windows; use ice to alleviate the pain of burn injuries resulting from touching an open flame; master the skills required for scuba diving; and use a safety ladder to reach a window to escape from a room filled with cyanide gas.

“As a mother of four, I find these results very disheartening,” Bentley told reporters. “I can honestly say that the effort I have expended trying to raise my children into intelligent beings may have been entirely wasted, a fool’s dream, if you will.”

Study results also prompted a strong reaction from President Clinton. “All of us, on some primitive, mammalian level, feel a great sense of pride in our offspring,” Clinton said. “It is now clear, however, that these feelings are unfounded. Given the overwhelming evidence of their profound stupidity, we have no choice but to replace our existing infant population with artificially incubated simu-drones, with the eventual goal of phasing out the shamefully stupid human baby forever.”

- The Onion

Jennifer June

Jury Duty

My mom gets called in for Jury duty about once every 3 years.

Every 3 years!

I’m pretty sure the novelty has begun to wear off now but it must have been kind of cool the first couple of times no?

I mean you could kind of pretend that you were an extra on an episode of Law and Order Community Crime Unit or something awesome like that.

After a couple of rounds the glamour maybe starts to wear off and you find yourself distracted by the lopsided mustache of the defendant’s lawyer or the wet laundry you forgot to throw in the dryer before you left the house.

The third or fourth time you’d probably really start to dread being there and, if you’re boring, sit seething with resentment, gritting your teeth (in between yawns) and plan your move to Canada (I’ve never been asked ever).

If you were awesome, on the other hand, you might just try to find ways to liven things up and make being there worth your while.

eg: If there are any redheads on the jury I’m voting not-guilty. If I get seated up front I’m voting guilty. If the defendant’s name starts with the letter J, (obviously) NOT-GUILTY!

Or as Doug Stanhope suggests, if it’s painfully and blatantly obvious that they’re guilty, vote not-guilty. Just to mess with everybody’s minds, you know, for kicks! COME ON! Can’t we have a little fun around here once in a while??

Fifth time in you send them an invoice for all the hours of work missed, fuel and wear and tear on the vehicle that transported you to and from court, plus damages for the stress of being in court and the therapy you needed after being entirely destabilized and derailed from missing Sue Thomas: F.B.Eye during lunch.

But you know what would be really cool? Putting jury duty on your CV!

Objective:
Playing God

Job History:
Barmaid, Photographer, Pre-School Teacher, Intervention counselor, Judger of Evil

Description of duties for most recent employment:
Taking the futures and, for all intents and purposes, lives of complete strangers into my hands and thoughtlessly determining the accountability, intentions, level of honesty and fate of people without actually having any psychological, medical or legal training of any kind.

Relative qualifications:
Super judgmental, totally self-righteous, never wrong, better than everybody else, bilingual (English and French) and well versed at Photoshop, Dreamweaver, Fireworks, WordPress and Microsoft Office.

Jennifer June

A beautiful woman is a terrible disappointment

A particularly beautiful woman is a source of terror. As a rule, a beautiful woman is a terrible disappointment.
-Carl Jung

Oooh… OK.It’s so obvious to me now. I’m too beautiful. I must be.

Lately I’m a constant source of disappointment to myself and I can’t say how relieved I am to finally have something to blame it on.
Damn you beauty! Damn you straight to hell!

We had to pack up and get out of evil-town and away from the Sherriff who runs it immediately and the apartment we had lined up kinda fell through at the last minute. Yep, absolutely everything we own is in a storage locker, I’m separated from my kids  and we are playing musical couches. So, we are technically homeless.

OH THE IRONY!

My last job was as an intervention counselor at a homeless shelter for women. Hilarious!

No! Wait! There’s more!

What’s really a barrel of laughs is that as I sit here on my boyfriend’s couch, writing this masterpiece blog post, I stare out the window and directly across the street stands that exact homeless shelter I speak of. I see my ex-clients standing outside, chain smoking and trading methadone for crack, talking shit about their counselors and begging passers by for spare change.

I don’t work there anymore is because I was quite ill in January and couldn’t return to such a  stressful environment or (on-call, midnight to 8am) hours or I would surely end up right back in the hospital. Despite a rather aggressive search,  I still haven’t found another job so there’s no relief on the horizon, no rainbow to sooth the storm so to speak. I am surrounded by rainbow flags mind you, what with boyfriend living in The Gay Village and all.

I have to be honest with you people.

I’ve never really been a fan of rainbows. Well, not since 1982 when I asked my mom to paint a unicorn and a rainbow on my bedroom wall; which she refused to do by the way.
I was thinking that maybe the gay flag could use a little update. I’m not sure with what exactly but I’m working on it. I’ll get back to you.

Where was I? Ah yes, unemployed, broke, homeless and really disappointed in myself.

I took the dog out for a quick walk before going to bed last night and about half a block from the house, while we were just minding our own business, peeking into neighbours windows and peeing on their front stairs, we came face to face with a ginormous, humongous, gargantuan rat.
Yep. He stared at me with that look in his eye, daring me to take one step closer. I was frozen.

He wasn’t at all as cute as those rats my loser friends had when we were kids. They weren’t adorable but they were smaller and almost cute. I remember Rob used to let his drink the spit off his tongue. He said it was because his rat was thirsty but I was pretty sure he was just trying to shock us. He mostly just kind of grossed me out and cured me of my fantasies of running my fingers through his crunchy pink mohawk.

Montréal village rat was ugly, mangy and menacing, all pissed off because  my stupid, oblivious dog and I had interrupted his delicious midnight snack of stinking, festering garbage.

He clearly had no intention of

A) Running Away like a little sissy rat or

B) Politely sharing his urban space.

He was plainly just all,

“Get the f@#k off my sidewalk beetch”.

I’m not sure how, but I took the whole thing personally and turned around slowly, walking back to the apartment all disappointed in myself for not having the balls to stand up to a 2 foot long ( seriously!!) rat.

Boyfriend lives upstairs from a rub ‘n’ tug “spa” which is obviously a really fun time. I love when assholes clients assume that because I am in and out of the building I might be interested in cutting them a deal or inviting them upstairs. Sometimes they ring the bell because they think that prostitutes massage therapists take unsolicited house calls and when they do, Franky either throws water or rotten eggs at them from the balcony or simply answers the door in his underwear, with a baseball bat in his hand.

Ooo! Maybe I should jot downstairs and ask if they’re hiring!
Do you think they have employee discounts or (wink wink) benefits?

SO! I was fumbling for my key’s and noticed the pack of girls who looked straight out of Jersey Shore, piling into a Ho-Shuttle Black Lincoln/Audi/Whatever-Expensive-Luxury-SUV. The driver was holding 2 6 foot long parking tickets in her hand and starting to weep.

OK fine, she wasn’t crying. She just had a stupid dumbfounded look on her face.

“Babe!” Calls her friend from the passenger seat,

“You can contest it if it was written less than an hour ago!”

“Really?” I ask. Wait, why am I talking to them? Stop it me!

“even if you’re parked right in front of a fire hydrant?” Great. Good one Jen.

“Uh, I don’t know if your name is Babe but…”

Great, now it’s talking to me.

“I was talking to her!” She motions at Babe

“I wasn’t being impolite I was just…”

“Yeah, you kinda were” her voice dripping with enviable confidence and a smidge of dominance.

*mumble*mumble*fumble with keys in the door*Hate my life* shove the dog forcefully into the building*

WHAT? Seriously? Since when do I back down from a bimbo-guidette giving me tude on the street?

Maybe being homeless, jobless and broke this beautiful is starting to get me.


P.S. Last night I dreamed of rats.



“That’s what you get from putting a fat girl’s ass in your face. That’s how you get pink eye.” -Jersey Shore

Jennifer June

Love me: A quest for friendship on the Metro

Today you are so so SO lucky because one of the smartest, sexiest, funniest women I know has agreed to grace the pages of The Lady’s lounge with her pen for our very first guest post! She is mean delicious and once you get to know her, you’ll understand why it’s basically impossible for me not to try and dry hump her leg at any given occasion.

Ladies and Gentlemen, please welcome to the stage, one of my favorite people on earth, Lexi Moscovitch:



A few days ago when the Stunning, gorgeous and Brilliant Jennifer-June asked me to write a guest spot for her highly entertaining and informative blog (Jennifer has taught me that no matter how advanced in age you are, your cervix can still be young and spry) I began to sweat, realizing: I don’t know shit. Most of my writing muscles are flexed on the Montreal Dating examiner, where I write about important dating issues such as married men with low self esteem and men that won’t drive you home after a date; well I haven’t written that one yet, because I still haven’t gotten a lift home.

I thought long and hard about what issues plague me on the daily, and the one societal hailstorm that keeps on surfacing is people on Public transportation, and mostly; how I feel about them. You may think I’m going to go on to write a few paragraphs about body odor, germs and tiny puddles of other peoples phlegm while ever so slightly exposing myself as a common sense racist, but Ladies (and gentlemen too) that is not what’s about to happen.

Everyday for the past 4 weeks I have taken the metro. I swipe my card, I wait on the platform, I sit in the handicapped seats (No judging, if a paraplegic ever materialized somewhere in transit, I would obligingly get up), I switch lines at Lionel Groulx , I then do some I-pod fondling , perhaps some body contortions while trying to read the “masseuse wanted” section of the crumpled up “Hour” magazine on the floor. Twenty minutes go past, and the only person I’ve spoken to is the STM employee sitting behind a plate glass window staring off into space remembering a better time….like when Parizeau was in office.

Twenty minutes may not seem like a particularly long time, but for a stimuli needing, attention whoring sucker fish such as myself, it’s a ludicrously long time to go with out human (or otherwise) conversation. What ever happened to the good ol’ days of laughing with strangers on trolley cars, and sharing taxi’s in the rain only to become lovers with your carpool buddy. Did these things ever happen, or are they just urban myths?

The urge to hug strangers on the Metro is sometimes so overwhelming I have to physically restrain myself, which looks weird, and makes it even less likely that I’ll get a hug from a fellow commuter. With that I’ll say if ever you see me riding the orange line, (I’ll be the one with a longing smile, and glimmer of hope in my eye) please don’t hesitate to say hello. Who knows maybe it will the start of a beautiful friendship, or maybe you’ll get maced and punched in the head.

Jennifer June

The soy bean mafia

So last night I tricked my meat-munching, potato-humping, poutine addicted hydrogenated fat-loving boyfriend into watching Food Inc, which I bitched about HERE and HERE: this morning and also strongly urge you all to watch. Things got a little heated.

I’m not going to lie. I had an alterior motive. I can’t get him to believe me that french fries aren’t actually food. He loves documentaries and hates the government so I figured, what better way to get him to hear me than to let Robert Kenner enlighten him on how what he is eating is basically government endorsed, mass produced, petroleum-based, diabetes inducing evil.

Good times.

I just want to take a moment to point out that we have never, in the almost 5 years that we have been together, EVER fought.
I know it’s weird but it’s true. We never ever ever fight. We have never called each other names, screamed at each other, thrown stuff, lit each others’ houses on fire (what?) or threatened to sleep with each others best friends or run away from home. We never fight.

The only one time we kind of fought, I walked out on him at a restaurant and it was so ineffective that he actually sat there eating for another 20 minutes before realizing that I hadn’t just excused myself to go the washroom.

What we do though is this. We get stuck on a topic and argue until I wear him down into a quivering mass of submission with my quick tongue and superior genius that we will never agree on and we debate for about 5 minutes max before François switches to French because he figures he will trick me into thinking he is smarter can communicate more articulately, naturally, in his mother tongue.

At this point I pretend to understand everything he is saying but change my tone to a slightly more condescending one so as to highlight the fact that the language barrier only makes me look even smarter, if that’s possible.

I verbally explore the many ways of indicating that he is wrong because… well, obviously.
I start to detach and fane interest while discovering things that fascinate me more, like the cookie crumbs on the coffee table or the ball of cat hair floating past the television set.

At this point François realizes begins to worry that I am silently plotting our break-up and he caves. This is where he becomes tender and sweet and pretends to agree with me points out the areas where our fundamental beliefs meet and holds me in his loving arms and we live happily ever after.

But we never fight!

So…
last night we watched this documentary on the food industry that pointed a long wagging finger at Satan McDonalds for starting the whole fast food factory mentality that led to mass production of meats, eggs and poultry which in turn started a chain of negative consequences including unhealthy food, diabetes, the unethical and inhumane treatment of animals and the destruction of our environment.

We only had to pause the movie twice for our little I’m-smarter-than-you-no-I-am debates.

It was actually fascinating and full of information about corn and the soy bean mafia that I didn’t know anything about which was thrilling and something of a shock, what with me knowing everything and all that. Most exciting was the fact that my boyfriend was really receptive to it and for a brief moment, I thought maybe I had finally managed to convince him to give up eating hot dogs and fries drenched in gravy and cheese for supper.

“Well, that’s it!” he announced,

“I’m never eating anything again!”

Not exactly what I was aiming for but it’s a start right? I mean… I don’t think hot dogs are technically food anyway.

Besides, Gandhi lived for… days without eating right?




Jennifer June