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Five reasons why they must acquit Casey Anthony

casey anthony 1

The Casey Anthony trial is just about over. The stakes are high. The case is pretty damn serious and now it’s up to the jury to decide her fate. The defense’s closing arguments were strong. Did they create reasonable doubt? They just might have.

Here are a few reasons why the jury might just acquit this loon.

During closing arguments, head prosecutor for the State repeatedly made facial expressions, mocking the defense through body language. That is one-thousand percent unprofessional and could create a bias in the minds of the jurors. At one point the prosecutor actually laughed at the defense’s arguments. In addition, the prosecutors repeatedly objected during the closing arguments, which is usually taboo in such cases. In summation, prosecutors are dickheads, not all the time, but sometimes. And if the prosecution oversold its case, acting like a cocky little shit, if you were a juror, you just might have to acquit.

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The quick shit: meditations on time spent in the restroom

bathroom stormtroopers

Jimmy Tracy is a nurse.

I meditated about anal hygiene on this site last year, but I sense that another scatological debate begs for the light of day. Picture, if you will, a stack of magazines next to a toilet. My entire life, I have never done more than stare at the cover of the one on top while I took care of business (Playboys excepting, of course). It gradually dawned on me that people actually read articles, or even entire magazines, while shitting. My question boils down to this: How huge are these anaconda shits and may I please see what took you 10 minutes to push out?

I feel as though I may be tempting fate. Not because I’m asking to look at your stool, but because I don’t want to ridicule the unwell. I can’t judge anyone with bowel disease or acute infectious diarrhea. Take your time – I’ll use the shitter upstairs. For that matter, older folks have slower gastrointestinal motility. If I let my father-in-law beat me to the bathroom, I only have myself to blame. My issue is with healthy young people. Your stacks of magazines tell the story. You need to wrap it up. People are waiting.

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Dave Landsberger's poetic stance on Chicago-Miami sports and a flamingo

heat bulls

Dave Landsberger recently contributed poetry to complement photos for the hard to explain, subscription postcard magazine Abe’s Penny. Landsberger lived in Miami for three years before moving home to Chicago last year. According to him, “I miss my Miami friends, the ocean, and el Rey de las fritas.” He currently teaches English and literature at Harper College. Read more of his poems here after you read the ones below. He enjoys writing poems about sports. We like to read his poems about sports. We sent him several photos and he added one and so we have his poetic reaction to some tense Chicago-Miami sports games and a clip art of a flamingo.

heat bulls

A Michael Jordan jersey is a white boy’s passport to the ghetto in Chicago.
Last week I got called a “face nigger”. Was it my beard? Who cares.
Chicken & fries & white bread & Flamin’ Hot Cheeto bags in the streets.

These blizzards combust you, cover you like white wicker baskets,
letting just enough sunlight slip in, so,
who cares, game’s on,

Bulls vs. Heat, who cares; always something to be proud about.
All famous black people come from Chicago,
The Harlem Renaissance 2: The Big Score.

marlins cubs

Be it a billy goat or an expansion team in teal,
Another reason will manifest from the prairie grass to contra.
Real Marlins fans exist; I’ve seen them Casino-style and cartwheel
To the scent of nacatamales, down and up three Kia Sephias,
Marrying the scent of Miami fall (live here two years, you’ll smell it too) outside the bastille
And bonkers of Whatever’s Paying Us Stadium. Cubbies, change your jerseys to aqua.
Name another blame: a farm animal, or yourselves?

Check out the other two after the jump.

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Ode to the Haitian tap tap

haiti 1

How to explain Port-au-Prince traffic? No lanes, no cops, no rules. However, almost no animosity or mistrust between the drivers. In its place, there’s a sense of battlefield camaraderie among those brave enough to take the wheel. From above, I imagine it would resemble a fast-forwarded stadium parking lot exodus. On the street level, it’s mouthfuls of dust and smoke, choppy as horseback, a veritable brass ensemble of horns, and there is no better way to experience it than on a wooden plank protruding from the back of a rusty, dilapidated pick-up.

Tap taps are the idiomatic public transportation of Haiti, the hackney carriage of Port-au-Prince. The iconic version of a tap tap is a vividly decorated pick-up with a covered bed, though many are unpainted trucks with natural, tetanus-colored roofs. There are two parallel benches and, invariably, a spare tire in the bed. The tailgate is removed, so the benches and railing extend the approximate width of an extra human ass past the bumper. Passengers jump into the back, sometimes while the truck is rolling and already packed stiff. In this case, the newcomer stands on the protruding portion of the bed with his head above the cover: the most ventilated, scenic, perilous, and entertaining spot in a tap tap.

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Snip, snip: proudly shooting blanks since the 1990s

Happily Shooting Blanks

Sometimes you do a wondrous thing quietly, for reasons entirely of your own choosing, and never expect public recognition for your efforts. Such was the case when I got a vasectomy.

Legally, if you’re eighteen, you can request a vasectomy. If you have children, doctors will sever your vas deferens without a second thought (or in my case, sever, cauterize the ends, fold them over, and staple them together). Childless and twenty-two years old, I had to undergo counseling before they’d consent to the procedure.

I told them I didn’t want children and never would. They said I was too young to know if I’d want children one day. I told them if I ever changed my mind, I was a firm believer in adoption. After an hour with two different folks, one male, one female, they scheduled the procedure.

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Congrats to the Heat from THL

marco heat

Just a nice little picture of one of our Heat fans to show you how much we in Miami love our team.


The Heat versus the Mavericks live blog madness!

The Heat Lightning writers and friends are live blogging the NBA Finals at 9 p.m. Please feel free to add your opinions, thoughts, and criticisms.



Don’t forget to join in and chat with some THL friends as we live blog the first game of the NBA Finals where we’re thinking the Heat will be beating the Mavericks. Click here after 8 p.m.

by , posted May 31, 02:46 PM

I'm feeling oh, so hot, and it's obvs because of the Heat

chalmers mowry the heat

I really never watch sports. I don’t watch because not watching has been my truest rebellion. If you grew up in the Tracy household, trust me, you’d have to find your own ways of being subversive, and besides being a monster bitch, I also rejected the culture of sports. Anyway, my family’s all New England fans, and we all know what they’re like.

When I was a kid, I was the Mets to their Red Sox. These are people who wept openly when the Sox won the World Series and brought Red Sox paraphernalia to my memere’s grave (may she rest in peace). Jimmy memorized baseball cards when we were kids, for fun, and, as a tiny man, played football at Columbus (JV, lezbe honest), and is the kind of person who will watch pool if it’s on. Pool is a sport that people watch if they are crazy.

I enjoy a Marlins World Series win as much as the biggest fan, and this week, for some reason, I felt compelled to watch the Heat. I think it was because I knew we’d win, somewhere inside, I just knew. I joked on Facebook that we won because I watched. Then I watched again, and joked again, you get the picture, but last night, as I watched the Bulls stay ahead as the time quickly dwindled away, I was like, Shit. I have to take credit for a loss now, too? That’s no fun. We have to win. And then we did, and so, you’re welcome.

The other night we were sitting in front of the game, and my friend mentioned that she thought that Chalmers looked like a lesbian. This is very funny. But Nico, my other buddy said, No! He looks like Tia and Tamera! Mowry, you know, from Sister, Sister? And damn was she right. Look at that picture up there. Brilliant.

We’ll be live blogging the NBA Finals on THL, both ignoramuses, like myself, and sports psychos like my brother. This is so that you can experience, as we’re watching, all the dumb and insightful comments we have inside. Mostly, I’ll be talking about how cute Derrick Rose is and how I miss looking at him (call me, Derrick, please!).

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Let's All Hold Hands and Act Like We're Having Fun

Pretending You Care

Bookselling is not the worst retail job I’ve had. Relative it any kitchen job I’ve had it barely qualifies as work, but all retail dehumanizes its employees to some degree. Walking down the street on your worst day, the odds of telling a stranger to fuck him or herself are fairly low. Put that same stranger behind a counter and watch the f-bombs fly. A uniform exacerbates the situation, and a name tag practically demands a public dressing down at best, and spit or a latte to the chest at worst.

Please note, I’m not making those examples up. My favorite all-time public humiliation of a service worker was not the latte shower at Starbucks (“You disrespect me? You disrespect me? Here!”), but a guy who told a fellow server – for the benefit of the six people at his table and a few more sitting within earshot – “This must be a real step up for you from McDonald’s.”

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I Really Like Brunch
Sometimes Love

I’m lazy and I like to relax. I don’t want to rush when I eat. I prefer breakfast foods to all others. I also enjoy sleeping in well past traditional breakfast dining time. Therefore, I really like brunch. I can think of little better than zoning out for hours into the afternoon, chatting, eating, drinking. I have had some good times at a brunch, very pleasant, memorable, perfect times. God, that sounds pathetic. But there it is. There is nothing better than a day free of obligations and distractions.

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A suspenseful tale of farting in the library

I don’t know what it is about bookstores, libraries, and video stores, but anytime I’m looking through a various assortment of titles or selections, my butt cheeks seem to feel like it’s time to make music and let loose a series of god-awful bouquets of stenches.

Perhaps it’s a product of being in confined, quiet areas where someone could constantly be lurking behind you and you have a tendency to bend over, squat and stand up abruptly.

Today I was walking around the Winter Park Library, in the DVD section, when it hit me. Granted, it probably wasn’t the wisest thing to go out into a public arena after feasting upon a gargantuan lunch of cajun fried shrimp po’ boys, gumbo and sweet potato fries without a bathroom buffer in between. But I figured I could stop at the library and pick up a movie before moving to the friendly confines of my own poop palace for a matinee.

I was wrong, I didn’t have that kind of time.

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My hatred for all but one emoticon runs deep.

talk to the hand

I hate emoticons. I think they suck. I’m not saying I’ve never used one, or never ever use them when I feel the person expects one, but they really are dumb.

Someone can write a completely nasty email, text, or IM and then make it annoyingly passive-agressive by adding some punctuation that’s supposed to indicate an emotion. For instance, someone writes, “Don’t say that, you fat ass!” and then they add a “:)” and you know what? You’re supposed to think that they didn’t mean “fat ass,” they meant like “buddy” or something. Guess what? They meant FAT ASS.

You know what that smiley face meant? It meant that the person knows that they said something that would be interpreted as not awesome, but couldn’t get themselves to write what they meant in a nice or proper way. Or, they didn’t want to waste the time to rephrase the message, making the it polite. The person thought that by adding an emoticon, their grossness would be hidden. What a thin veil the emoticon is.

Another reason I hate emoticons is because they imply intimacy where there is none. You get to know someone by looking at their face. Now, with people and their creepy IM obsessions, you don’t even know what that person’s emotions look like, but they can tell you how they’re feeling by this :/ or this 8). Fuck you. Look at me in my face and have human feeling, you psycho.

The one emoticon that I can tolerate was introduced to me by my best friend. It’s the “talk to the hand.” Apparently, it looks like this =; and it means talk to the motherfucking hand. It’s got sass, it’s playful, and I dare you to use it passive-aggressively. I dare you.


The Universal Law Of Attraction
Another Valentines Day Post

The Voice published an article this week about the plight of the single lady in New York City. I honestly don’t remember the last time I picked up a newspaper and read an entire article from start to finish, so the fact that that it captured my attention so fully is probably the greatest praise I can give it. I’d like to take this opportunity to use the examples presented there as a springboard to present what is essentially my universal theory of sexual attraction.

The Voice article itself is a fairly long dissection of the issues facing adults in the dating world specifically as applied to women in New York City. The only issue I can take with it is that there’s nothing in here that can’t be applied to both genders in any city, from New York to Miami to Poughkeepsie to Tampa.

Let’s start from the beginning, shall we? After an introduction of typical female laments, the author points out that a woman’s desire to have options is the source of all this trouble:

Yet these never-ending options wreak havoc with us, as does the idea that we can dally with each of them without ever deciding on any and just hope it will all fall where it may or that someday our prince will come … [i]t’s about having all of these options, and not knowing how to choose from among them, or whether we even want to. It’s about the years of being told we can have it all, and suddenly being deeply afraid to admit that that house of cards has been a sham all along because no one really gets to have it all.

Again, I cannot help but emphasize the fact that this is BOTH men and women who have the above issue – no one wants to give up hoping for better things. Read on for more examples involving economics (I promise I won’t get into game theory, unlike last time).

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Remember when the Challenger exploded?


I guess it’s been 25 long years since the Space Shuttle Challenger met its terrible fate over Cape Canaveral. I was six years old when I watched the launch and subsequent explosion with my brother and mother. We were living in Saint Vincent in the West Indies at the time. Our tiny television only picked up one channel, and it was to that channel we were glued.

It was such a shocking thing to watch on television. I wasn’t in America at the time, but I was placed in America by that event. These shared tragedies always seal the patriotic deal, placing you emotionally with your countrymen. The thing is when you’re overseas and you witness something this horrible happen to your homeland, it also places you that much further away. You have to mourn with whichever expats are roaming about the country in which you are living, because it’s just not the same to everyone else.

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My nonsexual dream about intimacy, mystery, and Liz with GIANT breasts

Dream That Was
In ninth grade, I participated in a lock out. It’s similar to the lock in, wherein youths are locked inside a church or recreation center for twenty-four hours to prove how much fun they can have without supervision, and without drugs or alcohol. We began with a prayer at St. Matthew’s church, then we got in people’s faces with our youthful sobriety. We marched through the neighborhood with signs urging folks to Just Say No (yes, I’m 40), sang top 40 along with a boom box (wait, more like 50), danced on the sidewalks, and tried to get passing cars to honk at us.

Around ten pm, we went back to a parent’s house for a few moments of adult time. In other words, our parents chipped in to buy us all pizzas, then we told them to get lost while we played board games and watched videos. We would return to St. Matthew’s at noon the next day, but we couldn’t sleep until then or it wouldn’t be an official “lock out.”

Did I mention the sleepover was all girls, except for me?

Apart from Amy and Tiffany, I can’t remember who was there. Amy was the first girl in our class to grow breasts. I’ve never been a breast man, but when a girl’s bodily development has been hotly discussed for three years and she decides to share a bed with you, wearing only on oversized t-shirt and briefs, well… that kind of thing tends to leave an impression on a sixteen-year-old boy.

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Two pictures of the Lorraine Motel where MLK, Jr. was killed

national civil rights museum

Martin Luther King, Jr.‘s life ended at the Lorraine Motel in Memphis, which today is the site of the National Civil Rights Museum. I hope everyone is reflecting on the civil rights movement today, and how far we’ve come in such a short period of time, while not forgetting how far we still have to go.

lorraine motel


I don’t care that I know nothing about pickles, I’m writing about them anyway.

i love pickles

Pickles. I love ‘em. They’re delicious. I can go through a whole jar of delicious pickles in one sitting. I’m gross, I get it. They’re just so good!

I was eating some recently, genuinely enjoying their pickley taste. I realized I wanted to write about how much I love them. I mean, I really love pickles. Then it dawned upon me that in the age of the internet, you really can’t write about the things you love unless you know absolutely everything about them. How incredibly annoying. So, I thought I’d do it anyway. As an ignoramus, I’m writing a fuck you to the internet by doing no research for my I love you to the pickles of the world declaration.

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