Posted November 21, 2007 in News


It’s Red Ribbon Week all across the IE! In Murrieta, 600 red-T-shirt-clad junior high kids at Shivela Middle School group together around the word DRUGS, which is scrawled on the athletic field, and form a circle with a slash through it while a Black Hawk helicopter swirls overhead, mistakes the pre-teens for Iraqi insurgents, shoots off a missile and annihilates them all. Okay, maybe not that last part. Instead, a photographer in the Black Hawk—your tax dollars at work!—shoots photos of the scene below, which will doubtlessly go a long way in making sure these kids will never, ever ingest an intoxicating substance stronger than boogers or paste. Rundown is awfully glad we were out of the public school system long after all this Red Ribbon insanity got a foothold, because it’s a big, fat lie—study after study has shown that these Just Say No-type programs don’t work, and a 1998 study in Illinois found that the old DARE program actually encouraged kids to try drugs. As writer Marnell Jameson pointed out in a May LA Times article, “Red Ribbon Week campaigns are often loosely implemented. Schools get an information packet that they often turn over to volunteer parents who organize a program in which kids wear red ribbons and learn not to put bad stuff in their bodies—which likely wasn’t on their minds in the first place. ‘The harm is that kids don’t need these messages yet, and by making them too simplistic, they will dismiss them when they’re older and do need this message,’ [Liz] Robertson, [chief of prevention for the National Institute on Drug Abuse’s research branch] says. She adds that these programs make kids who have never considered using drugs see themselves as potential drug users.” Throw in all the condescending, hypocritical, yes-drugs-are-bad-where’s-my-beer? messaging grade-schoolers get from their parents, and the only thing Red Ribbon Week does successfully is breed the next generation of bathtub meth chefs. What the dipshit teachers at Shivela Middle School ought to do is dump Red Ribbon Week completely and concentrate on what’s really killing their students and endangering their lives: saturated fat, sugar, cholesterol and high fructose corn syrup. Instead of waving up at the purdy helly-copter while it takes their picture, make the kids run some goddamn laps, for fuck’s sake. Then maybe we can all feel safe when they get older and don’t run us off the road while reaching for that 64-ounce soda in their cup holder.



Douchebaggy San Bernardino county supervisor Bill Postmus loooves poop. Not in the bukake sense—least as far as we know—but he sure gets hard thinking about the waste composting plant proposed by Nursery Products LLC, which he wants to see built near Hinkley, just west of Barstow. Today a group of sign-waving protestors picket on the street outside a Barstow fire station where Postmus is showing his face—they’re residents of Hinkley, see, and they quite reasonably want to know why Postmus refuses to meet with them to discuss their concerns about the plant. A plant which, if built, would bring over 500 trucks a day of Los Angeles sewage sludge to the high desert, not to mention the nauseating stench cloud that would eternally hover over downwind Barstow like a never-ending fart. The good Hinkley folks have a right to be royally pissed off, since their town is the one made infamous by Julia Roberts in the movie Erin Brockovich—and years later, Hinkley is still suffering the aftereffects of all the deadly Chromium 6 pollution left as a parting gift from Pacific Gas & Electric. What’s Postmus doing about that? Nooothing—he’s too busy yanking books he doesn’t like off the shelves of public libraries like he did in April, when a mother complained about a history book of Japanese manga her son had checked out, alleging that it was porn. Now this Republican jizzbag wants to be San Bernardino County Assessor on Tuesday. He gets our vote for county ass, at least.



Fire bad. Stupid fucking arsonists worse.



Tonight is Congressman Joe Baca’s Nepotism Nosh—er, Community Leadership Awards Dinner—at the San Bernardino Hilton, where several high-profile peeps are honored, among them Glen Anderson of the Rialto Police Officers Association, outspoken UC Riverside Prof Armando Navarro, Bishop Gerald Barnes of the Catholic Diocese of San Bernardino and several others. Oh—and Assemblyman Joe Baca Jr., the Congressman’s kid. Exactly what Junior did to be feted at this pricey-fundraiser-masquerading-as-a-tribute—$100 per person on the low end; $2,100 per for a hoity-toity-sounding “Gold Sponsor” ticket—isn’t clear, but the cash is going straight to Baca Senior’s re-election campaign, which smells kinda fishy to us: just ten days before November 7, and Baca the Elder needs a quick infusion of dinero that badly? Rundown hopes Baca’s other son Jeremy —who got popped last year for a DUI, the main reason he lost in the June primary in an effort to not only replace his brother in the 62nd Assembly District, but to also cement a Baca family dynasty—wasn’t around to drink everybody under the table.



More Demos Behaving Dumbly—this time it’s longtime Rundown fave David “Not Lee” Roth (again!), who’s scheduled to appear tonight at, of all things, a monster truck rally at the Indio Fairgrounds, where he’ll actually drive one of those two-mile-per-gallon behemoths that double as redneck phallic symbols. Roth was slated to address the crowd, which should’ve been a hoot, since people who enjoy these types of things tend to be deeply Republican, have several missing teeth and think pro wrestling is real. Whatever happened, we’re sure it’ll go down as the biggest blast of testosterone that Roth’s moribund campaign will have received.



More Repubs Behaving Retardedly—this time it’s Governor Grab-Ass (again!), as the Press-Enterprise posts video on its web site of the Guv touring some of the charred remains of homes destroyed in the Esperanza fire. Wearing a white dress shirt and grey slacks, hands firmly in pockets, G-A appears disinterested as he listens to homeowner Phil Reddish describe the destruction of his abode, until . . . something goes off in his head . . . he recognizes the familiar shape of ruined exercise equipment and what had once been a home gym . . . he spots a dumbbell—no, he’s not looking into a mirror!—on the ground . . . he picks it up, readies to pinch off an arm curl for a macho photo op . . . then thinks twice and puts it down. After all, he wouldn’t want to exploit a tragic situation for his own personal gain, would he? Like the time he and Franco Columbu ripped off little old ladies by knocking over their perfectly good chimneys and charging to rebuild them after the 1971 Sylmar earthquake? Yeah. Oh yeah.






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