In an informed and intelligent article, here in the Huffington Post, editor Arin Greenwood uses the JAVMA study - among other impeccable sources - to eviscerate Time Magazine's recent (and atrocious) scare piece: "The Problem With Pit Bulls".
Insisting that the mailer was not meant to be a "scare" piece designed to turn the public opinion of seniors against health care reform, Benton clarified her organization's purpose and pledged to consider the reaction the mailer had engendered.
The Frisky's Jessica Wakeman called the article a "scare piece" and as Jezebel's Erin Gloria Ryan put it, "Venker's piece... was roundly mocked for being stupid, mindless garbage that paints... men as delicate babies upset that their feelings aren't being appropriately catered to".
The fact that a magazine whose primary revenue base consists of condom ads and prisoner subscriptions has been going strong for over a decade now really exposes the bullshit at the heart of all those "end of the printed word" scare-pieces they keep running everywhere.
Scared that the pieces may never fit together.
Examples: "I am afraid of performing because I messed up last year" or "I don't want to sing this song in front of people because I didn't practice" or "I don't want to give this speech because I might disappoint my friends/ family/ speech teacher" and finally "I am scared of performing this piece because I think I am a bad performer" Think.
Because just look at her, flat as a board, shortish, a bit chubby, not nearly as smart as she thinks she is, that jerk Beckett, lurking in her one-piece, too scared to live in a bikini world, and you know next summer she'll be covered with zits, and, my God, that mother of hers, with that laugh, toxic on toxic.
"I was scared when I got that piece," Mr. Dean said, who declined to divulge the price.
You were so scared to turn in a piece of writing that John McPhee would realize was dirt.
Continually assembling their forces to smash through the Wall and wreak who knows what havoc in the balmier regions of Westeros, the inexorably oncoming undead violate my ad-hoc rule of never caring about any character that I can partly see through: I was brought up to be scared of people in one piece, not walking around in bits.
