A Million Stories

Now with its own list of suspect words

by Jeffrey C. Billman, Holly Otterbein and Andrew Thompson

In 1977, a man had a dream. He wanted to open a mail-order firearms shop in McKeesport, Pa., and he wanted to call it The God Damn Gun Shop. The neighborhood church ladies were none too amused, and the God-fearing Pennsylvania legislature quickly passed a law banning corporations from having names "that constitute blasphemy, profane cursing or swearing or profane the Lord's name." Today, Pennsylvania is one of six states with anti-blasphemy laws on their books.

In 2007, a Downingtown part-time filmmaker named George Kalman also had a dream. He wanted to incorporate a limited liability corporation to run his film business, and he wanted to name it "I Choose Hell Productions LLC" — an anti-suicide message, he told The New York Times last year, as in, a hellish life is better than offing yourself. But a week after he dispatched his incorporation forms, the Pennsylvania Department of State rejected his filing. That name, it seems, violated the state's blasphemy law.

In February 2009, Kalman sued, contending that his First and 14th Amendment rights were being violated. On June 30, U.S. District Court Judge Michael M. Baylson struck down Pennsylvania's law, in large part because the state left it to faceless paper-pushers to determine what, exactly, blasphemy is. That much made the Inquirer.

Here's a nugget of bureaucratic awesomeness that didn't get so much attention: In September 2005, the state's Corporation Bureau wanted to nail down the legal definition of blasphemy. So, assistant counsel Martha Brown created a list of 23 "suspect words" to help employees decipher which corporation names ran afoul of the law. Eighteen of these words were your basic vulgarities. The remaining five were "Christ," "damn," "hell," "God" and "Jesus."

As Baylson noted in his ruling: "Ms. Brown had not received any training or education regarding religion." Brown never shared that list with the clerks who review corporate filings.

In January 2006, Brown created List 2.0, which, in addition to the words on the first list, also contained "bull," and an instruction that "[a]ny permutation of these words should be flagged for review as well as variations on the spelling of these words that would yield the same pronunciation."

"Fucque Inc." probably wouldn't make the cut, then. In her deposition in the case, Brown clarified how she would use these suspect words. In: "I Choose God," or "I Reject Hell." Out: "I Choose Hell," or, probably, "Your God is a Lie Deli and Catering."

This new list, however, didn't make the rounds until July 2009, long after Kalman's application had been rejected. But between October 2005 and October 2009, with seemingly nothing in the way of guidelines, the Bureau's clerks deigned fit to reject at least 11 corporate names, I Choose Hell LLC included — and, yes, hilarity ensued.

Some rejectees were fairly obvious: Nuclear Shit House Records, for instance, or Shitz & Giggles Inc. Others were subtler in their profanity: Got Dam Magazine LLC; Hel-Mary Goodies LLC. Also denied: Hellraisers MC Philadelphia Inc., a motorcycle club largely composed of area police officers.

And, our personal fave: Asociacion de Pastores de Reading, a group of Reading church leaders that in March 2007 sought to incorporate as a nonprofit. Why were they turned down? Because in their application, they translated their name to English as "Reading Pastors Ass."

The group resubmitted its name and was eventually approved, but still, nothing better illustrates the inanity of allowing Harrisburg desk jockeys to determine what will affront your virgin ears.

Of course, the state may yet appeal, because, you know, won't somebody think of the children?

Yes, our state legislature finally, for the first time in eight years, managed to pass a budget on time. Hooray.

But let's not get too excited: In reality, this was less an achievement and more like that time your dad showed up at your birthday party for the first time ever — when you were turning 8 years old. Also, he was drunk. And he brought his new 25-year-old mail-order bride. And he gave you an age-inappropriate present.

So what is Harrisburg's age-inappropriate present to us? Well, besides a project honoring Sen. Arlen Specter and tons of walking-around money, we received no tax on cigars or smokeless tobacco, lots of cash for new prisons, $5.5 million in library cuts, $1.1 million in child care cuts and — oh God, this is too depressing, and you know this already, right?

OK, then. Let's move on to a lesser-reported casualty in the state budget: free HIV testing.

According to ACT UP Philadelphia, an HIV/AIDS activist group, the new budget has slashed HIV prevention money statewide by $300,000 — and that's on top of $1.7 million in cuts last year. ACT UP predicts this will lead to nearly 8,000 fewer Pennsylvanians receiving HIV tests annually. Hardest-hit will be the smaller organizations geared toward minorities and the homeless. Unless outside grants come in, these groups say, they'll have to eliminate their free HIV testing programs altogether.

Without free testing, activists fear that many Philadelphians won't know they have HIV until it's too late. "We're very successful in getting first-time testers. Without that money, a lot of people are going to fall through the cracks," says Ron Sy, executive director of AIDS Services in Asian Communities. "I'm terrified."

There are a thousand reasons to be glad that Philly isn't Seattle, or San Francisco, or some other West Coast township that is totally in love with itself. You can swear around (and usually at) children, for instance, or smoke without falling victim to annoying passive-aggressive reproach. But the West Coast also breeds eco-friendliness, and as circle-jerky as the Western version may be, they don't have to bribe their citizens with tchotchkes to throw food in one bin and plastic in another. We do.

(Although, to be fair, Seattle charges its residents by the volume of trash they leave on the side of the road, rather than a flat fee, to encourage conservation. And in San Francisco, they'll fine you $100 if you don't separate recyclable or compostable materials from your garbage. Seriously.)

Last week, Philadelphia finished rolling out its Recycling Rewards program, which rewards people with points commensurate with the amount they recycled toward discounts off their deodorant or whatever. The city began the program in February in North Philly and finished in the Roxborough/Chestnut Hill area.

Apparently, it's gone well. Mayor's office spokeswoman Maura Kennedy tells us that recycling rates have risen from an abysmal 6 percent of its waste before the program started to a substantially less abysmal 20 percent in the targeted neighborhoods (as of press time, we were still awaiting harder numbers). That's still a lot less than Seattle's 50 percent or San Francisco's 72 percent — perhaps we should consider a more punitive approach — but it's a far sight better than where we were a few months ago.

That's some good news, right?