Stormin' Mormons (Pt. 1 Hot Polygamous Sects)

First off, I'd like to apologize for the infrequency of our posts lately. My partner in blog, the inimitable DLR, has decided to "sell out" to "the man" and get himself a "real job" which "pays money" and affords him a "better life." Pussy. Don't worry I'm still keeping it really real 365. Speaking of which, does anyone have, like 80 bucks I can borrow? I can't blog without electricity. Or beer.

Like most people who don't have 14 wives, I was glad to see Mitt Romney give up his hopes for the White House and return to his crazy-man compound in Salt Lake City to tell people about how Jesus once led the league in assists while playing point guard for the Utah Jazz. However, a part of me still misses Mad Mitt and wishes he had stayed in the national spotlight a little while longer, if only to bring national attention to his wacky practices as a member of the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter Day Saints (aka LDS, aka Mormonism, aka NAMBLA). We, the voters, never even got to find out if he wears the crazy lumberjack underwear required by his religion because he dodged the question when it actually (and awesomely) came up at a press conference. Really, if a man can't tell the truth about his underoos, what can he be honest about?



Fortunately for me, the issue has resurfaced in the national media in recent weeks with the big bigamy bust at the Yearning for Zion ranch in Eldorado, TX, which coincidentally took place during the week of the 15th anniversary of the Waco bake-o. To be fair, those Yearners, members of the Fundamentalist Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-Day Saints, have yet to be convicted of any wrongdoing and it's been conclusively proven that the man initially accused of statutory rape couldn't have commited the crime in question, but more on that later. First, allow me to provide some background info about my own dealings with the Big Love set.

About a year ago I developed an intense fascination with Mormons after reading Jon Krakauer's fantastic book on the subject, Under the Banner of Heaven. For those unfamiliar with the book, it's a true under-dog tale about a couple of misfit brothers who go up against the odds after being expelled from the mainstream Mormon community (not an easy thing to do) and essentially banished from society. They respond by brutally slaughtering their sister-in-law and nephew, all because their other brother (from each other's mother) just didn't keep the faith like they did. People doing nutso shit in the name of religious fundamentalism is nothing new (see also, the Crusades, Islamic terrorism, the 700 Club) but what makes Mormons so different is that unlike Muslims and Christians they haven't been around for thousands of years, hell they haven't even been aound for hundreds of years, so really if the mainstream is aleady so far from the original teachings of their founder that they condemn those who adhere to the practices that he insisted were cornerstones of the faith (practices such as polygamy and murdering dissenters) aren't they just conceding that the whole religion is a little out there and maybe this Joseph Smth character had no business having followers in the first place? Just sayin'!

Anyway, my own interest in the LDS religion led me to go so far as to call their 1-800 number. Naturally, like all serious bands of believers Mormons have a toll-free number of their own, though I almost mis-dialed and called the sacred order of the Devry Institute by accident. After spending twenty minutes on hold, during which time I was treated to some kick-ass grooves by the Mormon Tabernacle Choir, I was greeted by a guy named Jeff. I've since come to find out that everyone (in my experience at least) who answers these calls is not-so-coincidentally named "Jeff". After an excrutiatingly long talk, Jeff offered to send me a "super cool book," namely, Joey Smith's magnum opus, The Book of Mormon (named for the angel Moroni, who, if he were around today and I read the book correctly, would basically bless all believers with daily winning lotto numbers).

True to their word the LDS folks delivered the sacred text. However, anticipating a serious recruitment campaign I gave them my parent's address instead of my own. I figured that if my mother showed the missionaries half the fury that she unleashed upon me when I skipped my fourth-grade clarinet lesson, she might successfully purge the Buffalo area of the LDS faith for good. Unfortunately, the wily bastards showed up when I happened to be visiting my folks for my sister's birthday dinner, and they came prepared.

I was enjoying a relaxing early-Sunday evening King of the Hill, when my father informed me that "two girls were at the door" for me. Naturally, I put on my best smoking jacket, smoothed my 'stache and sauntered to the door only to find two women who were roughly my own age but bore the hardened look that one usually associates with disabled 'Nam vets or door-to-door encyclopedia salesmen. Turns out they were Mormon missionaries (or "Mormonaries" as I call them), young people of the faith who are obligated to enlist a couple new recruits before they can be considered full-fledged members of the LDS community. I didn't know it at the time, but rhese missionaries are sent all over the world and sometimes spend years away from home trying to meet their recruitment quotas. So I was a bit surprised when my two guests attacked me with a ferocity usually found only in used car salesman and fat people at Old Country Buffet. Aside from being desperate, they were terrible salesmen. They were like Jack Lemmon in Glengarry Glen Ross, but with Little House on the Prairie hair and a really shitty product. I brushed them off pretty easily, explaining that I was really only interested in getting the free book and had absolutely no interest in joining the Mormon faith, or any faith, for that matter. Basically I informed them that if I had hounds I'd be releasing them as we speak and they left without a fuss. I figured that my dealings with the LDS were over, but I was wrong. So very wrong...
(Stay tuned for the exciting conclusion, "Stormin' Mormons Part II, Electric Bugaloo)

The Way He Were

(Photobucket asked if I wanted to edit this image. How could it possibly be improved upon?)

So we all know that Bush has finally entered the realm of irrelevance and soon history will decide if we, the Americans of the new millenium, were foolish for not impeaching him or simply for letting him live. Now that he's been reduced to the status of lame fuck (I mean...nah, I'll stick with that), even Bush himself must be wondering how he'll best be remembered. Harmless dumbass or full-blown super villain? Evil war monger or retarded economy destroyer? Only time - and probably some sort of Men In Black-style memory erasing device - can determine that.

The whole thng reminds of me of when I was just a baby blueneck and I first became aware (probably via Looney Tunes, which is no longer on TV for today's kids, but that's a subject for another post) that Nixon was a shitty president. I asked my father why this guy, of all the American presidents, seemed so reviled. He rattled off a list that went well beyond Vietnam and Watergate and left me with a bad taste in my mouth which at that stage in my life had previously only been caused by brussel sprouts and this weird quiche shit my mom used to make. I walked away with a true sense of the fact that this was not a matter of history being unkind, that this guy was indeed a piece of shit, that he enjoyed the kind of reign of terror that the country only survives because of term limits and impeachments. And that's the impression I seek to give Tylers Jr. through XII when they ask my re-animated head in a jar why everyone hates this guy called Dubya so much.

Naturally one can never explain with words alone the horrors of the holocaust or the McRibwich. Somethings must be experienced firsthand in order to understand how truly terrible they were. But I'm curious, how would you explain to your children, or simply the Americans of the future, why Bush was so terrible? Would you just stick to the basics like engaging the country in a costly and unnecessary war at the expense of thousands of American lives or proposing upper-class tax cuts during said war, helping to plunge a booming economy into a deep recession? Or would you dredge up some forgotten scandals and atrocities like his defense of torture, his capitalizing on the tragedy of 9/11, the Valerie Plame ordeal, the fiasco that was No Child Left Behind:

(I don't be knowing little retard. I don't be knowing.)

his idiotic and underhanded attempt at privatizing Social Security, his theft of a national election, his use of Human Growth Hormone to improve his ERA - sorry, that last one was baseball great Roger Clemens. But, you get the point, there's a lot to work with and I'm sure I left some out, it's been a long eight years. So leave a comment with your favorite of Dubya's Greatest Hits and how you plan to slander him in the eyes of your children. Personally, I'll be contributing to his legacy in my own way: I've started refering to genital warts as G.W. Bush. I'm hoping it catches on. With your help the children of the future will think of an unsightly, diseased crotch when they hear the name of our 43rd president. That's a world I want to live in.

(Fuck you world! YEEEEEE-HAW!)

Making a Difference

I was going about my typical business the other day, when I was chided by some fuckhead. I was walking down the street and eating a Double Whopper with Cheese. When I finished, I tossed the wrapper.

“Hey,” I heard, “What the hell, man?”

At first, I assumed that this wasn’t directed at me, but then the guy tapped me on the shoulder. I jerked my head around to see some douche wearing a ponytail glaring at me.

“Yo, dude,” he said, “What the fuck? Don’t just throw your trash on the street!”

I sighed. It wasn’t the first time I’ve received this sort of condemnation. I get it often. When I finish using a product, I don’t look for a trashcan; I drop it. I’m an environmental crusader.

I tried telling this to the fuckhead on the street, but he wasn’t hearing any of it. He insisted that littering was bad and that he was the one that cared about the environment. What an ass.

What does this dumb fuck think? That a trashcan is a magical portal to the Land of Oz? That trash put in a waste bin doesn’t ever touch the ground?

Trash that’s put in a trashcan ends up in a huge truck with other trash. The truck takes this trash to a landfill, where the trash is piled up on top of mountain of other trash. Tons and tons of trash piled on top of other trash. It sits there, fusing and mixing. Deadly chemicals seep into groundwater. Piles of garbage fall on scavengers. Three headed squirrels develop the mental prowess to telekinetically unearth buried nuts. All type of crazy shit happens.

So I do my civic duty. I spread the trash around. More surface area, faster decomposition. Seems logical enough, right? People who insist on putting trash in trashcans only care about aesthetics. They don’t give a flying fuck about the environment at all. They just want their neighborhoods to stay pretty. Well fuck them. They don’t understand just how important the environment is.

I told the fuckhead on the street all of this. He rolled his eyes a lot, but he listened. When I was finished, I said, “So I’m not picking that trash up off the ground. If you really want to, you can pick it up.”

He didn’t. I like to think I made a positive change that day.

Ladies of the Campaign Trail: Hot or Not Throwdown '08

The Thursday Throwdown is a weekly feature at Blueneck, where we pit two or more bitter rivals against one another in a winner-take-all death match. The loser is banished to the mythical Land of Wind and Ghosts (or the Eastside of Buffalo, NY, whichever we can find easier) while the winner (he or she who is determined to be the Blueneckiest) receives a special prize from the generous and blindingly handsome editors of Blueneck

If FDR had the misfortune to run for president in 2008, he wouldn’t have stood a chance. Not because of his policies or even because of some negro love child he spawned with the chick who played Mammie in Gone With the Wind. No, FDR would’ve been screwed the first time he took the stage at one of his rallies and wheeled his crippled ass on stage alongside his hatchet-faced horse of a wife, Eleanor.


(lovely in her day, I'm sure)

That may seem harsh, but unfortunately, the 21st century political arena is equal parts America’s Next Top Model and Top Chef. In other words how you look is just as important as what you can do. Which means in addition to having the right last name, you better be over six feet tall and have a flag pin on your lapel and a trophy wife on your arm.

With that in mind, we present the Blueneck Ladies of the Campaign Trail Hot or Not Throwdown of Twenty Ought-8.

Now, unfortunately, some of the prime contenders in the Race to My Pants '08 have already been taken out of the running. Examine, if you will: Jeri Thompson...

(sadly, she was crushed to death last month in a tragic jowl avalanche)

...Elizabeth Kucinich

(he received his first patent for “The Head Ladder” a device that allowed Leprechaun men to orally pleasure their Amazonian wives)

Fine specimens, both. They probably would’ve taken first prize and runner-up in the hot chicks with freak-ass husbands beauty pageant. But we’re looking for JFK, not Jon-Benet. Presidential politics is a package deal and as much as America might enjoy a first lady with a nose job and a perky rack telling their kids to just say no or save the whales or some shit, we just can’t abide some midget or fat ass giving us the State of the Union.

So now that we’ve weeded out the genetic freaks, we’re left with a pretty decent crop of broads, some of who are attached to dudes with presidential potential (I’m looking at you Hillary. Call me, rowwr).

Michelle Obama


If you’re into the dark meat, this is the election year for you. Though she’s no Beyonce (and let’s face it Barack’s no Jay-Z, holla!) this is the choclatiest race since the Nestle’s Qwick rabbit beat the Cuckoo for Cocoa Puff’s bird to the top of Milk Chocolate Mountain. Unfortunately, Barack’s “rock” just doesn’t do it for me. Don’t get me wrong, I’ve gone black and I fully intend to go back, but unless this chick’s packing a serious badonkadonk behind that podium or gives a lot of free shit away like Oprah, I’ve just gotta get my ghetto luv elsewhere. Is L’il Kim out of jail yet?

William Jefferson Clinton

Amazingly, I know a lot of girls from a lot of age groups who would smoke cigars and stain dresses with this dude all day. It always kind of baffled me because if you take him out of the suit and put him in a barbecue-sauce stained Arkansas Razorbacks t-shirt with his gut spilling out of the bottom then all your left with is, umm…Bill Clinton. Sorry, Bill you had your day in the sun, it’s not my fault if you wasted it with redneck townies and chunky interns. This contest is for the ladies. Which is brings us to…

Cindy McCain

a nice, non-descript trophy wife, who's not so ridiculously out of her husband’s league or age group that people start to think she was bought at auction like those first two freak shows. However, even though she was on the cover of USA Today a couple days ago, the media has paid more attention to McCain’s blogger daughter…

Meghan McCain

Sweet, shrieking Christ, that’s McCain’s daughter!? I was expecting her to look like the chick who played Bea Arthur's mom on "The Golden Girls". I think we have a clear winner for our first Thursday Throwdown. Meghan, I know this contest was supposed to focus on candidate’s wives and your father made a horribly insensitive joke about the Clintons’ daughter, Chelsea (“Why is Chelsea Clinton so ugly? Because her real father is Janet Reno.” Ouch. Not even funny), but I forgive you, baby. We can discuss it over dinner, because guess what? That’s your prize for winning the Thursday Throwdown, a date with me! So, Meghan McCain, it’s you and me, this Friday night! Of course, it’ll have to be a late dinner, because I don’t lock up the gas station til midnight. But don’t worry Denny’s serves up the Grand Slams 24 hours a day. Congratulations, beautiful! Oh and good luck to your dad, I guess.

Great Darwin's Ghost

Expelled is this year’s guaranteed blockbuster hit. It is the thrilling story of how one ideology (Intelligent Design) against all odds (the facts) manages to desperately cling to life with its trusty sidekick Ben Stein (the guy from the Clear Eyes ads). This nonstop thrill ride will leave you on the edge of your seat, wondering why you should give the slightest fuck about the bullshit politics swirling within the effete academic community.

The controversy fueled by this documentary is like an onion, there are layers built around layers. On the outside, this movie is given as though it is a fair presentation of a myopic scientific community, so tied to one belief system that it can’t be bothered to listen to dissenting points of view. The next layer is the far meatier question of whether or not Intelligent Design still represents a substantial enough dissenting view that the scientific community must oblige the arguments of ID proponents. I have a great idea: let’s let the mass of citizens not educated in evolutionary biology be the judge of that. In fact, while we’re at it, let’s pare the debate down to a highly sensationalized 90-minute movie slanted entirely from the perspective of the ID side. That’ll settle the issue once and for all.

Layer after layer is peeled away, until we arrive at the gooey, nougatty core of this onion: what about God? This is really what drives the sales for this movie, and this is the reason it was screened in churches before its pending release. The balls-to-the-wall God-fearing community needs some nugget to feed their persecution complexes, and, since Passion of the Christ II would certainly involve far fewer images of excruciating torture, this pseudoscientific blather will have to do. Don’t get me wrong. I think the God question is interesting in its own right. But this movie won’t open the debate; it’ll just harden the factions.

And I nearly forgot, why is Ben Stein tying his illustrious and prestigious career to this nonsense? Anyone? Bueller? Bueller?

No County for Stoned Men

(subtitle: The Audacity of Dope)
On January 31 of this year, a spokesman for Barack Obama stated that the Illinois senator supported the idea of decriminalizing marijuana. And the pot heads rejoiced. Here, after lo these many years of waiting was a viable presidential candidate who would finally contest the antiquated and oppressive anti-marijuana laws that had led to the unnecessary incarceration of millions of non-violent Americans over the past several decades. Clearly, this was a man worthy of being made to look like Obama of Nazareth (not to be confused with the equally corny Omaha, Nebraska) on the cover of Rolling Stone.

Unfortunately, on February 1, the Obama campaign abruptly recanted the previous day’s statement and pledged their candidate’s support for the current system of punishing marijuana users. They claimed the mix-up was the result of Obama misunderstanding the word “decriminalization.” An Ivy League-educated senator didn’t know what the hell everyone was talking about when they said decriminalization? Dude must’ve been fucking BAKED! Of course Obama’s cowardly waffling on this issue was not widely reported and didn’t affect his standings in the polls at all, because reforming marijuana laws hasn’t been a matter of serious debate in mainstream politics since well…ever.

But isn’t that exactly why we’re supposed to believe in this guy, because he’s an outsider, a voice for change? Isn’t that why Jann Wenner and company saw fit to portray him as a fucking Jedi (really, they couldn’t do better than “A New Hope”? Why don’t they just call Hillary the phantom menace?). This is the guy who, in 2006, admitted to smoking weed and inhaling “several times” because, “that was the point.” It was a ballsy statement that highlighted what a dumbass Billary the First was for claiming that he never inhaled (and yet he also claimed he “did not enjoy it.” How did he know if he didn’t inhale? Fortunately for him, the blow job giving interns of America are more open to trying new things. That’s right I went there. Zing!). Naturally, neither McCain nor Billary II has made any promises to the Guy on the Couch demographic, but they also haven’t made “change” the mantra of their campaigns, and they don’t purport to be the voice of the young voter.

A lot of people have come to expect more from Obama, especially in light of the recent report that more than one percent of adult Americans are currently in prison, giving the good ol’ U.S. of A the highest incarceration rate in the world. Of that, number almost 44 % are African-American and the US spends an estimated $1 billion a year jailing more than 150,000 citizens who are in prison for simple possession of marijuana. Since drug users and black men are clearly amongst those most affected by this country’s draconian anti-drug laws, one would think that Obama would be a bit more vocal on the subject. After all, he did at one time, fall into both categories.

Unfortunately, even though African-American Democrats nationwide are overwhelmingly in favor of legalizing pot, and everyone in their right fucking mind is in favor of reducing the number of Americans behind bars, Obama can’t be expected to publicly take the same stance, lest he end up in the Krazy Kucinich Kamp for Hippies Who Don’t Have a Shot in Hell At Getting Elected. Electablility is the new integrity and centrists are the new mavericks. Don’t get me wrong, I’d prefer if Obama didn’t fuck up his shot at getting elected. I just think maybe everyone’s being a bit premature dubbing him this county’s great black hope when he can’t stick to one position on a fairly black and white (no pun intended) issue that he already took a stance on, particularly one that affects so many members of his base so strongly.

Maybe I’m just being too hard on the guy, he’s still a politician. Sigh. Pass that shit, I’m coming down.

Death and...

Taxes! Oh shit! I claimed 99 dependents all last year!

I did it because I was working overtime, and every time I’d grab some extra hours Uncle Sam would stick his fingers in the cookie jar. I work hard at the cookie factory, checking to make sure there are a thousand chocolate chips in every bag of Chips Ahoy. Some extra hours should translate to some extra cookies, but Uncle Sam is reaching into the jar. Those are my fucking cookies, asshole!

So I find myself running the Oreo Goo Squirter™, working on the new prototype experimental Oreo flavor.... grape..., when a coworker leans over and says, “Hey, you’ve been working a lot of overtime recently, right?”

“Yeah,” I quipped, “What’s it to you, chief?”

“Well, you getting good money for that?”

“No,” I shrugged, “The taxes.... they.... they take away my moneys”

“Why don’t you claim 99 dependents? They don’t take out taxes if they think you have 99 dependents.”

“But isn’t it really fucking obvious that you didn’t, all of a sudden, get 99 dependents? And besides, isn’t claiming 99 dependents kinda like fibbin’?”

“No,” he assured me, “Fibbin’ is what the government does when it tells you the taxes it collects are going to good use.”

“I dunno”

“Well fuck you then,” he said, “I’m just trying to help, and you’re sittin’ there being a sissy bitch about it.”

And that last part really made me stop and smell the roses. Was I being a bitch? Did I need to claim 99 dependents?

As surely as I knew more money meant more beer, I decided to claim 99. “Just for this week,” I thought. It was a heavy overtime week, and I really wanted that money. “I’ll switch it back when I go back to working 40 hours per week.”

Well, when the regular week started, I noticed that I was getting more money for that too. I was like a heroin addict, except it was like I was shooting up money instead of heroin. I couldn’t stop. I had grown to love my 99 dependents as if they were real children. I had even named them all. No I didn’t.

That was then. This is now. Tax day. Either I find a way to claim 99 dependents, or I gotta pay a huge whack of money. Does my dog count as a dependent? My couch? My empty beers cans?

I’m fucked.

Please Allow Me to Introduce Myself

So there I was, enjoying a tall-boy, eating a microwave dinner, wearing a wife beater, and trying to decide if Vault can hold a candle to Mountain Dew (it can't), when all of a sudden I get the call:

"Hello?" I ask.

"Hey," says Tyler, "Its me, Tyler"

"Uh, hey Tyler. You just caught me between holes at the Country Club. What's up?"

"I just started a new blog called 'BlueNeck', and I want you to check it out. I was thinkin' maybe you could write for it. Cause, ya know, we're both so.... uh.... busy.... that more people writing would spread out the work."

"Go fuck yourself and your queer blog!" I shouted, and slammed down the phone.

I started thinking about it. When would I get the time to dick around on the internet talking to a bunch of faceless assholes? Why would I waste hours typing opinions and thoughts to people who couldn't give a fuck what I thought?

Then it occurred to me. I already do that. All over the place. So why not here too? If the internet needs one more thing, it is a place where two opinionated jackasses can spout off endlessly about whatever pops into their heads.

So here you go. Another contributer to BlueNeck. Now I just gotta think of something to say. Ummmm......

Are you a Blueneck?

Do you enjoy beer? Do you enjoy it even more when it is served in an unusually tall can or "tall boy." Do your meals often come in compartmentalized plastic trays? Do you sometimes substitute your morning coffee or tea for a colder, more carbonated beverage such as Mountain Dew? Do so-called "wife-beaters" comprise a major part of your wardrobe? Are you yourself a so-called wife-beater? Do you enjoy experimenting with facial hair?
If you answered yes to any of these questions you may want to consider the possibility that you are some identifiable species of hick, redneck, hillbilly, shitkicker, etc. But wait, before you mistake this for some sort of half-assed Jeff Foxworthy ripoff, consider the possibility that if you look down on such lame, red state pandering there may be hope for you. You may be part of the dying breed known as the American Blueneck. To help determine if you are a member of this endangered species, please answer the following questions:
Do you drink said "tall boys" ironically, often reminding your friends that you are imbibing "the champagne of beers?" Do you take a measure of pride in the fact that you live in a liberal, progressive state such New York or California? As a member of the lower- or middle-classes do you also bristle against the sky-high taxes in such states? Are you almost certain that you are going to vote for whomever wins the Democratic nomination but plan on watching the general election debates and keeping an open mind anyway because you're neither an aging hippie douche, nor a pissed-off whitetrash redneck (props to "South Park")? Have you ever, even in a brief moment of weakness, considered voting for Ralph Nader? (If you said yes to his last question you're most likely a Greenneck, or retarded, either way, read no further.)
If you answered in the affirmative to any of the above questions (except, of course for the last one) you are most likely a Blueneck, and this blog's for you, think of it as the king of blogs if you must. Bluenecks are those hard-working, usually blue collar Americans, who live hardscrabble lives but maintain their ideals of equality, those of us who live the issues everyday rather than just debate them. BlueNecks hope for change and a better life but seek it through progressive action instead of through Jesus. We get our news from Fark instead of Fox, and still think of Martin Luther not Stephen when someone mentions "King." That guy who hangs out at your bar that holds a Master's in education but still sports a nametag and hairnet because of a satewide hiring freeze? He's a Blueneck, hell he may even be THE Blueneck.
In the coming weeks and months I hope to attract to this blog the kind of people who identify with this persona as well as those who think I'm full of shit. We've all heard how "historic" and "change-eriffic or some shit" this year's election is shaping up to be but its hard to find a place in the mainstream media, or even on the Intrawebs where the people who are most affected by many of these proposed changes can discuss, debate or even ask dumb ass questions because their minds have been warped by the turd rolling down a hill that is the 24-hour news cycle. So feel free to leave a comment or write a contribution and check back soon, because if you giggled at the rolling turd joke, you might just be a Blueneck.