Remember Dan Quayle? Walking punchline from the time before time (the pre-Clinton era)? Well, he's back. He's been re-incarnated as an even more dead-eyed version of his former self, carefully disguised as his own neo-con son. Like Voldemort from Harry Potter, he disappeared into the woods following his political death in 1992. The peasants rejoiced, thinking that He-Who-Must-Be-Ignored had perished forever. However, following a pact with the devil and some time spent living in Dick Cheney's forehead, he summoned enough black magic to assume human form once more. As part of the deal, however, he was forced to live in the hottest part of hell: Arizona. Worse, the Dark Wizard decreed that he must start his political career all over again, scrambling for entrance into the Chamber of Secrets, also known as the House of Representatives. This time around he resolved to be stronger and more dangerous, but just as much of a dumb-ass as ever. Below, he announces his return to the land of the living.
The worst president ever?! Worse than James K. Polk or Phineas Q. Pennyfeather?! Cripes! I'm pretty sure there's been like 4 bajillion presidents, so if Quayle says this guy's the worst, he must be really bad. Plus, wasn't he born in Antarctica or something? And what's this about cartels? CARTELS?! That's some scary-sounding shit. We need a guy who was "raised right" to knock the ever-loving shit outta this problem or whatever he said. The prophesied return of Quayle Man couldn't have come at a better time. He's back, baby, and this time he'll save us from the Mexicans and spell the shit out of "potato" (potatoe?).
Get it? It's Quail-Man from Doug. 90's throwback day, bitches. Get into it.
You don’t write a blog like this to “make people happy” or even “lessen the interminable, soul-crushing boredom suffered by most blog readers everyday.” No, you write a blog like this to piss people off. Thus, I feel like Bush a week into the Iraq War: by the very low standards I’ve set for myself, mission accomplished. I also feel like Bush, because I can’t resist the urge to say, “Suck it, Mom & Dad; I’m successful!” Also, I’ll probably go out and get shitfaced to celebrate, but I digress. So, who are we pissing off? Well, as it turns out, pretty much everyone who reads this blog. In the past month, no fewer than 3 people (fully 3 quarters of our readership if you count me) have told me they found this page “offensive” or “disgusting” and have called me (ME of all people, if you can believe it!) “an offensive, disgusting asshole” (not a very verbose lot, my readers) . The question is, why? The answer is, who cares. The other question is, will I tone it down? The answer to that, of course, is fuck no. Those people can guzzle cum until their shit looks like an Oreo Blizzard for all I care (see what I did there? Offensive and disgusting, right?). In fact, in honor of all the haters (Finally, haters! I feel like some poor, white bizarro-world version of Jay-Z and it’s awesome!) here are some things that I’ve been chastised for saying in public, that – when given the opportunity to properly explain them – are actually not all that terrible. Or maybe they are. Judge for yourself, just don’t base your response on some knee-jerk reaction of how you think you should feel. Anyway, enjoy!
This first one’s inspired by the Tea Baggers (I’ve actually heard them call themselves that. Is this a political party devoted to putting balls in your mouth? If so…count me in! I mean…nah, fuck it, I know what I said). These folks have diabolically figured out a way to make the most terrifying form of racism - the kind that involves mobs and town squares, not the fairly innocuous whispered, break-room joke kind – socially acceptable, even laudable, depending on where you get your news. The trick, apparently, is to pretend you hate our black, “Muslim” president, not because he’s a black, closeted Muslim, but because you hate TAXES! Duh. Everyone hates taxes. Granted, you didn’t seem to hate taxes a year ago and you’re not paying them to a distant monarch, but it’s easy to see how you’re driven by the same righteous indignation as your namesake band of weirdos. That’s right; bear in mind, the original gangstas put on make-up, tarred and feathered people, dumped some perfectly good English Breakfast into Boston Harbor…they probably weren’t playin’ with a full deck either. Just sayin’. However, they didn’t feel the need to carry muskets into Ye Olde Starbucks, or whatever they called it in colonial Seattle. So what does all this have to do with the Blueneck Offense Fest ’10? Well, I figured as a loving tribute to the Tea Tards, we should all start disguising our racial slurs as anti-big government invective. Por ejemplo, when discussing a neighborhood of ill-repute, you might say, “I wouldn’t rent a place there. It’s gotten pretty socialist in the past few years, if ya know what I mean.” Or, “I went to this bar on the Eastside, but if was filled with people who can’t find their birth certificates if ya follow.” Or even, “That’s the problem with the NBA, too many advocates of universal healthcare, amirite?” You get the point. You can still have the fun of looking over both shoulders and asking that pointed question at the end to ensure that you and your fellow, casual bigots are on the same page, but now there’s added political commentary and secretiveness. You get to get in a dig at Obama, plus the offended parties won’t know what the hell you’re talking about, because…let’s face it, those fist-bumping Sashas and Malias don’t read the paper anyway, ya smellin’ what I’m steppin’ in?
So, hopefully, you see my point – not all that offensive when I actually get to explain the whole thing without being eye-fucked by an entire room of overly-PC hippies. You’d seriously think I suggested that we need some random Asian to math us out of this recession or told that joke about Jews and copper wire. Lighten up, hippies! God, I thought the left was supposed to be the side with a sense of humor. Oh, right…not if it offends anyone. Freedom of fucking speech, ya'll!
This is typical of the sort of infighting and obliviousness that cripples the Democratic party and will lead to the kind of mid-term ass-handing that will effectively cut the one remaining ball off the donkey. We have a black president. To not make jokes about it amounts to a new kind of racism, as nothing about the lives of presidents has ever been off limits before. You think people didn’t make jokes about Taft being a fat-ass or Buchanan being queerer than a three-dollar bill (which was probably an actual unit of currency at the time, but you get the point)? If people knew FDR was in a wheel-chair the cripple jokes would’ve flown like a Timmy-heavy episode of South Park. And no one ever tried to censor South Park! Oh, wait.
Anyway, I won’t go into the various ways in which political correctness is a slippery slope that leads to the worst kind of self-censorship, or how when we seek to avoid offending others, we cease to truly speak for ourselves, or even how the most vile words in the English language draw their power from their ability to offend, and thus the sooner we learn to react to them with a collective shrug of indifference, the sooner they’ll drop out of common usage faster than Beta Max. I’m not gonna go into any of that. What I will do is relate another instance in which being offended took precedence over actually listening.
Barack Obama came to Buffalo last week and was greeted with the usual fanfare reserved for a sitting president – piles of cocaine, blow jobs from every corner of the Asian continent, miniature American flags for all, and, of course, plenty of twirling, twirling, twirling toward freedom. OK, at least two of those things are made up, but it was a big fucking deal, is the point. There’s not a whole lot going on in this city and we’re used to being let down by stylish black dudes.
(He failed to focus on touchdown creation during his first year in office)
The city performed admirably, despite acting a bit like a desperate loser on a first date with a solid 10.
Anyway, I was watching this public nut-stroking at home when a stranger sat down on the barstool next to me. He said something about how he drove past a local chicken wing spot earlier in the day and saw the presidential motorcade parked out front. “I guess Obama really loves wings,” the said, retardedly. “Yeah, big surprise,” I replied, assholishly.
From the look on his face, you’d think I’d popped a squat on the bar and took a shit in his beer. Then I realized my mistake. Or, rather, I realized that he was a PC dumb ass. As he slowly backed away from me, as though I’d told him I was crawling with AIDS-infested bed bugs, I realized he thought I would make the same remark if someone told me that Obama took first place in a seed-spitting contest at a watermelon festival. In other words, he thought I was a racist.
If he had given me a moment to explain, I could’ve told him that my mock surprise was not a result of my belief that black people like chicken (though who could blame them? Chicken is fucking delicious), but rather the fact that politicians like free publicity and folksy glad-handing. But that’s how these PC jerk-offs operate. They’re as judgmental, stubborn and close-minded as the racists and homophobes that they’re so vigilant about exposing. They call it a knee-jerk reaction for a reason: it’s made without thought, without even engaging the conscious part of the brain. It’s no exaggeration to say that there’s no way to simultaneously be honest and afraid to offend. There’s no way to have an open dialogue about race and the other issues that divide us as a nation without occasionally rubbing someone the wrong way. So, lighten up knee-jerk-offs. Stop jumping down my throat when I’m not even trying to offend. I have a strong gag reflex.
In the weeks leading up to the Super Bowl, two proposed ads earned their keep before they even aired by stirring up a shit storm of controversy. Since the point of advertising in the modern era seems to be to piss everyone off, thereby creating next-day conversation at the mythical office water cooler, thereby making non-existent Dilbert drones dwell on your wares until they eventually break down and spend their meager shekels on Snuggies (or, in this case, fuck other dudes or not have an abortion. Look, I don’t get it either!) both of these spots (even the one that didn’t air) were, uh…successful? Yes, according to my research (by “my research,” I mean the 2 ½ bottles of wine I just drank. Said research also indicates that I should totally grow a moustache, finish the shit outta that screenplay I’ve been working on and start rockin’ suspenders, just so everyone would be, like, "whuuuuh?").
So yeah, the Man Crunch and Tim Tebow ads both garnered a lot of attention despite being pretty inoffensive when actually viewed instead of just read about (provided you think tackling middle-aged women and same-sex tongue-fucking are inoffensive. If not, It’s a good thing you weren’t at my Super Bowl party). What frustrates me about the Tebow ad is the ingenious way its creators rode the wave of pre-emptive criticism and allowed it to do the advertising for them. Come Super Bowl Sunday (I mean “big game Sunday.” Fuck! Am I gonna get sued now?) all the pro-life nut jobs had to do was step in and deliver a surprisingly mild-mannered spot to make the critics look like they were the nutty ones. As far as I can tell the agenda followed by the fine folks at Focus on the Family went something like this:
1.) Court controversy by announcing plans for politically-charged pro-life commercial to be aired during traditionally apolitical Super Bowl, thus garnering more attention than a million exposed Janet Jackson titties.
2.) Allow liberal talking heads to explode in outrage thus stirring the proverbial turd just as the pro-lifers had hoped
3.) Air weirdly mild-mannered commercial
4.) Get this response from Middle America: “Hey I don’t know if I want that virgin mixing his political peanut butter with my Super Bowl chocolate....grumble, grumble, grumble…Hey that weren’t so bad. He done tackled his ma, har har. All they’s askin’ me to do is visit a dern website. Maybe it’s them pro-choice liberals that’s the nutty ones.”
Rubes successfully manipulated.
That said, I’m forced to momentarily stray from the traditionally liberal stance of this blog to say that while I may not be a huge fan of the decision, I definitely understand CBS’s choice to not air the Man Crunch spot. I’m all for gay rights, freedom of speech and blahditty, blah, blah, but at the end of the day, CBS is a privately-owned corporation that’s free to choose its advertisers and…eh, c’mon no one wants to see two dudes make out when they’re trying to watch football.
Besides, these ads are basically saying the same thing. If all guys started fucking each other in the ass, we wouldn't need to have so many abortions. Yeah, yo. I know it's good when I even offend myself a little bit.
Here’s some other ads that piss me off. Some Super bowl, some not. Some insidious, some just plain retarded. Enjoy:
Here's another one that aired during the “Big Game” (which – according to current trademark infringement laws – is the only thing that you’re allowed to call the Super Bowl without the NFL commissioner sending Ray Lewis to your house to shit on your forehead and have his way with your wife. It's true. Look it up). Now, some of you may be tempted to describe the following travesty as funny or even “cute” (*vomits in his mouth*), but when you think about it, according to the ethical standards and social mores that have governed the actions of decent human beings for, lo, these many millennia, it might be the most perverse, fucked-up thing ever committed to film (and I once saw a porn involving a tree limb, a suit of armor and a starved wolverine). Observe:
What. The. Fuckhole? Again, at first glance, this may seem pretty innocuous - even appealing. Who doesn’t like the idea of infants being manipulated by the magic of technology into some weird cross between Gordon Gecko and Dane Cook? Um…everyone who’s not a sick fucking fuck, that’s who. But the male baby is nothing new, he’s been buying low, selling high and presumably ripping lines of talcum powder off some supple nursemaid’s ass for years now (actually, the original was recently switched out for a younger, cuter baby – a disturbing testament to our nation’s ever-worsening obsession with youth). No, it’s the infant Lohan-in-training that’s truly disturbing (they even named her Lindsey. How droll). What's implied is that some of sort of sick baby booty call took place, wherein these two infants got shitfaced on milk (as babies are apparently wont to do) and engaged in weird crib-rocking baby sex. Oh, now I'm the gross one, right? No, yo. This isn't some innocent, Pebbles and Bam-bam shit; the baby who's unfortunately cast in the skank role spent the night got wasted and...giggidy, giddidy, goo, goo, gah, gah. Like I said, kinda gross when you think about it. This coming from a dude who used the term "tongue fucking" like two paragraphs ago.
If you don’t live in New York State, you probably never saw this weird and unnecessarily disgusting anti-smoking ad on billboards and bus stops all over the goddam state.
What this ad purports to be saying is that smoking is a dirty nasty habit that will make you go blind – like masturbation. What it’s actually saying, however, is, “LOOK AT THIS GROSS EYE WITH THE ONE OF THOSE WEIRD CLOCKWORK ORANGE CLAMP THINGS ON IT! ISN’T THAT FUCKED-UP?!”
Yep, that’s some nasty shit. Sure don’t want to look at that every time a bus goes by. But what the fuck does it have to do with quitting smoking? What’s always chapped my ass about anti-smoking ads is that they always adopt the tone of a bunch of non-smokers standing behind a two-way mirror, pointing and laughing at the cancerous asshole on the other side. Wouldn’t it be way more effective to sympathize with and even pander to smokers? I mean really, pull out all the stops; it’s a pretty noble cause. Maybe get some famous ex-smokers like Brad Pitt or Barack fucking Obama (or pretty much every other cool celebrity. C’mon, no kids read this. Come to think of it, no one reads this) say he knows how much it sucks to quit, but he did it so blah, to the blah, blarr. Besides, this is New York, the guy in charge is blind and he sucks. Are we to infer, therefore, that smoking cigarettes can lead not only to blindness, but to being a shitty governor as well? The last guy fucked hookers and ruled. Does fucking hookers lead to bald Jewish bad-assness? What if you smoke when you’re done with the hooker? I’m confused. Verdict: shitty ad.
These Doritos ads are just plain fucking retarded:
Why wouldn’t the dude just eat his weird samurai suit or go to the nearest corner store and drop fifty fucking scents for a bag of vile hillbilly chow? What were they out of cooler ranch? Again, r-tarded.
This one’s actually kinda great, though:
I support anything that encourages killing people who eat Doritos, even if the murder is committed by another Dorito-eater. Kinda like how skinheads feel about black-on-black crime. Thinning the herd, ya know? (Hate mail can be left in the comments section below.) On the real, though, Doritos, what's with the fucking death campaign? Why are we being encouraged to kill each other for...um, little flakes of something coated with something. Wow, I've been eating those things my entire life and I just realized I have no fucking clue what they're made out of. Gross.
So it’s been widely reported that Megan Fox used a thumb-double for this Motorola ad, but the real story is that Megan Fox is stupid and she sucks.
(Hey, baby, do you come here oft...OH MY GOD WHAT THE FUCK HAPPENED TO YOUR THUMBS???!!!)
So, Megan Fox has the ability to turn gay guys straight and make teenage boys jerk-off. Bullshit. the only thing that teenage boys and gay dudes agree on is that ball hair is something to get excited about. As you may have guessed, this really has nothing to do with the quality of the ad; I just hate Megan Fox for some reason.
In conclusion (and as a sort of eye bath to wash the image of Megan Fox’s toe-thumbs from your eyes like a bracing splash of Listerine after a particularly sloppy blow job), here’s two examples of advertising awesomeness. One’s from a guy who clearly knows his shit on the topic and the other, is the most interesting man in the fucking world. Enjoy.
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=R2bLNkCqpuY
(embedding disabled due to dickishness. Watch it anyway, yo.)
P. to the S. -
Now that I've been fitted with this fashionable ankle bracelet, I'm forced to abandon my usual late-night hobbies of peeping and hobo strangling, so expect more posts soon. And remember, Megan Fox is a vile twat-rocket. Peace!
Now that DLR has returned from the Island of the Lotus-Eaters, (speaking of which, what crawled up that dude’s ass? Did you read his last post? I feel like I’m blogging with an angrier version of Joe Pesci) I decided it’s time for me to start posting again. I apologize for my long absence, but fall is a very overwhelming time for me. I keep thinking Obama is starring in a new NBC series about robot doctors and McCain’s gotta grade my mid-term before he pitches in the World Series. It’s all very confusing. I’ve been so out of it, I haven’t even watched the news or checked my E-Trade account in like two months. I hope nothing has changed, I’m banking on my Lehman Brothers stock to help pay for my Bills vs. Patriots tickets. Love that Tom Brady.
Anyway, my favorite part of last night’s debate (aside from Bob Schieffer being the only moderator to show any balls since I moderated your mom’s ass last Wednesday night) had to be McCain kicking things off with a shout-out to Nancy Reagan. He should start all his speeches that way. It’s the freakishly old Republicans’ way of invoking the muse, the way J-Cain himself used to in Ancient Greece. Is that what war he fought in? The Trojan War? Oh wait, that’s what they call the debate that happens in the backseat of Bristol Palin’s Ford Explorer (Ziiiing! Be honest, you missed this shit). I hate to beat a dead horse, but McCain is old, like really fucking old. I don’t know why more people haven’t pointed this out, but the two oldest presidents in American history were William Henry Harrison, who DIED thirty days after taking office, and Ronald Reagan, who…well we all know how that turned out. McCain is four years older than either of them.
Naturally, throughout the debate, both candidates chose to focus on what a shit-talking dickhead the other guy is (I mean c’mon he won’t even focus on the issues!), culminating in a HI-larious argument over who’s campaign has been more negative. McCain, trying to stay clear of the “let’s kill his Arab ass” argument espoused by many of his supporters, decided to focus his personal attacks on ACORN and Bill Ayers - a man who Obama has now immortalized next to his dad, and Rev. Jeremiah Wright in his Hall of Unimportant Assholes From My Past. McCain tried to erect a similar shrine, but all those gook bastards look the same to him, so it’s just a bunch of busts of Bruce Lee.
Toward the end of the debate, (in a shocking turn of events) the conversation actually turned toward policy issues, as the two candidates answered questions about their planned education reforms. Weirdly, McCain slipped in a plug for Troops to Teachers which, as far as I can tell, is a program which takes shell-shocked, parapalegic Iraq War vets and sticks them in classrooms with kindergartners across the country. This is ludicrous. Any teacher will tell you that the horrors of combat are no preparation for teaching in America’s public schools.
Amazingly, a 90-minute debate about domestic issues didn’t focus entirely upon this colossal nutty-turd sandwich that is the current American economy. In fact, I think more time was spent discussing "Joe the Plumber's" personal finances than all other issues combined. Even Bush said two months ago that “Wall Street got drunk.” We now know that Wall Street got drunk, did an eight-ball of blow, fought the bouncer and took home the fattest chick in the bar. Its kinda like McCain and and Obama spent the night trying to ignore the loud, shit-faced frat guy hitting on their dates. Unfortunately, it’s only a matter of time before Wall St. pisses on our collective shoes and runs out without settling its tab. I don’t know about you, but I’m not paying that shit.
I am so fucking sick of this election. Sick to death of it.
And yet I'm writing about it.
Maybe if I write a few thoughts down, they'll leave my brain and I'll be free to think about things that actually matter. Here goes...
Obama is dry, humorless, and will not change anything. I'm sorry to everyone who drank the kool-aid, but he won't. He's just like every other politician. Don't let the velvet voice or blank resume fool you.
McCain is dripping in desperation and actually thinks that women are stupid enough to accept Sarah Palin as a substitute for Hillary Clinton. McCain knows nothing about economics and fucked his chances by being on the wrong side of the bailout; elections are won on differences.
Biden has donated two thirds of a pittance to charity over the last few years and doesn't know when the Great Depression/Roosevelt presidency/proliferation of television happened.
Sarah Palin.
They're all clowns and I have no patience for any of them. The only thing worse is the media. Attention right wingers: Ayers doesn't fucking matter, guilt by association is a fallacy and the connection itself is tenuous. Attention left wingers: drop the paranoia about racial politics, McCain saying Obama isn't "one of us" didn't convince anyone that Obama is black... everybody knows it.
And worse than the media (I know, I know what I said), is the fucking voters. Yeah, that's right, you fucking people. Everybody's got a fucking opinion this election and no one can restrain themselves. Everybody is a goddamn expert but only on the issues that support their candidate. No one seeks out fair perspective. No one explores the richness and complexity out there. Everyone is spoon-fed content tailored to their particular political ideology with no potential risk of giving any intellectual credibility to the opposing viewpoint. This way everyone can sleep comfortably in their beds without any fear that some damning fact might change their fragile minds. Pathetic.
Sigh. It'll all be over soon. Then we can go back to whatever it was we did before we devoted two fucking years to this horseshit.
Dear Mrs. Cheatham, As you are by now, no doubt aware, your son, John Marshall Cheatham was killed on July 26 as the result of a rocket-propelled grenade attack outside of Baghdad. You have my condolences. What you may not be aware of, however, is the fact that your son was one of only 10 (10! :-) ) U.S. soldiers killed in Iraq last month. As the American media has wasted no time in informing us, that's the lowest death toll enjoyed by the U.S. since we accomplished our mission of bringing freedom to the Iraqi people three years ago. (What?! He lied to us?! And we thought he was such a nice boy.)
Since, at the age of 19, your son was the youngest soldier killed last month, I decided that you should be the recipient of this letter of congratulations. You must be very proud, Mrs. Cheatham, to be a part of such a singular moment in U.S. history. As you watch John's friends and classmates grow up, get married and start families of their own, try to suppress your pity, as they will never know the type of pride that you now enjoy and that would no doubt be shared by your son if he were still alive.
In the midst of all this mirth and celebration, however, it should be noted that, had your son managed to stay alive only a few more days, he would've made July 2008 even more of a banner month for the U.S. military, as it would've been the first time in years that citizen volunteers died only in the single digits (disregarding Afghanistan, suicides, and soldiers that return home or are airlifted to other countries before they die from their injuries which is, of course, a number that the government is not so anxious to report).
Despite the tremendous sense of joy that you're feeling right now, Mrs. Cheatham, you may at some point in the future feel yourself giving in to the kind of crushing despair that can only be known by those who have seen their children needlessly struck down in their prime. However, I hope you will find some solace in the fact that 1.) your son could very easily have died from a rocket-propelled grenade attack while living a quiet life at home in Arkansas and 2.) he died for a noble cause, and as soon as the government determines what that cause is, you will no doubt be the first to know.
I had hoped to save this title for the day when Barack would be involved in some fracas involving a llama or perhaps a baby mama (a llama's baby mama would have been ideal), but I'm willing to admit that such a day might never come and that my passion for absurd compound rhymes doesn't affect the world of presidential politics (yet). Sigh.
Anyway, let me begin by saying that I fully understand the desire to flee a country where people are threatening to castrate you:
(Why does this guy keep having problems with reverends? He should really just convert to Judaism, its the one ethnic group he hasn't locked down yet.)
I'm very protective of my own testes, to the point that I once spent two years in Mexico, simply because I pissed off a guy who liked to wear steel-toed boots. However, I wasn't running for president at the time, and the decision to take the Monsters of Barack tour abroad seems, to me, horribly ill-timed and ill-conceived. No black man has spent this much time in Europe since Jay-Z discovered Saint-Tropez. The question is, why?
I know that in recent years, Democrats have made a fun little game of royal fucking their own campaigns up, but this is getting ridiculous. I'm trying to imagine the strategy meeting where Obama's advisors proposed (without giggling) that he spend a few weeks during a crucial part of his campaign shedule addressing millions of people who CAN'T FUCKING VOTE IN THIS COUNTRY. Was he unaware of this fact? Does he think he's running for president of the world? Where's he going next Hawai'i?! (We don't count their banana votes, do we? C'mon! They're not real Americans! What next, Kansas?!)
Maybe the whole thing was a stroke of genius. B.O. got a ton of press out of the deal, while McCain sat at home, drooling into his porridge and jerking off with a bottle of Cialis and a lithograph of Greta Garbo's exposed ankle (he's old). Perhaps more importantly, the Europeans ate it up. As evdenced by the crowd of 200,000 (!) cheering spectators that Obama drew to his Berlin speech. ("How do you say 'fo' shizzle' in German?")
Can you imagine if some dude who was running for president of Germany came to give a speech in the US? Maybe 20 people would show up, and only if "Dancing with the Stars" was a re-run that night. Bear in mind, however, that Europeans are easy to please. Give them some baguettes, a Jerry Lewis DVD, some fucked-up electrical outlets and an absence of soap and they're pretty much happy. As long Obama didn't morph into Bush or call himself a jelly doughnut like JFK, he could do no wrong.
That's all well and good, but with all due respect to the rest of the world, who the hell cares what they think? The motivation behind this trip was not, apparently, scoring some dank Northern Lights in the Netherlands, but the much less understandable goal of proving to Americans that Obama would make a suitable Commander-in-Chief of the military. Whu?!?!?!? First of all, the only people who give a shit about that kind of thing are middle-America hicks, and one can only imagine how much the idea of a jaunt around Europe must've appealed to them. Secondly, Europeans, for the most part, hate the American military, and as much as they're lining up to kiss his ass now, they'll hate Obama as soon as he takes the reins. He's a rockstar now, but if (and god-willing when) he takes office and maintains a troop presence in both Iraq and Afghanistan (as he intends to) those frogs and krauts will turn their nose up at him like he was a plate of Kraft Singles.
Bear in mind, I do still endorse Obama, and that's why I'm so critical of the way he's running his campaign. If he fucks this election up, then it will just further support the idea that the Democrats couldn't get laid in a whorehouse with a fist full of twenties. I can only imagine the frustration of running for president in a country where most people spent last week in a movie theater trying to remember if they voted for this two-faced Harvey Dent guy, but if he keeps globe-trotting, we'll never get our little dark knight into the White House.
For those of you don’t live in New York, (which would be a full 0% of the people who read this blog) smokers here recently suffered their greatest tragedy since Joe Camel lost his courageous battle with hump cancer.
Regardless of the fact that we already live in the most taxed state in the union, our new governor, Mr. Magoo**, has decided to further stick it to NYS residents with a $1.25 tax hike on every pack of cigarettes sold. That may not seem like much to you pink-lunged health pussies, but to us pack-a-dayers it adds another 400 bucks a year to an already obscenely overpriced habit. I know what you’re thinking, we’re all shouldering the burden of this recession and if the state can bring in a little extra revenue by making an already harmful luxury less appealing, what’s the problem?
The problem is your face and that you’re stupid. I kid. While both those things may be true, the real issue here is that the state has chosen to justify another greed grab with the claim that it will prevent young people from taking up smoking. There is no conclusive evidence that so-called “sin taxes” prevent anyone from indulging their addictions. Furthermore, anyone who took up smoking in their youth knows that they could’ve raised the tax by a pound of flesh and it wouldn’t have stopped you from using that hard-won fake ID on a pack of Marbs. If anything, people who are considering taking up smoking, or did so last week, are least affected by the tax hike because they don’t remember a time when smokes were any cheaper. Ever have an old guy tell you about how a gallon of gas used to cost 1/8 of a wheat tail penny? Same principle. You don’t care and neither do the cool young smokers of today, which brings me to my next point…
I happen to work in an establishment that sells both gas and cigs (and is also the richest and most evil corporation in the world) and I’m here to tell you that people pretty much bitch about both equally. However, non-smokers seem to be of the opinion that their gas-guzzling habit is in some way less destructive to society and they are somehow more persecuted. After all, smoking is a choice, while driving is a necessity. This is where I feel limited by the blog format, because I’m unable to sound a deafening YOU’RE WROOOOOONG buzzer. Big tobacco is evil, big oil is eighteen million times worse. (my boss and his partner contemplate giving me a 3 cent raise)
I don’t feel the need to explain how cigarette smoking, though harmful to personal health, has never resulted in any wars or holes in the ozone layer, but I will say that I’ve heard an exorbitant amount of talk lately about quitting smoking, taking the bus, buying a bike, etc. The day I see someone follow through with any such promise/threat is the day I’ll believe that price/tax hikes actually affect the way Americans think about their less desirable habits. The bottom line is we’re all getting screwed, we should all be a bit more conscientious about what comes out of our lungs and exhaust pipes, but in the meantime, there are always Indian reservations.
*This title refers to the Nas song, not the Billy Joel one. I’m not sure which came first and I don’t care, ‘cause I’m ill like that. **Because he’s blind, get it? C’mon, it’s not like I get paid for this shit.
The city of Buffalo is short on homegrown celebrities. So when one of them dies be it Rick "Cocaine is a helluva drug" James or Tim "everything tastes better when its fried in bleu cheese OM NOM NOM" Russert the city mourns in a manner thats usually reserved for heads of state, not Superfreaks. Russert was an alum of my high school and, of course, an inspiration for super-serious journalists such as myself everywhere. I was in Seattle when I received news of his death, but I could picture the scene in Buffalo vividly- flags at half-mast, elderly immigrant women rending their clothes in an oddly sexy display of grief, drunk South Buffalo Irishmen out-mourning one another, pretending they'd ever sat through an entire installment of "Meet the Press" and generally using the whole thing as an excuse to have that eleventh beer at lunch. Naturally, I was upset to be missing out on the fun.
What surprised me was that even on the West Coast, the response to the Russert tragedy was significant. One couldn't turn on cable news without seeing some talking head reminisce fondly about Russert and what a stand-up guy he was. The whole circus peaked with the Russert funeral which was, of course aired in its entirety, affording all of us the opportunity to watch the Brokaw-bot short circuit as it tried to come to grips with what we humans call "emotion." For those who didn't see it, Brokaw kept with Buffalo tradition by cracking out a beer in the middle of his eulogy. It was truly, the greatest carbonation.** Don't get me wrong, it was a great loss for the country to lose such an important media figure in the heart of such an intense political season and the Russert family...blah, blah, blah, but I can't help identifying with a quote from another former Buffalo resident, Rolling Stone columnist Matt Taibbi, who, when questioned about the tragedy had the balls to say, "He was a fat guy from Buffalo who did his job okay...People die!"
Harsh words even by Blueneck standards, but the Hunter S. Wannabe had a point. Russert was one on the last bastions of old school journalism, a throwback to the days when the news was more important than the guy reporting it and he would no doubt be mortified to see his own life and death being used to distract from the important issues of the day and sell ad time on CNN. More grave-spinnery would no doubt ensue if he witnessed the rise in celebrity status enjoyed by everyone close to the tragedy including his wife, Maureen Orth who figured out right quick that she's more noteworthy as the wife of a famous dead guy than as a columnist for that glossy roll of celeb-embossed Charmin known as Vanity Fair.
In saying all this, I in no way intend to ridicule Tim Russert or diminish what he achieved in his lifetime. Despite what Mr. Taibbi said, Russert did his job more than "okay." He was an eloquent, ethical and objective journalist working in a field where political bias and sensationalism reign supreme. He was a credit to his profession and his city and he will no doubt be sorely missed by those who knew him personally and those such as myself who looked forward to watching him politely stir the turd with the most powerful people in the world every Sunday morning. Despite the level of class and decorum that he displayed publicly, he loved beer and his friends nicknamed him "Wild." In his own way, he was a blueneck to the end. My beef is not with Tim Russert's life, but with his death and the way it was handled. We could've used someone like Tim Russert to bring a little dignity to the proceedings.
*Tim Russert wrote a book called "Big Russ & Me". Its a pun. Is this thing on? **Tom Brokaw wrote a book called "The Greatest Generation". These are the jokes, people. I can't hold your hand through this whole thing.
I begin today with some sad news. I regret to inform the blueneck community that my bloggin' brother, the venerable DLR, has passed away. He was enjoying post-op life at a nude beach for transsexuals in Rio when he inexplicably crammed a fatal amount of sand into his new vagina. As per his wishes, his remains will be donated to the Society for Ex-con Necrophiliacs With 11-Inch Penises (or RAMBLA). Donations can be made in the form KY Jelly or nipple clamps. No flowers, please. (DLR, 1922-2008, Mourn ya 'til I join ya)
Moving on, I've realized that we spend a lot of time trashing Christian fundamentalists on this page but have completely overlooked batshit weirdos of other faiths. This will not continue, as I've come to find out that pissing off Islamic fundamentalists is a surefire way to score ungodly amounts of high-class trim. Case in point, my new hero, pimp of the millenium and official mascot of the Blueneck Writers Who Enjoy Boobies Club, Salman Rushdie: (Rushdie, stylin' and profilin' with his most recent wife, Chick From Top Chef)
Four-times divorced and probably smelling like Ben-Gay and baby food, this aging lothario rose to fame in the literary world with the publication of Midnight's Children in 1981, but didn't gain attention amongst non-nerds until he released The Satanic Verses in 1988. The Islamic world, specifically Ayatollah Khomeini, responded with less than glowing reviews, issuing a fatwa against Rushdie and decreeing that it is the sacred duty of any Muslim to kill the author on sight, due to his irreverent portrayal of the prophet Mohammed in the book. It's been some time since I read The Satanic Verses, but if I recall, Mohammed shows up and presents Peter Griffin with a fish and a football helmet. Or maybe that was the episode of South Park where they make fun of Family Guy. Either way, it was HI-larious.
Time went on, Rushdie lived in hiding and Muslims decided that since Stephen King and Tom Clancy were permitted to continue to live and write shitty books, they would let the fatwa matter drop. That was until earlier this year when Khomeini's predecessor (some other dude with some long Muslim name that I don't feel like looking up right now) issued a public statement that the fatwa is as alive and well as Rushdie's Viagra-induced erection (has anyone else noticed how much we write about dicks on this site? I mean actual dicks not religious people).
So you live underground for years, rarely appearing in public. You finally emerge from hiding only to find that millions of very pissed off people still want you dead. Bummer, right? Not if you're Sally Rush. Having recently divorced his last wife, Hot Chick From Top Chef With the Scar on Her Arm (why did her parents name her that? What if the scar healed, they would've looked stupid.) Rushdie has been spotted around London with a number of fine-looking younger ladies. Nothing new, considering the guy's been a notorious playa for decades, but he reached a new pinnacle last week when he appeared cannodling with Scarlett freakin' Johansson in her new music video. ("It's okay, baby, I don't understand my books either.")
There's only one explanation for this phenomenon: chicks love fatwas. Yes, Rushdie probably has money and he's relatively famous, but he's also old as hell and you don't see John Updike or Phillip Roth dropping panties the world over. No, clearly the element of danger is the aphrodisiac here, which leads me to the simple conclusion that if millions of Muslims want you dead, you will get more ass than a toilet seat. So, in closing I would like to remind the Muslim community that I once whipped Mohammed's ass at Connect Four, then I intentionally stepped on his foot, effectively scuffing his New Balances. There, that oughta do it.
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)
(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!)
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.
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.
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?
(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.
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?
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......
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.
