Is Everybody In? Is Everybody In? The Ceremony is About to Begin.
05/04/2014 09:00pm

I am a person who is not easily entertained. I’ve had little interest in TV since the 80’s and there are few movies that compel me to bring myself to the theatre. As for books, Elmore Leonard is dead and Barry Gifford has ceased writing novels in favor of negligibly entertaining short stories about a kid named Roy. Aside from pornography, the only thing that consistency provides enjoyment to me is music.

Click to read the rest at skanlynblog.wordpress.com

My New Gang

04/20/2014 8:00pm

Hey everybody, I just wanna let you know that I started a new clique and we’re gonna be the coolest gang in the whole school! We call ourselves the Ginger Ale Kids ‘cause we drink Ginger Ales instead of beers! A lot of the other kids think they’re cool because they drink Budweiser beers but we’re the cool ones ‘cause we drink Ginger Ales instead!

Click to read the rest at skanlynblog.wordpress.com

Christmas 2013 - Holy Jeez!

12/29/2013  09:30pm

Well Christmas 2013 is finally over (thank goodness!) and all I can say is HOLY JEEZ WHAT A CATASTROPHE! Now holidays with my family have always been a little crazy but this one, let me tell you, surely takes the proverbial cake!

It all started around 2pm on Christmas day when I arrived at the home of my cousin Kevin and his wife Maria (it was their turn to host this year). Kevin greeted me at the door and, as usual, reeked of cheap Canadian whiskey. I wasn’t exactly sure what was going on with him but from the moment we exchanged holiday wishes it was quite clear that there was definitely something "off". While doing the traditional catching up with the rest of my family, many of whom I had not seen since last year, I periodically looked over at him noticing that he appeared to be quite withdrawn. He sat in his chair wide-eyed, seemingly oblivious to his surroundings, taking frequent sips from his highball glass. Maria went over to him a few times, briefly conversing with him. I’m not sure what they were saying as they were speaking very quietly but there appeared to be a lot of tension between them. When the smoke detector suddenly went off they ceased being so quiet.

“Goddamn it Kevin! I told you to do one fucking thing!” Maria screamed as she ran to the kitchen. “Great! The fucking ziti’s burned you asshole!”

And boy was it ever! That ziti was black as black and oozing with smoke! Holy Jeez!

“I’m sorry, I forgot,” Kevin said.

“Of course you forgot you fucking asshole! You always forget! I’m surprised you remember to take your dick out of your pants before you take a piss you stupid bastard!”

“I said I’m sorry Maria.”

“Sorry doesn’t unburn my fucking ziti asshole!”

“Calm down Maria,” said Aunt Ellie, “It’s just ziti. We’ve got plenty of other food here.”

“It’s not just ziti! It’s not!”

“I said I was sorry,” Kevin said, “What do you want me to do? You want me to run to the supermarket and see if I can find something pre-made?”

“The fucking supermarket is closed you moron! It’s Christmas Fucking Day!”

“Sorry, it was just a suggestion.”

“You can shove your fucking suggestions up your fucking ass you sonovabitch!”

Everybody was like, “Holy Jeez!”, reminding her that there were children present. Maria explained that she did not give a fuck then went on to suggest a strong correlation between Kevin’s alcohol consumption and his absentmindedness of late which she characterized as chronic. Throughout her long and loud explanation she referred to him several times as a fucking asshole and a bastard and a fucking bastard, at one point turning to him to inquire whether there was shit in his skull in place of brains.

After her long, profanity-laced tirade, Maria retreated to the bedroom, slamming the door behind her. The rest of us sat down at the table, trying our best to put her muffled sobs out of our heads as we dined. I was admittedly a bit disappointed over not getting to have any ziti but, as Aunt Ellie noted, there was plenty of other food.

“Daddy, why is mommy crying,” Little Kevin, Maria's and Kevin’s six year old son, asked.

“It’s just a woman thing son,” Kevin said, “Eat your supper before it gets cold.”

About half way through dinner Maria returned and took a seat at the table. She had calmed down and appeared to be relatively serene at that point, though she and Kevin spoke hardly a word to each other.

Shortly after dinner, when the table had been cleared and the dishwasher loaded, it was time to open presents. By then Kevin's and Maria’s earlier shouting match seemed like a faded memory which had since been supplanted by the joy of the season and the sound of gifts being unwrapped. Somewhere in there Little Kevin decided to show everybody how adorable he was by saying, “I saw mommy kissin’ Santa Claus.”

“You did?” asked Grandpa.

“Yeah,” Little Kevin said, “underneath the mistletoe last night!”

“Oh my!” Grandpa said, “Don’t let your daddy hear about that one!”

At that point, I looked over at Kevin who was looking really mad, shaking his head back and forth and muttering something under his breath. He stormed off then came back a minute or so later with his .357 in hand. “You fucking whore!” he shouted, pointing the barrel at Maria. Before anyone could say or do anything he shot her right in the face and she fell back.

We were all like, “Holy Jeez!”

“Mommy!” Little Kevin screamed.

“What the fuck Kevin!” I said, momentarily forgetting there were kids around.

Kevin surveyed the room, taking note of what he had just done, then put the barrel of the gun in his mouth and pulled the trigger.

Holy Jeez times two! There was blood and brains everywhere! It was like a big lasagna exploded all over the living room, only much more disgusting! It really killed my appetite for dessert I tell ya!

Needless to say the rest of the night was quite a hassle with the paramedics and the medical examiner showing up to do their thing and the police keeping us there half the night to question us one-by-one. I just wanted to go home and go to bed but realizing that wasn’t going to happen anytime soon, I pulled out my phone and watched pornos until the battery ran out of juice.

“Say Little Kevin, you wouldn’t happen to know where your mommy or daddy's phone charger is kept, would you?” I asked.

“What the hell is wrong with you?” Uncle Abe said, “Can’t you see the kid is shaken?”

“Sorry, it’s just that my phone is dead. Like Kevin dead,” I said.

Anyway, there ended-up being a big what-to-do over Little Kevin and the police weren’t going to let any of us leave until we could assure them that someone would be taking care of him. My sister and her husband finally volunteered to take him home, thank goodness! I’m sure glad I didn’t get stuck with him. I don't do well with kids to begin with, let alone one that keeps waking up in the middle of the night screaming and crying hysterically.

Believe it or not, Maria didn’t actually die. They’ve got her all hooked up to machines to keep her eating and breathing and all that other stuff. Her family is deliberating over whether or not to Terry Schiavo her. Honestly, I don’t know why they’re waiting, it ain’t like she’s gonna get any better. I mean Holy Jeez, the girl ain’t got no more brains! Believe me, I know, I watched them fly out the back of her head and hit the wall behind her!

Family – what can you do?

Here’s hoping next Christmas will be less chaotic!

You Better Watch Out .  .  .  .

12/22/2009 12:07am

Over the last few months, young Tommy Patterson had become quite lethargic, withdrawn, and prone to night terrors and nocturnal incontinence. His once hardy appetite had become practically non-existent and his complexion was pale and sickly. Mr. Patterson had long sensed there was something wrong. The boy’s recent suspension from school for engaging in “inappropriate behaviors” only confirmed his suspicion.

“I just don’t understand,” he said, “You’re moody all the time, you don’t talk to us any more, now you’re getting into trouble at school. What exactly is going on here Mister?”

“Nothing,” Tommy insisted, but his father continued to probe.

“Something is obviously going on with you and if you don’t tell me, I may just have to call Santa and tell him to skip over our house this year.”

Suddenly Tommy burst into tears. He buried his head in the pillow and sobbed into it.

“Tommy, son, what’s the matter? You can tell me. I’m your father, I love you.”

“You wouldn’t understand,” Tommy said.

“Try me,” said Mr. Patterson.

“No, I can’t. I really can’t.”

“Son, no matter what it is, we’ll get through it. Come on now, what happened?”

“I really can’t dad. He said he’d hurt you and mommy if ever I said anything.”

“Who? Who would hurt your mother and me?”

“I can’t say.”

“Did someone do something to you Tommy? Touch you in a bad way?”

“No, no,” Tommy sobbed.

“Tommy???”

The boy clung as tight as he could to his secret but his father’s persistence began to erode his grip until it finally slipped away and he had to let it out.  “I’m sorry daddy,” he cried, “ I’m so sorry.”

“It’s okay son, it’s not your fault. He forced you to do it.” The shadow of concern briefly lifted from his visage which became most serious. Looking Tommy stone cold and straight in the eye he asked, through nearly clenched teeth, “Didn’t he??”

“Yes, yes. I didn’t want to but he made me.”

The elder Patterson then shouted to his wife downstairs, “Jane, call the police.”

Shortly thereafter two squad cars arrived at Santa Claus’ workshop. Father Christmas was read his Miranda rights and placed promptly under arrest.

During the bail hearing, the prosecutor argued that Mr. Claus should be held without bail on account of the threats he made against Tommy’s parents. The judge, however, felt this unnecessary and released Claus on personal recognizance leaving him free to fulfill his annual duties. He was, however, required to maintain a distance of one thousand feet from the Patterson’s and their home at all times.

“But what about my Christmas presents?” young Tommy asked, “All the other children will have toys waiting for them Christmas morning but I’ll have nothing.” Sympathetic to his concern, the judge requested that Santa bring Tommy’s gifts to a local precinct no later than noon on December 24th. The police would arrange a time on Christmas Day when he could come to claim them.

But that never happened.

“Ho, ho, ho, my Tommy boy,” Santa Claus was saying. It was late on the night of Christmas Eve at the Patterson’s home and there stood jolly St. Nick in full violation of court orders. Behind him, Mr. and Mrs. Patterson were bound to their chairs with duct tape.

“What are you doing here?” Tommy asked.

“Why it’s Christmas Eve. I stop by the homes of every little girl and boy.”

“You weren’t supposed to come this year.”

“Well, yeah, kinda, but I really thought I should anyway – for the benefit of your parents.” He turned to Mr. and Mrs. Patterson. “Mom, dad, Tommy has something to tell you.”

“Tell us what you fiend?!” Mr. Patterson said.

“Tommy, what is it?” asked Mrs. Patterson.

“Go on,” said Santa, “Tell them.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Tommy said

“Oh come on now Tommy, let’s not beat around the bush here. Isn’t it about time you came out of the closet to your parents? I mean, they have a right to know.”

“Come out of the closet? Just what do you mean?” inquired Mr. Patterson.

“Go ahead Tommy,” said Santa, “tell them.”

“Tell them what? I told you I don’t know what you’re talking about,” said Tommy.

“Oh really? So you’re trying to say that you don’t like it when Santa goes for a sleigh ride in your rosebud?” the Father of Christmas asked.

“Surely you can’t be saying,” Mrs. Patterson said, “that our Tommy, our son, our flesh and blood is a, a,  a  .  .  .”

Santa finished her sentence, “that’s right, a fag!”

“No Tommy,” she said, “how could you?”

“No mommy! I promise! He made me do it!”

“He better have,” said Mr. Patterson.

“Yes, daddy, I swear. I didn’t want to. He forced me.”

“Forced you, huh?” Santa Claus said, “You sure didn’t seem to resist too much once we got started.”

Tears were running down Tommy’s cheeks. “You made me. You said you’d hurt my mommy and daddy if I didn’t.”

“Well actually, I said I would hurt your mommy and daddy if you told them and, to be frank, I’m going to do more than just hurt them. In fact, I’m going to kill them. Ho, ho, ho!”

“No, please don’t!” the boy begged.

“We had a deal son,” Santa said.

Tommy pleaded with Santa not to harm his parents. “I’ll do anything, I promise, just let them go.”

“Anything eh?” said Santa.

“No, don’t do it son,” his dad said.

“Don’t give in,” said his mom, “if you do, you’ll be a fag and God hates fags.”

“Your mother’s right,” Mr. Patterson said, “That’s why he gives them AIDS.”

“But I don’t want you to die,” said Tommy.

“It’s all right son,” his dad said, “we’re older, we’ve lived our life.”

“How noble,” said Santa Claus, “but let’s face it, no kid wants to be an orphan, not even a little gay boy like your son.” He turned to Tommy and said, “Now why don’t you get your little tush on over here and come lick Santa’s luscious candy cane.”

Tommy’s parents begged him not to give into the homosexual demon but he could not let his parents die, even as they detailed to him the horrors of eternal damnation in a furnace of everlasting fire.

“Tell your mommy and daddy how much you love bouncing up and down on Santa’s Yule log!” demanded Kris Kringle. Tommy was silent at first but then Santa threatened “Say it or I’ll kill them!”

“I love your Yule log Santa.”

“That’s right fag boy – you love it! Say it!”

“I love it Santa! I love it buried deep inside me!”

“Oh my God, I can’t believe our son is a fag,” said Mrs. Patterson.

Santa was moaning as he inched closer. “Santa Claus is coming to town, Santa Claus is coming to town, Santa Claus is coming to town!” he panted.

“Don’t let him do it son,” cried Mr. Patterson.

“Ahhhhhh!” Santa yelled out, his eyes rolling into the back of his head. “Holy shit! I’m dropping my fucking eggnog into your fucking holly hole you fucking queer boy faggot!”

“Nooooooo!” screamed Mrs. Patterson, “You really are a fag now! How could you do this to me?! To us?!”

“I’m sorry mommy, I had to.”

“You’re dead to me!” said Mr. Patterson. “As far as I’m concerned, I have no son,”

“Please daddy! I did it because I didn’t want him to hurt you and mommy.”

“Aw, how touching,” said Santa. “Too bad I’ve decided to kill them anyway.”

“But you promised,” said Tommy.

“So did you son. So did you,” replied Santa. He then pulled the hunting knife from the sheath on his belt.

“No, please,” Tommy said, but he was ignored.

“I can’t believe we’re going to die knowing our son is a fag,” said Mrs. Patterson.

“You disappointed me so much,” said Mr. Patterson.

“You don’t think we’ll go to Hell for raising a faggot, do you?” Mrs. Patterson asked her husband.

“No Jane,” he said, “the boy had free will. He could have chosen the right path but instead he chose to be a fag. He’ll be sorry though when he goes before the Lord for judgment!”

“I’m sorry,” said Tommy, “I never meant to disappoint you.”

With that, Santa plunged his knife repeatedly into each of them. Blood spattered from their red stained teeth as the blade ripped into their abdomens and they uttered their final words lamenting that their son had turned his back on Christ to become a filthy sodomite. When they finally expired, Santa dropped the knife to the floor, wiped the blood from his hands with a handkerchief, then said, “My work is done here Tommy. I guess I should be going now. It’s almost Christmas morning and I’ve still got places to go and people to see.” He walked over to the traumatized boy and kissed him tenderly.  “You were fabulous,” he whispered into Tommy’s ear. “I’ll definitely be back for more.” He then disappeared, into a trail of falling dust. Tommy heard sleigh bells above and the pattering of reindeer hooves as Santa called out, “Merry Christmas to all and to all a goodnight!”

The orphan boy looked upon his dead parents. He thought of their last thoughts before they perished. “I just wanted to save you mom and dad,” he sobbed, “I just wanted to save you.”

He retrieved the bloody knife from the floor. Holding it with a trembling right hand, he carefully studied the blade, gliding the tip of his left index finger over it. It sliced into him and he began to bleed. He thought about it for a moment then finalized his decision. He pressed the knife firmly against his throat then cut straight across

Now he’s in Hell.

Happy Holidays

from

SKANLYN

 

Scratch Tickets -  A Christmas Rant

12/22/2013  09:00pm

Is there any shittier a gift one can get for the holidays than a pack of scratch tickets? I mean really. A certain person I know is fond of giving everyone ten dollars worth of scratch tickets each Christmas. It’s the thought that counts and all but the thought here sucks every bit as much as the gift. I once actually proposed that this person perhaps consider just giving me ten dollars going forward. “Yeah but then you’d only have ten bucks,” he replied, “This way you might end up with ten thousand dollars or a hundred thousand or even a million.”

But I won’t. Well, I can’t say for sure but statistically my asshole is more likely to teach itself to talk than me winning any significant amount of cash. Yet every year there he is again giving everyone those fucking scratch tickets. I think the most I ever saw anybody win was forty bucks. One person won a nominal sum and everybody else got worthless pieces of cardboard  – Merry Fucking Christmas. Personally I would rather get nothing than a scratch ticket. Of course getting a scratch ticket usually amounts to getting nothing, though I would argue it’s actually worse. It’s an insult really, the ultimate “fuck you”. It says “I want to give you nothing for Christmas but I want to give you nothing so much that I’m actually going to spend money to create the illusion you’ve gotten something knowing that, in the end, you will almost certainly end up with nothing.”

In case you haven’t notice yet, I really hate scratch tickets. And not just at Christmas! I can’t tell you how many times I’ve ended up consuming a large 7-11 coffee before I got to the register to pay for it because some elderly fuck-face was in front of me requesting four Big Moneys, two Pot O’Lucks,  Five Double Your Lucks, half a dozen Golden Tickets, and three Bucks Deluxes which he or she then scratched off while still standing in line. Elderly fuck-faces usually have all the luck when it comes to winning the small prizes so he or she usually wins like twenty dollars and four free tickets which he/she  then exchanges for four Lucky Lemons, five Jumbo Cash Deluxes, two Golden Opportunities and a Max-A-Millions. This is followed by another session of scratching at the goddamn counter and at least another five to seven minute delay before I can pay for my fucking coffee which is now aggressively exerting its pressure on the inner walls of my bladder.

But enough of this rant. It’s the holidays for fuck’s sake! Peace on earth and goodwill and all that shit.

And go fuck your mothers!

That is all.

You Are What You Eat

12/15/2013  09:00pm

“Hey, hey” the idiot says, “tell me I’m a pussy.”

“What?” I say with a perplexed look. “Why?”

“Just do it.”

“No. Why would you want me to call you a pussy?”

“Just do it, it will be funny.”

“I’m pretty sure it won’t be.”

“Come on now, just call me a pussy.”

Just wanting him to get out of my face I break down and say it. “You’re a pussy.”

“You are what eat,” he says, breaking into laughter and elbowing me in the ribs, “Get it?”

“Oh I get it.”

“Then why aren’t you laughing?” says the idiot.

“Because it’s not funny.”

“Sure it’s funny. You are what you eat. Remember those PSAs from back when we were kids?” he then begins singing “You are what you eat from your head down to your feet –.”

“Um, I gotta go.”

“What? You don’t think that’s funny? Do you have any sense of humor.”

“Yes, that’s just not humorous.”

“You don’t eat pussy or something?”

“Whether or not I do is irrelevant to the fact that it’s not funny.”

Just then Stacey MacDonald, the chubby blonde with the snorting laugh, comes over.

“Hey Stacey,” the idiot says, “tell me I’m a pussy.”

“You’re a pussy Ted,” she says.

“Well you are what you eat,” idiot says, his words deteriorating into an obnoxious laugh.

An explosion of air bursts through Stacey’s nasal cavity, as if she were passing wind through her nostrils, and she begins laughing hysterically. “O-M-G !” she says, “You are so raunchy!” She turns to me, “Keep the kids in the other room when this guy’s around! He is sooooo funny! Dontchya think?”

“No,” I say.

“Oh my God, he’s hilarious,” she then turns back to idiot, “You should be a comedian. Have you ever thought about doing an open mic night?”

“I have but apparently not everybody thinks I’m funny,” idiot says.

“You really don’t think that joke was funny?” Stacey says to me

“Nope,” I say.

“Don’t you get it? He’s a 'p-u-s-s-y' cuz he is what he eats,” she says, spelling rather than saying the word because she’s a lady and all. “He likes to eat you-know-what and because you are what you eat that makes him a –“.

“I get it,” I say. “Not my type of humor.”

“Oh, look at Mr. Highbrow over there,” idiot says.

“I’m no Mr. Highbrow. I just like my humor to be funny.”

“Oh you wouldn’t know funny if it bit you on the ass,” Stacey says.

“Don’t you mean ‘a-s-s’, “ I say.

“Huh?” she says.

“Exactly!” I say,

Idiot then says “I once ate a Chinese girl’s pussy. Yeah, I was hungry half an hour later.”

Stacey cracks up and says “You’re so bad!”

“It’s funny cuz it’s true,” idiot says.

Putting aside the racist nature of his joke I feel compelled to point out the inconsistency of his follow-up . “Didn’t you mean to say half an hour later you weren’t Chinese anymore?”

“Huh?” idiot says.

“What?” Stacey says with a confused and disgusted look.

“Don’t quit your day job there SKANLYN. Leave the joke telling to the funny guys,” idiot says.

SKANLYN’s Top Ten Worst Cities in America

12/04/2013 05:30pm

Having had the opportunity to travel all around this great nation, I’ve gotten the chance to visit a lot of great places. I’ve also gotten the chance to visit a lot of terrible places. Since there’s no fun in writing or reading about the positive, over the next several days I will be counting down the top ten WORST cities in the United States.

 

#10. Seattle, WA (click here to read)

#09. San Francisco, CA (click here to read)

#08. Cincinnati, OH (click here to read)

#07. Wichita, KS (click here to read)

#06. Oklahoma City, OK (click here to read)

#05. Montgomery, AL (click here to read)

#04. Hartford, CT (click here to read)

#03. Harrisburg, PA (click here to read)

#02. St. Louis, MO (click here to read)

 

And the most horrible city in the United States of America is  .  .  .  .

 

#1. BOSTON, MASSACHUSSETTS

Up in that far northeastern corner of the country known as “New England” is the land of filth and revulsion they call “Beantown”, a city about which I have so many bad things to say that I don’t even know where to begin. From the grimy cityscape of trash littered streets; to the permanently gridlocked roads; to the unsanitary public transit system with its urine soiled subway trains (some friendly advice if you’ve never ridden the “T” – never let your ass make contact with those seats!); to the continuous aural collage of jack hammers, police sirens, and angry car horns; to the crazy lice-infested homeless people that yell obscenities at you as you walk streets; to the ten months of non-stop bitter cold – yes, Boston has everything you would never want in a city that you visit, much less call home (which I unfortunately did during my college years and for a number of years after). Of all the bad things one can point to when discussing Boston, however, it’s perhaps the awful people that ultimately make this hell hole such a terrible place.

Ah, the Bostonian (douchebageous maximus), an angry, racist, vulgar, and excessively ignorant creature if ever there was one!  The male of the species is instantly recognizable by his backwards Celtics cap, sleeveless white t-shirt (sometimes referred to as a “wife beater”), and the humble and respectful manner in which he addresses his fellow man as “ya fuckin’ qweer” and “ya fuckin’ cawksucka”. When he’s not calling the people around him derogatory names for homosexuals, dropping the n-word in public, or threatening the life of those who say something critical of his union, he can frequently be heard chanting “Yankess Suck”. Those words always seemed rather ironic to me given that the Red Sox had not won a World Series since 1918 at the time I lived there, as compared to the Yankees who won twenty six between then and when the Sox finally broke their so-called Bambino curse in 2004. But I digress.

Female Bostonians are of course known for their exceptionally tacky attire, reminiscent of the 1985-era Madonna, and the tall mass of hair that extends high above their heads, adding as much as six inches to their height. Every twelve to fifteen minutes they can be seen reaching into their purse (or “pawk-a-book”, as they call it) to retrieve a large aerosol can from which they release a cloud of noxious gas called “AquaNet”, a compound most irritating to the eyes, nose, and throat of everyone within a fifty foot radius. While generally not prone to the ignorant sports chants of her male counterpart, the female Bostonian can often be heard cursing into her cell phone, usually at her mother whose intelligence she often questions (“What are ya fuckin’ stupid ma?!”). While equally as racist as her male counterpart, she does enjoy the sexual prowess of African American men who are generally able to satisfy much more fully than that punily equipped Irish boy from her neighborhood in “Southie” whom she officially dates.

Those who have never been to the self-proclaimed “Hub of the Universe” are probably questioning the authenticity of my description of Boston and its wretched inhabitants.  After all, how could the city that gave us JFK (and his brothers Bobby and Teddy) and where Martin Luther King Jr. earned his PhD possibly be racist? How could a town with so many prominent institutions of higher learning be so full of ignorant and uneducated people? And how could a city that always looks so nice on TV and in the movies be as filthy and rundown as I say it is? All fair points which I shall address one-by-one.

The reality is that the Kennedys, despite their public image, have long kept themselves tucked away from the non-white population. For years they lived behind the walls of a highly guarded compound located nearly two hours from the city in a place called Cape Cod where you are more likely to encounter a Dodo bird than a person of color. As for Dr. King (or “Martha Lewtha King”, as Down Syndrome-afflicted Mayor Thomas M. Menino called him at the 2012 DNC), he got the hell out of there as soon as he delivered his dissertation and headed back to the more racially tolerant Alabama of the 1950’s.

Yes, it is true that Boston is home to some of the most prestigious colleges and universities in the world – Harvard, MIT, Tufts, Boston College, Boston University, Emerson College, Berklee College of Music, all fine institutions and all mostly populated by foreign and out of state students. Native Bostonians rarely have an education beyond fifth grade, many having been seduced into dropping out of school by the four dollars an hour they could earn by working “under the table” on a construction site. Upon turning eighteen, many then find their way to employment with the City which is strong-armed by the local unions into paying them six figure salaries for menial minimum labor jobs, thus eliminating any need for an education.

I probably don’t have to tell you that most of what you see on TV and in the movies is pure fiction. However, we all saw quite a bit of Boston earlier this year during the very real news coverage of the Marathon bombing and its aftermath. That bombing of course took place near the finish line in a highly unrepresentative neighborhood called the “Back Bay”, which is also what you generally see on TV and in the movies. Unlike the garbage dump that comprises the rest of the city, the Back Bay is kept tidy and beautified by its large gay population. God may hate those people but there are no better neighbors to have if you want to keep your property values up. Nonetheless they are confined to this small area due to safety concerns as male Bostonians, from other parts of the city, have a penchant for beating them up pursuant to the scientific theory that “if you know a guy’s a fag and you don’t kick his ass then that makes you a fag.” Very logically they therefore sacrifice a clean, kept neighborhood in order to avoid having to perform fellatio on, or accept anal sex from, another man.

Despite my disdain for Boston and Bostonians, I did briefly find myself sympathizing with the people among whom I spent several years living when I initially heard of the Marathon bombing. Upon seeing the interviews with them in the media and hearing that despicable accent again, however, I immediately lost every ounce of compassion as my mind filled with memories of those dreadful souls and the sheer torture I endured living with them. Yes, what happened at the 2013 Boston Marathon was absolutely tragic and I would hope to never see another terrorist attack on American soil ever again. In the very unfortunate event it were to happen, however, one has to wonder if it would be all bad if Boston were blown to smithereens and the ground irradiated so that no one or nothing could ever live there again.

Congratulations Boston – you are the worst city in America!

_______________     

THE FLIPS SIDE – SKANLYN’s Top Ten BEST Cities in America – 10) Virginia Beach, VA; 09) Myrtle Beach, SC; 08) Charleston, SC; 07) Savannah, GA; 06) Dallas, TX; 05) Atlanta, GA; 04) Washington DC; 03) San Antonio, TX; 02) Miami, FL; 01) Chicago, IL

 

SKANLYN’s Top Ten Worst Cities in America

12/03/2013 05:30pm

Having had the opportunity to travel all around this great nation, I’ve gotten the chance to visit a lot of great places. I’ve also gotten the chance to visit a lot of terrible places. Since there’s no fun in writing or reading about the positive, over the next several days I will be counting down the top ten WORST cities in the United States.

 

#3. Harrisburg, PA (click here to read)

 

#2. ST. LOUIS, MISSOURI

If you like being raped, shot, having your car stolen, and having your house burned down then you’ll love St. Louis! If not, then maybe not so much. Exceeding the national average multi-fold with its ridiculously high rates of sexual assaults, gun crimes, auto-theft, and arson, St. Louis is a top contender every year for the title of Most Dangerous City in America. Though long-time rivals Camden, NJ and Detroit have taken the top spot more often, St. Louis still has a respectable number of wins under its belt.

A high crime rate is of course a bad thing for any municipality but it doesn’t necessarily make a city a bad city. People certainly didn’t flee or stop visiting New York and DC back in the 70’s and 80’s and Chicago is still bound to show up near the top of any “Best City” list despite its 500+ homicides over the last year. Hell, even Detroit has enough charm to keep itself off this list. Of course those cities, unlike St. Louis, actually have something other than crime to offer. On the other hand, if you ain’t being robbed, raped, murdered, or carjacked (or some combination thereof), you just ain’t experiencing St. Louis. Crime is literally all they have. Well, there’s also that big stupid piece of bent steel that rises over the skyline as a peculiar monument to western expansion.

Yes, I suppose if I am talking about St. Louis I am obligated to mention the Gateway Arch – the world’s oddest and most impractically shaped observation tower (it’s also perhaps the world’s most unnecessary one, overlooking a city that’s best left unobserved). Many people to whom I’ve spoken were actually surprised to learn that the Arch is not a mere metallic sculpture and that you can actually go inside it. Of course the question is then, why would you want to go inside it? The simple answer is that, other than being the victim of a violent crime, there’s just nothing else to do in St. Louis. And so I paid the ten dollars to take the “tram” ride up to the observatory. This so-called “tram”, as they call it, is actually a series of very claustrophobic pod-like gondolas on a semi-vertical chain that slowly pulls you to the top. One boards with six or so other people making things quite tight (especially so with the thick winter coats everyone was wearing on the frigid October day I visited). With only the most microscopic personal space between passengers and low ceilings that force you to hunch forward, the long, uncomfortable, and noisy ride to the top is torturous to say the least. When the tram finally comes to a stop, you exit to a steep upward staircase (handicapped persons are requested to please go fuck themselves), at the top of which is the very small, very narrow, and very crowded observation deck. On each side is a series of tiny windows projecting downward at a very non-ergonomic angle that makes looking out a window far more strenuous than you could ever imagine it would be. If you care to do so, however, you will see some quite majestic views. To the East is the Mississippi Riviera in all its flowing diarrhea-brown glory, the permanently docked riverboat casinos establishing it as a sort of Monte Carlo for trailer trash. To the West is a spectacular bird’s eye view of the cityscape. On a clear day you can actually see beyond the studio backlot façade of downtown to the real St. Louis – a place of dilapidated houses and plywood-boarded store-fronts, a land where bullets swarm through the air like mosquitoes on a humid summer night and where chalk outlines turn the sidewalks into a virtual portrait gallery memorializing the latest casualties of the ongoing turf war between the Boys of Destruction and the Horseshoe Posse. There is a certain amount of peace you feel while you’re up there though. After all, it is probably the safest place in this war zone of a city even with the wind nearly blowing it over at times, the constant threat of shifting tectonic plates, and the possibility of an unannounced tornado coming along and tearing it to pieces.

Intensely dangerous yet thoroughly unexciting – St. Louis is a land of contradictory extremes. Its climate of brutally hot summers and bitterly cold winters seems only fitting for a city that gives residents and visitors alike the worst of both worlds in every respect.

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SKANLYN’s Top Ten Worst Cities in America

12/02/2013 05:30pm

Having had the opportunity to travel all around this great nation, I’ve gotten the chance to visit a lot of great places. I’ve also gotten the chance to visit a lot of terrible places. Since there’s no fun in writing or reading about the positive, over the next several days I will be counting down the top ten WORST cities in the United States.

 

#4. Hartford, CT (click here to read)

 

#3. HARRISBURG, PENNSYLVANIA

This list pretty much could have been comprised entirely of cities in Pennsylvania, the most dreary, miserable, depressing state in the entire the Union. In the interest of diversity though, I’ve chosen to limit myself to one city in this horrible commonwealth. While the filthy cesspool known as Philadelphia or the poor man’s Detroit (aka Pittsburgh) would have been decent choices for any list of this type, I’ve opted for the state’s wretched capital which I feel best represents the utter despair you feel when you’re in Pennsylvania.  

Death and decay are the words that most prominently come to mind as I look to describe Harrisburg, a city that looks remarkably like the type of post atomic landscape you might see in sci-fi movie. A frozen river covered with polluted grey snow runs through town. Plumes of black smoke continually rise into the air from decrepit old mills and coal plants. A dim sun makes an increasing failing attempt to penetrate the carcinogenic tint around the city. And bitter cold perfectly mimics the effects of nuclear winter. If anyone questions why we must keep nuclear weapons out of the hands of rogue nations, they need only come to Harrisburg for a preview of what it might be like if we don’t. The primitive agrarian communities of the Amish in nearby Dutch country offer a glimpse of what it might be like a millennium or so down the road if society were to find the muster to start over again.

To be fair, I haven’t been to Harrisburg during the spring or summer months but I can’t imagine it’s any less depressing and I suspect that the trees stay bare year round and that the color green is perennially absent from the flat brown grass in this city of living death. 

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SKANLYN’s Top Ten Worst Cities in America

11/26/2013 05:30pm

Having had the opportunity to travel all around this great nation, I’ve gotten the chance to visit a lot of great places. I’ve also gotten the chance to visit a lot of terrible places. Since there’s no fun in writing or reading about the positive, over the next several days I will be counting down the top ten WORST cities in the United States.

 

#5. Montgomery, AL (click here to read)

 

#4. HARTFORD, CONNECTICUT

I recall years ago hearing a radio interview with some new age heretic who claimed to have been given a vision of Hell by an angel of some sort. He described not the fire and brimstone we’ve all come to know but rather a lonely place completely lacking in hope, love, and the presence of God – a land of overwhelming emptiness and despair. In retrospect I can say with confidence that this man describes not Hell. This man describes Hartford, the most depressing city that’s not in Pennsylvania.

Branded as the Insurance Capital of America (way to attract them tourist dollars!), Hartford has a less- than-booming downtown area where you see few, if any, people on the streets. The city blocks, for the most part, are populated only by a collection of architecturally unimpressive office buildings which I can only imagine to be occupied by very unhappy people working dead-end jobs with long hours and low pay. If you’re looking for something to do then you’re shit out of luck. I suppose you could visit the Harriet Beecher Stowe house (if you like that sort of thing) but other than that, being sad is the only other form of recreation you will find in Hartford.

Only three more to go!

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SKANLYN’s Top Ten Worst Cities in America

11/25/2013 05:30pm

Having had the opportunity to travel all around this great nation, I’ve gotten the chance to visit a lot of great places. I’ve also gotten the chance to visit a lot of terrible places. Since there’s no fun in writing or reading about the positive, over the next several days I will be counting down the top ten WORST cities in the United States.

 

#6. Oklahoma City, OK (click here to read)

 

#5. MONTGOMERY, ALABAMA

On the roads and highways in and around Montgomery is a series of signs reading “Keep Alabama Beautiful”. If their capital city is any indication of what the rest of the state is like then it’s a little too late for that.

Montgomery is “The Asylum” of American cities. The Asylum is of course the film studio that makes those really bad sci-fi movies like Mega Shark vs Giant Octopus, 500 MPH Storm, and Sharknado – films so terrible that they’re actually fun to watch. And such is Montgomery, AL – a city so inconceivably awful that it’s actually fun to visit (though you sure as hell wouldn't want to live there). From the cratered streets that are sure to destroy your shocks and struts in as little as five miles to the rows of semi-demolished (and sometimes burned-out) houses to the confederate flags that proudly adorn every front porch and dirty pick-up truck you see to the stench of utter poverty that perfumes the city, Montgomery manages to reflect every stereotype of the deep South with 100% accuracy.

One probably can’t expect too much from a city whose economy is driven by the bail bond industry (or so it would seem from all the billboards around town targeting the recently arrested) so it goes without saying that Montgomery’s city center is clearly not the place of neon lights and places that stay open all night that Petula Clark had in mind when she sang about going downtown. There’s no “music of the traffic” or any “rhythm of a gentle bossa nova”, just silence punctuated by the occasional howl of the wind. I walked several blocks without encountering another living soul. The buildings, sidewalks, paved streets, traffic lights, and power lines all seemed to suggest that people had been there at one time, probably not too long ago, but at some point they all just vanished. It brought to mind an old Twilight Zone episode in which a man and woman awake in an unfamiliar house after a night of heavy drinking. Finding no one at home, they wander outside and find themselves in a deserted town seemingly void of any other human beings though they keep hearing the laugh of an unseen child. At the end of the episode it’s revealed that they’re being kept as pets by a little girl giantess and that they had been wandering around a miniature town built for a model train. While there was no such dramatic revelation for me, just a really boring walk around town, the eerie vacancy of downtown Montgomery thoroughly creeped me out and left me with a strong desire to be around other living things, even if they weren’t human. I thus found my way to the Montgomery City Zoo, a grungy 40 acre wildlife park where the scent of exotic animals and monkey shit fills the air.

Things didn’t go exactly as planned at the Zoo and I didn’t get to see nearly as much of it as I had hoped due to getting there late in the afternoon and an unfortunate train derailment. There was also that loser in front of me at the ticket booth who seemed to take forever counting out enough change to cover admission for him and his white trash family. After finally getting through the gate I got to see a giraffe, a gator, some birds and a parade of really dirty elephants (not sure if that was mud or shit covering them). It was then that I thought it would be a good idea to hop aboard the train for a leisurely ride around the perimeter of the zoo. About half way into the ride there was a terrible noise followed by a thunderous thumping then, I shit you not, the rear two cars came off the fucking track. This set into motion a comedy of errors that began with the nervous lady engineer stopping the train and handing all of us accident forms to fill out followed by a bumbling maintenance man making several failed attempts to lift the derailed cars back onto the track with a bulldozer of all things. Somewhere in there the lightning began to flash as thunder clouds burst open sending heavy rain pouring down on all of us. It was during that violent storm that Maintenance Man Mike finally came to the conclusion that the bulldozer thing wasn’t going to work so he decided to just disconnect the rear to cars and have the passengers who were seated therein find new seats for the ride back to the station. Upon arriving back at the train depot I decided to call it a day in light of my wet clothes and the continuing inclement weather.

Due to the train incident I was unfortunately unable to make it to the Hank Williams Museum as planned. I really had hoped to get my picture taken in the back seat of the death car. That is, the blue 1952 Cadillac in which ol’ Hank died of heart failure while being chauffeured to a gig on New Year’s Day in 1953, proudly on display as part of the museum's permanent collection. Oh well, maybe next time. The day was not entirely a loss though as I did manage to teach that big blue parrot at the zoo to say “motherfucker”. I only wish I could have been there the first time he repeated himself in front of a pack of school children on a field trip.

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SKANLYN’s Top Ten Worst Cities in America

11/22/2013 05:30pm

Having had the opportunity to travel all around this great nation, I’ve gotten the chance to visit a lot of great places. I’ve also gotten the chance to visit a lot of terrible places. Since there’s no fun in writing or reading about the positive, over the next several days I will be counting down the top ten WORST cities in the United States.

 

#7. Wichita, KS (click here to read)

 

#6. OKLAHOMA CITY, OKLAHOMA

With a skyline consisting of one building, it almost seems like an ironic joke that the word “City” would make its way into the name of Oklahoma’s capital. Well okay, there’s actually more than one building but only one is tall enough to be seen from a distance so I’m not counting the others as part of a “skyline”. Either way, if you’re looking for a big city experience, you won’t find it here. On the other hand, if you’re looking for an inner-city experience, da hoodz of OKC rank right up there with some of the best from New York, Los Angeles, and Miami – complete with an active presence from all major street gangs as well as two Mexican drug cartels.

If you’re not looking to score crack or engage in other criminal activity, you’re just unfortunate enough to have to spend some time in Oklahoma City, then the area known as “Bricktown” provides the closest facsimile to the type of entertainment district one might find in a real city (though “closest” is still a few hundred thousand or more miles away). A piss-poor imitation of the San Antonio Riverwalk, Bricktown doesn’t quite capture the charm of its counterpart in the Alamo City. While the Riverwalk stretches for miles along the San Antonio River, celebrating the city’s rich Tejano culture with Mariachi bands, Mexican folk dancers, and hundreds of unique shops and restaurants, Bricktown celebrates OKC’s culture of blandness with bricks (plain red ones) and a handful of unremarkable chain restaurants, all situated along a canal that barely stretches the length of an arena football field. But if you’re bored and hungry, you generally won’t find anything better in this town. That is unless you happen to be there in September when the State Fair is in session. For you more cosmopolitan types, a state fair is where obese people (such as every single resident of Oklahoma City) go to eat chocolate covered bacon and ride the Ferris wheel. There’s also pig judging contests (the animal of the genus sus that is, not a female resident of Oklahoma City), competitive arm wrestling, and live music from people that used to be famous. Regarding the latter,  I walked by a stage where none-other than Eddie Money was performing “Take Me Home Tonight” to a crowd of about fifteen people. Ronnie Spector, who apparently hasn’t fallen on as hard times, was conspicuously absent.

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SKANLYN’s Top Ten Worst Cities in America

11/21/2013 05:30pm

Having had the opportunity to travel all around this great nation, I’ve gotten the chance to visit a lot of great places. I’ve also gotten the chance to visit a lot of terrible places. Since there’s no fun in writing or reading about the positive, over the next several days I will be counting down the top ten WORST cities in the United States.

 

#8. Cincinnati, OH (click here to read)

 

#7. WICHITA, KANSAS

If you’ve never been to Kansas’ largest city, type “Downtown Wichita” into Google Images. Now imagine this – it’s even less exciting than it looks!

Wichita can be summed up in two words: it sucks! There is absolutely nothing to see or do here. A city of nearly 400,000 people yet completely void of any human progress since its founding in 1863, the level of apathy among the residents of this urban vacuum is absolutely baffling. For God’s sake build something people! Hell, give a couple plots of that land back to those natives from whom you stole it so they can build a fucking Casino or something!

I’d go on ranting about all the things I hate about Wichita but there would actually have to be things there for me to hate and a lack of things is precisely what puts Wichita on this list.

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SKANLYN’s Top Ten Worst Cities in America

11/20/2013 05:30pm

Having had the opportunity to travel all around this great nation, I’ve gotten the chance to visit a lot of great places. I’ve also gotten the chance to visit a lot of terrible places. Since there’s no fun in writing or reading about the positive, over the next several days I will be counting down the top ten WORST cities in the United States.

 

#9. San Francisco, CA (click here to read)

 

#8. CINCINNATI, OHIO

When one thinks of Cincinnati, names like Dr. Johnny Fever, Les Nessman (winner of five Buckeye Newshawk awards!), and Venus Flytrap probably come to mind. I know they did for me so I found myself quite choked-up my first day in town when I came upon the Tyler Davis Fountain, featured prominently during the opening credits of the classic television series WKRP in Cincinnati. As I stood there taking it in, a shaggy looking fella stumbled past me, stopped dead in his tracks about five feet in front, and proceeded to vomit onto the plaza.  After seeing a little more of the city I had similar sentiments.

There are a lot of things to dislike about Cincinnati. It’s ugly, unsafe, and the air is poison. Most of all though, it’s boring. When the main selling point of a major American metropolis is its close proximity to Newport, Kentucky, a town of three square miles that boasts an aquarium and a really old post office, you know they’ve got problems. It also doesn’t help tourism efforts when business travelers, such as me, arrive in town a day early to do a little exploring only to find that everything’s closed on Sunday. This included the restaurant in my hotel. I thus found myself wandering downtown for more than an hour looking for someplace that could supply me with sustenance. Fortunately I stumbled upon a charming little bistro called Wendy’s that happened to be open. After enjoying some casual dining, including a unique dessert specialty of theirs called a “Frosty”,  I decided to check out Cincinnati's world famous nightlife, only to find there is none. Well, I did come across a blind hobo on a street corner singing Al Green tunes, if that counts. Having no change on me to deposit into his coffee can, however, I didn’t feel right staying for his full performance so I retired to my hotel room where I turned on the local news and learned about the variety of drive-by shootings, armed robberies, and assorted other crimes that were committed around town earlier in the day.

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 SKANLYN’s Top Ten Worst Cities in America

11/19/2013 05:30pm

Having had the opportunity to travel all around this great nation, I’ve gotten the chance to visit a lot of great places. I’ve also gotten the chance to visit a lot of terrible places. Since there’s no fun in writing or reading about the positive, over the next several days I will be counting down the top ten WORST cities in the United States.

 

#10. Seattle, WA (click here to read)

 

#9. SAN FRANCISCO, CALIFORNIA

Like Seattle, San Francisco is cold and wet though the sun does tend to shine there more often.  That only tends to illuminate the city’s imperfections though.

Known for its mostly harmless population of Asians and homosexuals, there is also a fairly significant thug element in San Francisco that makes you feel generally unsafe. Wander slightly away from Union Square and find yourself lost in a neighborhood known as “The Tenderloin” and you will immediately sense the imminent danger. Filthy hippies and homeless people are also quite abundant throughout the city. While the panhandlers may not be quite as aggressive as say Atlanta (which, unlike San Francisco, has enough positive attributes to outweigh its homeless problem), they certainly bring down any efforts to gentrify this big dirty city that somehow manages to command a ridiculously high cost of living.

As in Borat's country, in San Francisco there is problem and that problem is transport (well one of them anyway). The city's extreme urban density causes quite a traffic nightmare, making commuting to work by car highly impractical for most. Public transportation is therefore of the utmost necessity, a factor heavily exploited by the union representing employees of the BART, the nation’s most unreliable public transit system. Each night, they force the city’s working population to stay up late to find out whether they will be allowing the trains to run in the morning or whether they will again be holding the city for ransom. They make their decision sometime after midnight with many commuters having to hit the road shortly thereafter in order to make it to the office on time (a necessity for those working a non-union job). I’m told that, in addition to a pay increase, more vacation time, and the flexibility for employees to show up at work whenever they feel like it, their latest assortment of unreasonable demands includes a mandate legally compelling all Bay Area McDonald’s to serve Shamrock Shakes year round (Uncle O’Grimacey we implore your tasty mint flavored mercy!).

The transit union of course isn’t the only labor organization to inflict their disruptive shenanigans on the City by the Bay. I was once unfortunate enough to be in town when one of the local hotel unions was striking. I remember disgruntled workers pacing the sidewalk, shouting into megaphones, and beating on empty paint buckets all night, making enough of a racket to disturb me twelve floors above street level. Police stood at the scene keeping a watchful eye and making sure that no patrons had the unreasonable expectation of a good night’s sleep, lest they attempt to enforce the apparently non-existent ordinance against disturbing the peace with their fists. And yet they say the South is ass-backwards! Go figure.

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 SKANLYN’s Top Ten Worst Cities in America

11/18/2013 05:30pm

Having had the opportunity to travel all around this great nation, I’ve gotten the chance to visit a lot of great places. I’ve also gotten the chance to visit a lot of terrible places. Since there’s no fun in writing or reading about the positive, over the next several days I will be counting down the top ten WORST cities in the United States.

 

#10. SEATTLE, WASHINGTON

How can you possibly hate a city that’s got a monorail? Take a trip to Seattle you’ll find out exactly how!

In all fairness Seattle might well be on my list of best cities if it wasn’t for their godawful weather. Yeah, there’s also that thoroughly irritating population of scruffy, infrequently bathed, wool hat and flannel shirt wearing stoners who seem to comprise the wait staff everywhere you dine but they’re easily ignored, unlike the nearly constant drizzle and grey clouds.  Seattle is also fairly chilly year round –  not quite cold enough to freeze your ass off, just cold enough to make you perpetually uncomfortable. In spite of its abhorrent climate, however, there is actually a lot worth seeing and doing there.

Seattle’s most well known attraction is of course the Space Needle. Riding the elevator to the top will set you back twenty bucks but once up there you can step outside onto the circular balcony and look out into the opaque grey mist. At first I questioned who in their right mind thought it would be a good idea to build an observation tower in a place where constant fog and cloud cover limit the visibility to about three feet. After considering the lines of people willing to pay the significantly more than nominal fee to go up there I could only surmise a real genius – that’s who!

Pike’s Place, while not quite as iconic as the Space Needle, more closely represents what I consider to be the essence of Seattle. That is, a feeling of utter “yuck”. If you’ve been there then you know exactly what I mean. Stepping into the marketplace, your clothes wet from the cold rain outside, you immediately and profusely begin to perspire (it’s hot as Hell in there). As the warm sweat from your flesh soaks into your already soggy attire, you find yourself enveloped in a sensation of stickiness and dampness. It is this feeling of “yuck” that I most closely associate with Seattle.

While it does rightfully earn its place on my list, Seattle does have significantly more positive attributes than the other nine cities about which I have written. Aesthetically it’s beautiful – the greenest grass, trees, and other plant life you’ve ever seen, a downtown that is immaculately clean. There’s also a plethora of museums, great restaurants, and nightlife. That’s all eclipsed, however, by the lack of sunlight, a feeling of general malaise that overcomes you and does not go away until you leave, and the air of melancholy that pervades every corner of the city. Combine all that with the previous mentioned “yuck” and it’s no wonder Seattle has the highest suicide rate of any major U.S. city.

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I've all but given up deleting all the SPAM comments I keep getting.  I suppose I should give it time though. I mean they only rolled it out six months ago.

And now I will plug my WordPress blog:

skanlynblog.wordpress.com

Nobody real (other than Crystalline and Ed Lives) seems to be around anymore and every comment I get is like this http://skanlyn.xanga.com/2011/07/25/marijuana-claims-the-life-of-another-celebrity/#comment-1906 .

Damn I love this girl.

http://tinyurl.com/kx9texg

I guess I must be since I seem to be the only one still here.

It's so much easier to use than Xanga 1.0 and now that we've lost 98% of the Xanga community I actually have time to read every single post that shows up in my reader! They really should up the price of a membership. $48/a year is way too cheap for all this awesomeness!

CORRECTIVE LENSES

08/07/2013 05:30pm

So a few weeks ago Boss Billy mentioned he hired somebody new who just started this past Monday. Me and Jimmy finally got to meet him today and all I can say is “Boy! What a loser!” Motherfucker actually comes to work wearing glasses. Can you believe that? And his first week on the job when he should be tryna make a good impression! Nobody likes dudes who wear fucking glasses. I mean it can be kinda sexy with bitches cuz you can cum all over the lenses and stuff but ain’t no excuse for a man to wear glasses unless he’s a fucking faggot or something. Anyway, we saw the goggle-eyed little fruit over there in the copy room this afternoon and went to go introduce ourselves.

“Hey there,” I said, “I’m SKANNY and this is my boi Jimmy.”

“Ah, nice to meet you fellas,” he said all faggoty, “I’m Dale.”

“Dale?!” I said, “That’s kinda a girl’s name ain’t it?”

“Well actually it’s a unisex name. You know like Terry or Dana or Kelly.”

“Unisex?” said Jimmy, “What’s that mean, like you’re one of them transgendervestites or some shit like that?”

“Ah, no, at least not the last time I looked, ha-ha,” he said with a little faggot laugh. Then he goes on to tell us “I’m just your average red-blooded American male.”

“So what’s up with the glasses?” I asked him.

“I’m sorry, what do you mean what’s up with them?”

“Why the fuck you wearing them?” I asked.

“They’re corrective lenses. I have myopia.”

“What the fuck is myopia? That one of them faggot diseases like The Hiv or something?” I asked the four eyed fuck.

“Uh, no. It’s the term for what’s more commonly known as ‘nearsightedness’. I have trouble seeing at a distance. The actual condition is called myopia though.”

“I see. So that’s like the scientific term,” I said.

“Well yes, if you will,” the four eyed fuck said.

“Oh, so you’re a Mr. Science,” said Jimmy.

“Well I don’t know if I’d call myself a Mr. Science but I’ve always found science fascinating. Back when I was in school it was always my favorite class.”

“Got good grades in science I bet, didn’t ya?” I said.

“As a matter of fact I did. Always straight A’s when it came to science,” he said.

“You know, when I went to school the kids who did good in science were usually faggots. Are you a faggot?” I asked him.

“Uh, no. Actually  I’m married to a beautiful wife with two beautiful children.”

“Married, huh? That wife of yours have a dick?” I asked.

“No, I can honestly say she does not.”

“I don’t know about the rest of ‘em around here,” Jimmy told him, “but we’re true-blooded Americans. Red, white, and blue all the way. We believe marriage should be between one man and one woman, not some faggot and a fucked-up freak of nature with titties and a dick.”

“Well my wife is certainly no freak of nature and, I assure you, she has only female reproductive organs.”

“Much to your chagrin I bet, faggot,” I said.

“No, I’m happy with her just the way she is,” said the four eyed faggot.

“Yeah, sure ya is,” said Jimmy, “I bet you wish she had a big monster dick.”

“Yeah,” I concurred with Jimmy, “You like dicks, big monster dicks, dontchya.”

“Um, well I certainly appreciate my own but no, not really into that sort of thing.”

“Do those glasses help you see dicks better?” I asked.

“Well, I suppose if that’s what I was looking at they would.”

“See, I knew it,” said Jimmy, “He’s a faggot.”

“Yeah,” I said then pulled his glasses off his face.

“Hey now, gimme those back,” he said.

“What’s the matter?” I asked, “You got some dicks to suck and you’re afraid you won’t be able to find them without your faggot glasses.”

“Yeah, I bet that’s what it is,” said Jimmy.

I then bent the glasses at the nose part, snapping them in two, and threw them to the floor. “Ooops!” I said.

Jimmy started to laugh, “How ya gonna see them dicks now?” he asked.

“I guess he’ll just have to go around poking his beak everywhere ‘til he finds one to suck on, like a blind bird tryna find a worm,” I said.

“He’s such a faggot,” Jimmy said then we both started punching him in the stomach, face, and balls. Jimmy got him good with a left hook that sent him straight to the floor. We then started kicking him and stomping on him. He was all tryna  protect himself with his arms and legs but having that faggot disease, tapioca or whatever the fuck he called it, he couldn’t see well enough to block our kicks.

“Stop! Stop!” he pleaded.

At that point, Jimmy picked up the laser printer and dropped it right on his fucking head. That motherfucker was out cold after that let me tell ya! There was all blood coming out of his nose and from around his eye and shit. That’s when Boss Billy came over. At first we were like “Aw shit!” cuz we thought we’d be in trouble or something but it was just the opposite.

“Wow! You boys really did a number on this four eyed fuck face!” said Boss Billy.

“Well, you know,” I said, kind of blushing cuz I’m a modest guy.

Jimmy, who ain’t quite so modest, said. “Yeah, we fucked him up good!”

“Great team work guys!”

“Gee thanks,” I said, “When we first saw you coming over here I was thinking we should split cuz you’d be all mad and shit.”

“No, no,” said Boss Billy, “I fucking hate that eyeglasses wearing piece of homo dog shit. I didn’t wanna hire him but my boss made me. Said he was ‘the most qualified guy for the job’. I was like, ‘Yeah but he wears glasses which makes him a faggot and a fucking asshole and probably a kid toucher too’ but he was all like ‘hire him anyway’ so I hadda. Anyway, good work boys and to show you how much I appreciate your efforts, I’m gonna give you each a 50% raise effective tomorrow.”

“Wow! Thanks Boss Billy,” I said.

“Yeah, thank you Sir,” said Jimmy, all tryna kiss his ass by calling him Sir.

“Only thing is,” said Boss Billy, “The laser printer. That might be a problem. Which one of you guys broke that.”

I could see Jimmy was real nervous but he’s an honest guy so he came right out with the truth. “It was me Sir. I did it. Sorry.”

“That’s gonna have to be replaced,” Boss Billy said, “and I am gonna have to deduct the cost from your pay.”

“Man!” said Jimmy.

“But don’t worry,” said Boss Billy, “I’ll just give you a bonus to offset it.”

“Sweet!” said Jimmy.

Just then Gina and Stacy from HR came over and were like “Hey guys!” and we were like “Hey girls!”

“It was soooo sexy watching you beat-up that fucking asshole with the glasses. He's such a faggot,” said Gina.

“Yeah, it got me so wet watching it,” said Stacy. She then pulled up her skirt to show us her white panties which were so soaked you could see right through them, her crease and everything.

“You know boys,” said Gina, “I live just around the corner. How ‘bout at lunchtime we head over to my place so we can suck your dicks and let you fuck us in our pussies and stuff.”

“Sounds like a plan,” I said.

“You be good to these guys,” said Boss Billy, “And hell, why wait until lunch? I’m giving you all the rest of the day off so you can suck and fuck all day long!”

And that’s exactly what we did! It was the bestest day ever!

 

 

SEE Y’ALL AT WORDPRESS

07/28/2013 02:30pm

As I suspected, it doesn’t look like Xanga is going to raise the $60,000 necessary to continue its existence. About that I am sad. While others have used their blogs over the years to complain about how much Xanga, its technology, and its staff sucks, I genuinely liked it and, in its current form, I still feel it’s the best blogging site out there. I thus made a pledge despite knowing the futility of the gesture and knowing that even if Xanga raised the necessary funds it probably would not be able to continue for very much longer. The fact is that I am part of a small minority and there are simply not enough people out there that care enough about this place to ensure its longevity. If there were it would not be in this situation right now.

And so henceforward I will blog at skanlynblog.wordpress.com. I’ve been looking to change the direction of my blog for a while now and this may be my opportunity to shake off that “troll” reputation I developed here. I have always thought that an unfair label. Surely the quality of my literary performance art is more significant than the actions of a so-called “troll”. I have also written a lot of legitimate posts and made a fair amount of legitimate comments though, at times, I admittedly let myself become pre-occupied with the angry obsession many Xangans have with what other people think and their inability to reconcile its inconsistency with their own beliefs. I’ve thus spent a lot of time fucking with those passionate-to-the-point-of-idiocy conservatives, liberals, Christians, and atheists (I’ve always done my best to be an equal opportunity offender). As fun as that was, however, it’s not what I’m all about and I’d rather my blog be represented by "A Bedtime Story" or the trilogy of posts I wrote called “My Wonder Years” or that hilarious horror movie satire I wrote a few years ago or my rebuke of Willy Wonka. Going forward I hope to write more posts of that nature and wordpress.com may be a more suitable platform to do just that.

Farewell Xanga. I'm sorry you had to go.

 

skanlynblog.wordpress.com

 

 

The Unnecessary Elevator Passenger

05/05/2013 09:00pm

If you have spent any time in the corporate world you know that people here sure do love meetings. I’m not sure if it’s loneliness or laziness or simply an ego-centric desire to have an audience. Either way, I find they are rarely necessary and that emailing a PowerPoint deck to a group of people and asking for their thoughts would generally be a much more efficient way to go about things. Nonetheless they are a fact of life and sooner or later all corporate hacks recognize that, if they are to get anything done during their official working hours, they need to block off a certain amount of time each day, lest they end up with eight to nine straight hours of back-to-back meeting. Taking it a step further, when a meeting shows up on my Outlook calendar, I’ve learned to block off the half hour before and after it. This guarantees that I’ll have at least a half hour free between meetings to make a yellow deposit, grab a cup of coffee (if necessary), and get to my next meeting on time, even if my last meeting runs overtime. Well, usually anyway.

It’s Thursday afternoon and I’m sitting in the large conference room on the 7^th floor of the West Monroe building for my one o’clock with the Customer Loyalty and Retention group.  As usual they are pitching their latest harebrained idea for keeping our customers from going to the competition. It's twelve minutes over the allotted hour and there is no sign this shit is gonna come to an end anytime soon. This concerns me greatly as my bladder is a good 20-30% over capacity. I actually haven’t heard a thing they've said over the last half hour as I've been too busy concentrating on not pissing my pants. Not that I haven’t heard it all before. Invariably these pitches all involve some bullshit VIP program for our “elite” customers which is really nothing more than a clever ploy to get them to opt-in to having us spam their email, send pounds of junkmail to their home, and call them at dinner time to ask if they would take a few moments to participate in a “short survey” (these “short” surveys take an average of twenty three minutes but I guess “few” and “short” are fairly subjective terms). As I look at the clock I’m starting to get really concerned that I won’t be able to make it to the bathroom before my two thirty with Media Relations which is over on the other side of the river at the South Wacker building. I’m not exactly sure what that one is about but I imagine it’s just as unnecessary as this one and probably as predictable. Invariably meetings with Media Relations involve listening to their latest harebrained idea for turning the good work our Community Services division is doing into an opportunity for free advertising, thus negating any shred altruism this firm may exhibit and completely destroying our credibility as a company that “gives back”. But I digress.

At 2:19 the meeting finally comes to an end and I head straight for the Men’s Room. Standing in front of the urinal, my bladder seconds from exploding like a water balloon, I reach into my pants and pull my entire package out just as my high pressure stream begins to pour forward.  By the time it occurs to me that my sac is resting very uncomfortably on the teeth of my zipper it's too late to fix it and all I can do is wait until I'm empty. 

At 2:23 I step out of the elevator and into the lobby, run for the door and start heading down West Monroe towards South Franklin. By the time I get to the Monroe Street Bridge I’m sweating which is causing my balls to sting rather badly on account of the shallow punctures in my scrotum  from my zipper teeth. I persevere though and by 2:26 I’m  stepping into the West Wacker building. I manage to get an elevator all to myself. What luck! I hit the button and the elevator launches towards the thirty ninth floor.  It’s 2:27 and I anxiously watch the floor numbers flip away on the display panel – 5, 6, 7, 10, 14, 16. Suddenly the elevator begins to slow then stops on 19. What the fuck?! The door opens and in steps a portly fellow with no jacket, a loose tie, crooked glasses, and a partially untucked shirt. He extends his finger towards the button for his desired floor. Which one does he hit you ask? To what floor could this disheveled, sloppily dressed chap be going, your inquiring mind wants to know? Thirty? Forty? Fifty maybe? Oh hell no! This lazy, inconsiderate, good for nothing piece of dog shit is going to .  .  .  are you ready for this???  He's going to TWENTY!!! He hits the button for the twentieth floor! Can you believe that? This motherfucker actually has the audacity to tie up an elevator in a fifty one story building full of busy people to go one floor! That's like twelve steps! This slothful sonovabitch couldn’t walk twelve fucking steps! Un-fucking-believable!!! Now I’ve seen this shit happen before and I’ve always just let it go but not this time! I follow him as he steps out on twenty.

“Um, excuse me,” I say politely and he turns around.

“Yeah?”

“I couldn’t help but notice that you got on at the 19^th floor.”

“Okay,” he says, seemingly confused by why I would mention this.

“You do know this the twentieth floor, right?”

“Yeah, I know.  I hit the button for it because that’s where I wanted to go.”

“I see. I see,” I say, “Wait long for the elevator?”.

“No, not too long, couple minutes. Two, maybe three.”

“Two or three minutes? Hmmm. You know there’s a staircase right over there.  I’ve got to think it would have taken you less than three minutes to walk from the 19^th to the twentieth floor. Probably less than a minute. Forty, forty-five seconds maybe.”

“Meh, you know. I’d rather just wait for the elevator. I wasn’t in any rush”

“Glad to hear that,” I say, “ I don’t know about you but I really hate rushing.”

“Yeah, tell me about it.”

“But forty five seconds is a lot less than three minutes.”

“I don’t know if I would call it ‘a lot’.”

“Oh no, it is,” I insist, “Four hundred percent less in fact. You would have gotten up here four hundred percent faster by taking the stairs. That’s definitely a lot.”

“Okay,” he says perplexedly.

“And you’ve got to admit that more faster is more better.”

“No, I don’t think so.”

“No, trust me,” I say, “Faster is always better.”

“You really should stop thinking that way or you’re gonna get yourself all stressed out. Slow it down. Enjoy the ride. That’s what I say.”

Not quite ready to unleash on him yet, I refrain from addressing his fucking asshole wisdom (as well as from punching him in his stupid mongoloid face) and instead ask, “So what exactly has brought you up here to the twentieth floor?”

 “I just came up to see a buddy of mine”

“Oh, came up to see a buddy of yours. I see.”

“Yeah. His name’s Bill Michaels. You’d like him. He’s actually a lot like you, always wanting to get places in a hurry. I always tell him, ‘Bill you got to slow down and enjoy the ride’, kinda like I just told you. I remember this one time  .  .   .”

I cut him off, “I can say with confidence that I would not like your friend Bill Michaels.”

“Of course you would.”

“Nope. I wouldn’t.”

“How do you know? I mean, you’ve never met him. Or maybe you have, you do work here. But then again you would like him if you did. He’s a really great guy. A real give-you-the-shirt-off-his-back type guy. I remember this one time   .  .   .’

I cut him off again, “No, trust me, I wouldn't like him..”

“I think you would.”

“No, I’m pretty confident that I would hate him. Hate his guts in fact. And I can say that with 100% certainty without even meeting him.”

“Well that’s not nice, judging somebody you’ve never even met.”

“That’s just the kind of person I am. I tells it like it is.”

“Well you can’t really tell it like it is if you don’t actually know how it is ‘cause you’ve never met him.”

“No, I can, believe me. It’s a gift I have. From God.”

“Well I find it hard to believe God would give any gift that has to do with hating people. ‘specially people you’ve never even met. That seems more like a gift from the Devil."

“Tomato, tomahto.”

“Huh?”

“Exactly,” I say, “So, anyway, what exactly did you come up here to see this ‘buddy’ about? Got a meeting? You two on a project team together or something.”

“No, I was just sick of working so I decided to come up here and shoot the shit with him.”

“I see. Just came up to shoot the shit.  Well we all need a break every now and then don’t we?”

“That’s for sure."

 “Well, at least it wasn’t anything you had to rush to.”

“Yeah.”

“Unfortunately I was, actually I am,  in a bit of a rush. You see I have a very important meeting I need to get to and a very short window of time to get to it so I kind of got a bit miffed when halfway through my ride to the 39^th floor the elevator came to an abrupt stop so you could jump in and ride it up one floor.”

“I can see how that might stress you out,” he empathizes, “Sort of like when you run into a traffic jam on the way to work.”

“Exactly.”

“But you really should have left a bit earlier. Just saying.”

“Actually I couldn’t,” I tell him, “ I had back-to-back meetings and my last one was all the way over on West Monroe.”

“You should try blocking off the half hour before and after a meeting on your calendar. It’s a little trick I’ve learned. That way you don’t ever have to worry about getting to a meeting late, even if it’s in another building or your last one runs overtime. ”

“Why thank you Jimmy Neutron!” I say, attempting to conjure the spirit of Samuel L. Jackson. “What an incredibly brilliant and thoroughly innovative idea!”

“Well actually I think most people probably do that so I really can’t take credit. It’s just sorta something you learn over time from experience.  ”

“I was being sarcastic you dumb sonovabitch.”

“Hey, no need for name calling.”

“No, sorry, or course not. Thank you for your tip. I’ll have to remember that from now on.  Now here’s a tip for you, if you’re only going up or down one floor then take the goddamn stairs! Hell, if you’re going up or down ten floors take the stairs! You look like you could use the exercise.”

“Now just what’s that supposed to mean? Are you calling me fat?”

“No, I'm not calling you fat. I’m just saying that your belt is supposed to buckle over your waist not your pubis so you should probably either buy a bigger belt or start taking the stairs more often!”

“Hey now, you're exactly skinny yourself.”

“Well grant it I'm no Shelley Duvall but let's face it, if we were mistaken for Laurel & Hardy I’m the one they would more likely be calling Laurel."

“Laurie who?”

“Exactly,” I reply.

“So what time is this meeting of yours?”  he asks.

“Two thirty," I say.

He looks at his cheap digital watch and says “It’s two thirty nine. Wow, you’re pretty late.”

“No thanks to your fat lazy ass using the elevator to go one floor!”

“Well if you hadn’t gotten off here to harass and berate me you’d already be there by now.”

“I still would’ve been late. Because of you!”

“You would have been a couple of minutes late and you know that meetings always start a few minutes late. Not nine minutes late though. Actually now it’s ten minutes and at best it’ll probably take another three to four minutes to get there so that’s at least thirteen minutes. They usually start meetings a little bit late but definitely not thirteen minutes late. That’s a lot. You’re gonna be really late for this one. Just sayin’.”

“Go shoot the shit with your pal,” I say then turn to push the button for the elevator.  "Then eat it and die you fat fuck!” I turn back to instruct him.

By the time I get to the conference room I’m sixteen minutes late. Arthur Hewitt, 1st Vice President and Director of Media Relations looks up at me as I attempt to slip in quietly. From his face I can tell I’m in for a rationing of shit when this is over. He’s a real dick about these sorts of things. He’s pretty much a dick in general. You would think someone in his position would be highly charismatic and outgoing. Not so. Hewitt is all business, no personality, and everything he says comes across as some sort of passive aggressive attack on your professionalism. Sometimes he ain’t so passive, like the first time I met with him and he called my boss afterwards to tell him I was in violation of the dress code. I was wearing white socks with a suit, as was my personal style back then. I was subsequently told to discontinue the practice if I wanted to remain employed here. So much for expressing individuality.

Anyway, there are no seats at the table so I take one of the chairs lined up against the door side of the wall. As I sit down I notice Jen Resnick sitting not too far away. Her chair is pushed back slightly from the table, her legs crossed and out from under it. She catches me scanning her wonderful calves and thighs and rolls her eyes before adjusting her posture and rolling herself towards the table, leaving only the back of her chair within my gaze. I suddenly find myself sympathizing with Marvin Martian and his plight, wanting to blow up the Earth on account of it obstructing his view of Venus and all.

When the meeting comes to an end and we begin filing out, Jen turns to me and says “You’re a pig, you know that?”

I want to respond with something witty and charming and just slightly fresh but I can think of no such thing so I just say “But I’ve got a good heart.” She half-smiles and looks like she’s about to say something when I hear Hewitt calling my name. My wounded balls begin to sting again.

“I expect punctuality,” he tells me, “I consider my time a precious commodity and I demand it be respected as such.”

“Sorry Sir, my last meeting ran over time and it was all the way over at the West Monroe building,” I say, reflecting on the irony that “Sir” is considered a term of respect yet I only seem to use it to address people I think are dickheads.

“A little trick SKANLYN,” he says, “Block off the half hour before and after a meeting. Then you’ll never be late for your next meeting.”

I decline to conjure Samuel L. Jackson's spirit or call him Jimmy Neutron and just tell him that “I will definitely do that from now on.”

“Be sure that you do,” he says.

 

Mr. McLaughlin                   

02/25/2013  08:00pm

As I believe I’ve mentioned before, I was quite the cowering mess of a child. The word for kids like me back then was “faggot” (that was back in the days when it meant “shy and timid” rather than dudes who like penises instead of vaginas).  While I pretty much feared everyone, I had a particular aversion to authority figures. Parents (mine and my friends), teachers, bus drivers, policemen, and even doctors all scared the piss out of me. It was therefore either shit luck or our Lord’s oft-referenced sense of humor that I should be born to parents who lived in a part of town that would have me attending Brookville Elementary School.

Serving the community’s school children from grades one to six, Brookville was presided over by a bona fide psychopath named William B. McLaughlin. I’m not sure what Mr. McLaughlin’s story was. Perhaps he was bullied in school as a child and, determined to get “his turn”, aspired to become a Principal so that he could bully the kids of those who bullied him. Or perhaps he just saw our generation as a bunch of undisciplined queers who needed to be whipped into shape if we were ever going to beat the Ruskies (I can just imagine what he would think of the current generation of emos, goths, and metrosexual pseudo males). Either way, there clearly should have been a law on the books to prevent a lunatic like him from having any regular interaction with children.

At Mr. McLaughlin’s insistence, lunches were silent at Brookville. During the half hour period, you were expected to eat, drink, and shut-the-fuck-up. To enforce this, he patrolled the cafeteria holding, in his right hand, a stack of yardsticks bound together with a series rubber bands. He would slap this homemade lashing stick against his left palm as he walked around giving us the evil eye. Every now and then he would stop at a table where he suspected the children were conspiring to make unauthorized use of their vocal chords. As a warning shot of sorts he would slam his stick down on the tabletop, a thoroughly frightening gesture to a scared little boy such as me. At each table where he did this he would arbitrarily pick a few unlucky students and swat them across their back or on top of their shoulder. Admittedly it wasn’t a hard whack but it made his point clear – step out of line and you will surely be sorry.

Despite the threat of verbal and physical violence, kids (as we all know) are quite incorrigible and, inevitably during each lunch period, a whisper or two would permeate the silent cafeteria. This would prompt Mr. McLaughlin to most forcefully blow the capacity of his lungs into his referee’s whistle then shout “Oooo-kay get those hands up, your mouths are closed!” Once he got everyone’s full attention he would proceed to scream and rant and threaten us with the horrors that awaited at “two-fawty-five” (the term by which he would refer to detention). Even so, a defiant student would every now and then take a stand and refuse to put his hand up when the whistle was blown. This was a decision to be regretted as Mr. McLaughlin would promptly take the child across his knee in front of the whole school and beat his ass raw until he cried like a little baby.

Of course one’s sin need not have necessarily risen to that level of insubordination to have been met with such punishment. A mere accident or error in judgment could have just as easily resulted in you leaving school that day with a black and blue tattoo of Mr. McLaughlin’s hand across your tender young rump, as my second grade classmate David Rosenberg found out when he spilled his juice. Within seconds of the unfortunate incident, Mr. McLaughlin was lifting young David from his seat and frenziedly beating his ass for all to witness. Tears poured down the boy’s face as he screamed and begged for mercy. He got none. I had been sitting right beside David when the whole thing went down and was traumatized for life, my fear of Mr. McLaughlin (and authority figures in general) taken to whole new heights.

The David Incident was by no means a rare occurrence. I watched dozens of school boys suffer the same fate. While I never saw Mr. McLaughlin put his hands on a girl, his magnanimity towards the weaker sex appeared to be just as negligible. I specifically recall the day he walked into the school library and caught little Jordana McCreary smiling. If there was one thing that enraged Mr. McLaughlin it was the smile of a child. Singling  her out from a across the room he pointed at her and shouted, “You, Smiley, yes you,  get up against the wall!” Seemingly in shock she did so without emotion.  That changed once he began his tirade. “Don’t you look at me!” he said, “Turn that smiling face around and face the wall!” At that point she was actually no longer smiling. She did as he said and although I couldn’t see her face, I was pretty sure from the shaking of her head and neck that she was crying. “Just where do you think you are?!” he demanded to know. “Where?! Tell me where you think you are! Oh? Not gonna answer me?! No? Hey! I asked you a question little girl!” He then launched into a raging dissertation on how school was for learning not for smiling or giggling or expressing any sort if happiness. By the end of it Jordana was clearly sobbing. “What’s the matter Smiley?! Are you gonna go home and tell your daddy?!” he asked her,  “You do that! Tell your daddy! Tell him to come see Mr. McLaughlin!” he dared her.

Through the whole outburst, Mrs. Smitherman, the librarian, didn’t dare intervene or shoosh him in accordance with the library’s quiet policy. It was a wise decision on her part. Mr. McLaughlin had as little tolerance for the trespasses of his faculty as he did for those of his pupils and he was unreluctant to castigate them in full view of the student body. On more than one occasion I witnessed him pull a teacher out of class for a verbal lashing. He strategically did so right in front of the door so we could all watch through the plexiglass window. While his exact words may have been muffled by the door and wall, it was clear from his facial expressions, the volume of his voice, and the extension of his finger towards her face that he was not congratulating her for a job well done.

The days were long and stress-filled at Brookville but eventually the clock would circle ‘round to 2:30 and they would come to an end. As with lunchtime, Mr. McLaughlin expected us to remain silent during the bus ride home. Before he would allow the buses to leave the school yard, he would climb aboard each one, blow his whistle, yell at us about our alleged plans to speak to one another, and command us to place our index fingers vertically over our lips and keep them there until we were delivered to our respective bus stops. While the other kids would remove their fingers and commence acting like kids as soon as we were a block or two from Brookville, I kept my finger firmly attached to my lips, sensing Mr. McLaughlin would somehow know if I did not. I was fully convinced he was omnipresent, lurking invisibly, waiting to take corrective action for any transgressions I might commit outside of school. At home I would sometimes have visions of his angry, disembodied head hovering outside my bedroom window, looking in,  blowing his whistle, yelling his various catchphrases at me -  “ooookay get those hands up, your mouths are closed ”, “last one over two-fawty-five”, “make it schnappy”, “are you gonna go home and tell your mommy”, “two-fawty-five, two-fawty-five, two-fawty-five  .   .   .”.

As scared as I was of Mr. McLaughlin, I never personally endured his discipline myself. In fact, he actually seemed to take a liking to me early on. I remember him tapping me on the shoulder one day during an indoor recess and saying, “Come with me son.” He brought me to his office and closed the door behind him then proceeded to ask me a few questions that I can’t remember.  What I do remember is him opening one of his desk drawers and retrieving a zip lock bag filled with carrots and celery sticks. He removed a carrot and held it out to me. I reached and he pulled it back. “What do you say?” he asked.

“Thank you Mr. McLaughlin?” I said, unsure of myself. He then handed me the carrot, this time for real.

While it didn’t faze me at the time, that experience seems incredibly creepy to me now. I don’t remember him trying to molest me or anything but when the school principal takes you behind closed doors to feed you raw, phallic-shaped vegetables it does, in retrospect, seem like the prelude to an ass-fucking. If Mr. McLaughlin liked ‘em young though, I tend to think that Becky Montgomery was more his type. Despite being the miserable bastard he was, his face did seem to light up whenever he saw her around school. “Ree-beccah of Sunny Brook Farm”, he would call out to her, a perverse glow upon his face. I almost don’t blame him, callipygous young tart that she was. She may have been but a girl but Becky Montgomery definitely had a woman’s ass. Not that it would have justified him tapping it or anything but that shit was fucking unreal. It caught my attention long before I could even relate why or correlate it with the sudden tightness in my pants. But I digress.

Mr. McLaughlin was a monster whose existence thoroughly terrified me as a child. Even after I left Brookville he continued to exert a frightening influence on my fragile psyche. For many years my hope was that he would meet his demise after getting transferred to an inner city high school. I imagined him blowing his whistle at a cafeteria full of teenage thugs, shouting at them to get their hands up and keep their mouths closed, threatening to two-fawty-five them, then getting his stupid ass shot dead right where he stood. Unfortunately that never happened and the most for which I could hope was for him to die a lonely, angry old man despised by his wife, disowned by his kids, and generally hated by everybody who had ever known him. Apparently that never happened either. About ten years ago my mother, who works for the school department, had mentioned that she was going to his retirement party. When I asked how she could, in good conscience, go to a party for that evil sonovabitch her response was, “Well he was always nice to me.”

 

PREVIOUS EPISODE:

The Original Karate Kid

 

 

Lactose Intolerance              

02/02/2013  04:15pm

I first heard about breast feeding from some of the bad kids in school when I was in first or second grade. At that age I actually thought the concept of sucking on a breast for milk was quite funny. I didn’t know any better. Upon getting home from school I immediately asked, “Mommy, did you breast feed me?” I’ll never forget the look of rage and utter disgust on my mother's face that day as she demanded to know where I learned about such a thing.

“Women who .  .  .  only the most  .  .  .,” she stammered, “  .   .   .any woman who would  .  .   . who would do such a thing is a filthy, disgusting, sl- sl- slut!” she exclaimed.

My mother, you see, was from the cutoff generation. That is, the time just before women began to lose their morals. These days things like morals are a long forgotten concept. At one time having a child orally stimulate a highly sensitive erogenous zone was considered sexual abuse. These days it’s actually encouraged by the medical community. Forget about the formula they sell at the grocery store, they say. Instead engage in an act of foreplay with your infant, they instruct mothers. It’s “healthier” for the child they proclaim.  Is it any wonder that the age at which kids are becoming sexually active is getting lower and lower? Or that every girl these days is proudly “bisexual”? Or that female school teachers routinely have sex with their much younger male students?

The erosion of our nation’s Christian values is sickening – from the repeal of state sodomy laws to the legalization of gay marriage, to the proliferation of internet pornography. At the center of it all is the conditioning of our society to sexual immorality beginning in childhood with breast feeding. To all the women out there, I implore you to reject this despicable, sinful practice. If your mind has been so warped that you need to ask why then look around you at the women who did it or do it – filthy whores, all of them, vaginas oozing with gonorrhea, syphilis, and AIDS, their children doomed to grow up as godless and wicked as them. Just say no. A woman who breast feeds is lower than even a single mother.

Pursuing Post Election Justice

11/07/2012  10:15pm

We can all breathe a sigh of relief knowing that good prevailed over evil Tuesday night when Mitt Romney lost the Presidential Election to Barack H. Obama. Perhaps the most evil prospect to lead a nation since George W. Bush, Romney put forth a nightmarish vision for America that was an all out war on women, minorities, homosexuals, and the poor. A lifelong member of the Ku Klux Klan who once called the Emancipation Proclamation the single greatest evil in American History, Romney pledged to abolish the Martin Luther King Jr. Holiday. As a supreme elitist with little empathy for those not fortunate enough to become  billionaires by bankrupting companies as he did, he advocated genocide of the poor and working class by denying them access to life saving medicines and treatments. He also supported a ban on drugs used to treat AIDS in patients of all socioeconomic classes unless they could prove themselves heterosexual beyond a reasonable doubt. To his constituency of misogynist Christian psychopaths, he sought not only to legalize rape but to force rape victims, if impregnated, to carry their rapists' babies to term while receiving no child support, despite the generous tax credits his plan would have awarded to rapists. His platform was wicked enough to have been drafted by the Devil himself.

Now that our leadership is secure in the hands of Barack Obama, I call on our Justice Department to take swift action against the Mormon ex-Governor for the numerous crimes he committed on the campaign trail. Among them:

• His menacing body language and disrespectful criticisms during the second debate

• His perjurious statements during all three debates

• His failure to concede the election until late into the night, demonstrative of an aborted attempt to overthrow the government and warranting a conspiracy charge

• His attempt to commit voter fraud by purchasing the firm that supplies voting machines to several key districts; though also a botched undertaking, this surely also warrants a conspiracy charge

• His opposition to numerous policies our President initiated for the good of the country which can be called nothing short of treason

And the list goes on and on.

With the election over, the time has come to seek justice. This was far too close a call with disaster to go unanswered. We need to send a message to future Republican candidates that we won’t accept their assault on our values and way of life and if they wish to challenge our Commander in Chief and his party, their actions will not go unpunished. Let us prosecute Mitt Romney to the fullest extent of the Law and see to it that he spends the 2016 election season behind bars.

THE ORIGINAL KARATE KID

11/01/2012  09:00pm

A lot of people assume I was born this way. That is, the über cool, alpha male, Arthur Fonzarelli-type that every guy wants to be and every woman wants. Not so. In my youth I was actually a frightened, weak, thoroughly pathetic little boy. I cowered at my own shadow and even more at actual people. I lacked the ability to communicate without a red face and a quivering voice. Girls castrated me with their mere existence. I didn’t know how to dress, how to act, how to not cry when the lights went out during a storm. I was also fat. Somehow I ended up with a small group of friends, though I think they may have been even bigger losers than me. I mean why else would they allow themselves to be seen in public with such a pitiful excuse for a human being?

Yes, I was a deplorable little bitch who genuinely deserved get beaten black and blue by his peers every day of the week. In fact, these days I often find myself fantasizing about building a time machine to transport me back to 1983 so I can kick my own ass. My old man apparently had similar sentiments back in the day. Perhaps he wasn’t committed enough to put aside his weekend project of building a tool shed to decode quantum mechanics and construct a device capable of drilling a hole through the fabric of time or anything like that but, when he signed me up for karate lessons, the message was clear. Specifically, that I was a disgraceful little faggot and, were he back in school as a classmate of mine, he’d be bloodying his fists daily with the residue of my despicable face. As my father, however, he had a certain paternal obligation to do what he could to prevent my classmates from doing that to me (justified as they may have been). And so he enrolled me at Frankie Testerossa’s Studio of Self Defense.

I was in fifth grade then and, believe it or not, there were no bullies picking on me at school. That’s where the irony of this story kicks-in. You see, at Frankie T’s, the kids didn’t get to take their lessons in the main studio with the actual instructors. Their classes occurred in a backroom where they were taught the foot-fist way by “student instructors” – sadistic teenage bastards between sixteen and eighteen years old with green and brown belts and an insatiable urge to inflict pain on children. Thus my well meaning daddy, in an attempt to protect me from bullies where there were no bullies, hand delivered me to where the bullies were. And these weren't just your typical bullies. These bullies were older, bigger, and highly proficient in the martial arts. Thanks Dad!

Of all the student instructors I had the pleasure of training under at Frankie Testerossa’s Studio of Self Defense, the most memorable was Isaiah – a skinny but fierce African American boy with a small head and an angry face. A most zealous sensei with little sympathy and a pronounced hatred for the ancestors of those who enslaved his ancestors, there was no “wax on, wax off” bullshit with Isaiah. His lessons were conveyed through pure agonizing violence. “BAM!” he would shout each time his fist or foot pummeled a new contusion into my delicate white boy flesh.

I took my fair share of thrashings from Isaiah. During my tenure at the dojo I absorbed kicks to the side and groin, hammers to the head, and various chops to the limbs. He once even beat me with a billy club  (a sort of pre-emptive revenge for the Rodney King incident). It was part of a demonstration on how to ward off an attack. He was fond of those types of demonstrations. Generally they would start with him showing us a countermove for a specific type of assault.  He would then pick one lucky student (often me) to play the victim while he assumed the role of attacker. When the pupil would attempt to execute the countermove he just showed us, Isaiah would counter the countermove with another move he had not yet shown us. Generally this would end with the student (often me) flying through the air and landing face first on the carpet. It was thin carpet. The floor underneath was concrete, as I recall.

I did a lot of crying during class, pussy that I was. For the most part though, I was able to dry my tears by the time my mom came to pick me up. One time, however, I took a rather painful kick to the face that tore my upper lip and gum, causing my mouth to swell and bleed and leaving a mist in my eyes that just wouldn't dry.

“What happened?” my mom asked with a concerned look as I got into the car, trying my best to avoid looking in her direction.

“I fell all right!” I said defensively, remembering the words of one of the other student instructors, a Jheri curled teen with a Jamaican accent.

“What would yer madda tink ef she saw yuh crying lacka a little gal instead of figh-tin lacka mon?” he had asked me rhetorically.

I stayed at Frankie T’s for about a year, eventually attaining the proud rank of a yellow belt. Shortly thereafter I convinced my parents that becoming a Kung Fu master was not my destiny and they let me quit at the end of the billing cycle. While I no longer had to deal with Isaiah and company, the kids at school soon discovered how fun it was to tease, abuse, and batter me. I may have been in for rough times were it not for my experience at Frankie T’s. Compared to what I endured there, the beatings I suffered at the not-registered-as-a-deadly-weapon hands of my schoolmates seemed almost luxurious.

While I may not have stuck with it long enough to become a contender on the tournament circuit, my schooling in the martial arts left a profound mark on me that remains to this day. Thank you Frankie Testerossa for the brief but significant role you played in my development as a person. Rest in peace you fucking asshole.

PREVIOUS EPISODE:

The Curse of Adam Walsh

Enjoy da Music 

09/02/2012  10:00pm

I like to whistle. What can I say? I do it all day, every day! If you’re nearby I hope you enjoy listening to it cuz if I’m around you’re gonna be hearing it! It don’t matter where I am -  on the train, in the supermarket, at work. Hell, I even do it at the library and in movie theatres during the feature presentation. I don’t give a fuck! Anybody who don’t like it can go fuck themselves!

Anyway, I’ve always prided myself on my diverse musical tastes and I tend to reflect that in my whistling. Sometimes I’ll whistle a straight tune. Other times I’ll sustain one constant note, like a fucking tea kettle. Then there are times when I chirp like a bird. At other times I get all avant-fucking-garde, whistling up a series of arbitrary notes all around the musical fucking scale.

For the most part, people enjoy my whistling – love it really. I mean who wouldn’t? Every now and then though I do come across a fucking asshole or two who wants to rain on everybody’s parade and shut down my beautiful fucking serenade – like the other day at work. I’m sitting at my desk, minding my own business, cruising ‘round the net while whistling my favorite tunes from the Air Supply catalog. Next thing you know Donny Dickface comes over and, in his lispy homo voice, is all like “Um, ‘scuse me but do you think you can maybe not whistle?” I nearly lost my shit! But I’m a professional.

“Oh, am I bothering you?” I asked the dick wad.

“Well actually, yes. You see, I’m trying to write this RFP response but it’s really difficult to concentrate with your constant whistling.”

“I’m sorry to hear that,” I sympathized, “but whistling helps me to relax so if it bothers you I guess you’re gonna have to learn to ignore it.”

The fucker then got all belligerent on me.  He was like “I’ve tried my best but I’m afraid I just can’t ignore it. I have something really important that I have to get done within the next two hours but I can’t seem to make any progress when I have to listen to you blowing ‘I’m All Out of Love’ out of your lips in a piercing high pitched tweet.”

“Actually, that was ‘Even the Nights are Better’ not ‘I’m All Out of Love’.” That shithead knows nothing about classic rock!

“Whatever! I don’t wanna listen to it while I’m trying to work! How would you like it if I brought my trumpet in and went all Dizzy Gillespie in your ears when you were trying to get something done?”

“I ain’t playing no trumpet,” I said, “I’m just whistling.”

“Either way, can you stop, please?!”

“No, I ain’t gonna stop! This is a free country faggot. If I wanna whistle cuz it helps me relax at work then I’m sure as fuck gonna whistle.”

He was being a real douche. Even that old hag Bertha Chestnut thought so and hobbled to my defense. “Don’t you listen to that jerk,” she said, “You have a lovely whistle.”

Ah, sweet Bertha Chestnut. Nobody quite knows what the fuck she does around here but she’s been with the company since like 1947. “I’m computer illiterate and I plan to stay that way,” she’s fond of saying.

“That’s the trouble nowadays,” Bertha continued, “people don’t whistle any more. When I was younger, everybody whistled! Back then we couldn’t afford those fancy phonograph machines that all the kids have these days so if you wanted music when you was doin' the Charleston you would have to make it yourself by whistling.”

I’m not exactly sure what the fuck the Charleston is but I always hear old people talk about it. I think it might be what they used to do for fun before they invented fucking. Anyway, Bertha and I started a lengthy conversation about how much better things would be if more people whistled. I told her about this article I read about a school teacher in Atlanta who got her students to start whistling in class and all around the school. It was an experiment based on some study they did in England that showed how whistling makes you more focused. Those tooting fucks actually improved their test scores by like 300%! Maybe if queer boy here actually listened to what I was saying he could have learned something that might have helped him get that RFP done. Instead he just threw his hands up in the air and stormed away.

The next day I lodged a formal harassment complaint with HR against the fucking asshole-face and got him fired. Good riddens to bad rubbish!

 

Police Once Again Serve as Judge, Jury, and Executioner

08/25/2012 04:15pm

As you’ve probably heard, the police have killed again. This of course is nothing new. Only a few days ago in North Jersey a 13 year old boy on a joyride died when police pursued him in a high speed chase until he crashed the car he was driving. A few days later cops gunned down a man in Boston’s Back Bay when he attempted to flee from them on foot after a traffic stop (it’s still not clear why they pulled him over in the first place but I'm guessing  it had to do with the color of his skin). Look through the news over the last couple of months or even the past couple of weeks and you will find dozen of similar incidents. While it is always disturbing when the police execute a suspect before he/she has been charged with a crime (let alone before he/she has had the benefit of a trial), Friday’s incident takes the cake. So blood thirsty were the NYPD to take the life of Jeffrey Johnson that they opened fire on a crowded sidewalk outside the Empire State Building, shooting several other people in the process. Of the incident which left nine innocent bystanders bleeding in the street, Police Commissioner Raymond Kelly said “I believe it was handled well”.

Jeffrey Johnson was suspected of shooting his former coworker Steve Ercolino to death. Johnson suffered years of abuse and harassment from Ercolino while employed at Hazan Import Corp., a Manhattan-based firm specializing in the design of women’s handbags. Johnson blamed Ercolino for the loss of his job and his livelihood. While certainly not an excuse for murder, these are indeed relevant facts that should have been heard by the judge and jury who, under our Constitution, should have ultimately decided his fate.

Shortly after the shooting, Mayor Bloomberg held a press conference. Many (including myself) expected him to assure the public that a full investigation was being conducted and that the officers involved would be held accountable. Instead he praised their actions as “heroic”. Unbelievable!

With the plethora of non-lethal weapons available these days, there is absolutely no excuse for killing a suspect – and certainly not for endangering the lives of innocent bystanders! When will we finally wise-up and strip the homicidal maniacs in our Police Departments of their licenses to kill?         

 

 

But you know nowadays, it's the old man
He's got all the money
And a young man
Ain't got nothin' in the world these days

     -Mose Allison

THE SIGN

08/21/2012 12:00am

Walking through the city I see a lot of things that might strike one as “unusual”. In general, I pay no attention. The other day, however, I developed bit of an inquiring mind upon the sight of a certain scruffy lad I came upon outside of Ogilvie. There was a sign hanging from a lanyard around his neck which read, in block letters, “I AM DEPRESSED”.

“That’s an interesting sign you got there,” I said.

“Yeah, I figured I should probably be proactive,” he said.

“Oh?”

“I’m prone to depression and I thought it might be a good idea, when it gets bad, to wear the sign. That way people will better know how to act around me.”

“I see. So, let ‘em know that you’re feeling low so they can adjust their personality accordingly.”

“Yeah. I realize that when you’re depressed you really have to put yourself first but I’ve always been the kind who always thinks of others, which is probably part of the problem. Anyway, I think it’s important to let people know where I’m at and if I act irrational or inappropriate they need to consider what I’m going through at the time.”

“I’m sure they appreciate the warning.”

“Yeah but there’s always a few self-centered assholes out there who refuse to see where I'm coming from.”

“Well I guess sometimes you just have to accept the bad with the good. In the end you can’t change how other people think about you, just how you think about them.”

“There’s nothing to change. They’re selfish assholes who don’t see that I fucking hurt.”

“Well, I can see that you hurt and I’m sorry.”

“Thanks man.”

“So what’s gotten you so down? What are you so depressed about these days?”

“What’s not to be depressed about man? The polar ice caps are melting. Millions of children go to bed hungry every night. People are dying everyday cuz they ain’t got health insurance and can’t get medical care. The Republicans have declared war on women, the poor, and the gays while making sure the richest 1% of Americans don’t have to pay their fair share of taxes. Crime is out of control. Gun violence is everywhere cuz people can’t let go of some outdated bullshit some stupid old men wrote into the Constitution hundreds of years ago – stupid old men that owned slaves, mind you. And the economy is fucked cuz Bush got us into some stupid war over oil then de-regulated the financial sector and gave all sorts of tax breaks to corporations who sent all the jobs overseas.”

“That seems like a pretty heavy burden you’re carrying on yourself. I try to take life day-by-day and not worry too much about the things I can’t control.”

“Yeah well, I wish I could. I guess I just care too much.”

“There is a difference between caring and being so obsessed with the state of the world that you let it ruin your everyday life.”

“Maybe but I wouldn’t know. My parents never taught me things like coping skills. All they ever did was order me to do this and do that -  ‘take out the trash’, ‘clean your room’, ‘do your homework’, ‘get a haircut’, ‘go to bed’, ‘do better in school’. It was a total power trip for them. Instead of raising me with love and understanding and tolerance it was all about rules and conformity. No wonder I grew up so fucked-up.”

“Well I think everybody can pretty much relate to that. Growing up we all reach that point where we see our parents as a real hassle but when we get older we realize it’s because they loved us and they wanted us to be safe and to instill in us the sense of discipline that we need later in life.”

“No man, you don’t understand. They were total fascist assholes. Let me tell you, when dinner time came around and they called for you, your ass had better be at the table in the next couple of minutes or there’d be Hell to pay. It didn’t matter if you were in the middle of a video game or your favorite TV show or chatting with your friends on Facebook. As soon as dinner was ready you were expected to be in the kitchen and ready to eat. That might not have been so bad on the nights when dad ordered out for pizza or when mom was bringing home McDonald’s but on the nights we were having meatloaf or liver . . . And God help you if you didn’t eat every last bit of broccoli. You could sure as shit forget about dessert. That shit just ain’t normal.”

“I guess you can at least be grateful you weren’t one of those kids going to bed hungry every night.”

“Fuck that shit. I probably would have been better off if I was.”

“I’m sorry for all you’ve had to suffer.”

“Believe me,” he said, “you don’t know the half of it. Pray to that god that doesn’t exist that you never have to go through the kind of shit that I’ve gone through.” He then rolled-up his sleeves to expose a series of scars, scabs, and lacerations up and down his arm. “These are the scars of my pain,” he explained.

“You attempted suicide?” I asked naively.

“No man, I cut myself.”

“You cut yourself? On purpose?”

“When you have my kind of pain sometimes that’s the only thing you can do.”

“I’m afraid I don’t understand.”

“It’s like when that razor tears into your skin it takes all that pain that’s built up on the inside and moves it to the outside where it’s easier to deal with. It’s like you bleed it out.”

“Wow, that seems pretty extreme.”

“Maybe but there aren’t a whole lot of options for someone like me. These scars also serve as a kind of warning.”

“Oh?”

“They say ‘I hurt and you better notice or there’s no telling what I might do.’ ”

“I see. So, do you work?”

“Work? How the fuck am I supposed to get a job the way things are now? The greedy, piece-of-shit, douche bag, one percenter CEO’s have outsourced all the jobs to India where they can pay people three cents an hour then make millions off their labor.”

“Well I’m not quite sure they’ve outsourced all the jobs. I mean I ride a train every morning that's packed with people on their way to work. They’ve managed to find jobs. Have you applied many places?”

“I gave up on that shit a long time ago. When I graduated the only things I was getting callbacks on were for shitty call center jobs for like thirty grand a year.”

“Odd, I used to think call center jobs were the ones they tended to outsource. You know though, thirty grand ain’t really a bad place to start. It’s certainly more than I started at straight out of college.”

“That was a long time ago when the dollar was worth a lot more.”

“It wasn’t all that long ago. I mean I’m only in my thirties.”

“That’s pretty old dude. Anyway, I actually got an offer that was for a little more but they wanted me to move to Overland Park, KS. Can you believe that? Who the fuck wants to live in Kansas?”

“I’ve been to Overland Park and it’s actually a pretty nice town. It’s also really close to Kansas City which, grant it, isn’t quite the metropolis this place is but it's a decent size city and you can definitely find lots to do there during your off time. And the cost of living is pretty low. Rent would sure be a lot cheaper than here so your salary would actually go a lot further. Of course it might be difficult to get the money together to cover your moving expenses.”

“No, they were gonna pay for all that shit. I was almost ready to throw in the towel and go for it too but I fortunately came to my senses. When they told me I had to take a drug test I basically told them to go fuck themselves.”

“Most employers these days are pretty strict about that whole drug-free workplace thing.”

“I wasn’t gonna be doing any drugs in the workplace but, after a long day, you bet your ass I’m gonna spark up a bowl or two and frankly it’s none of their business what I do outside of work. That shit should be illegal.”

“Marijuana is illegal.”

“No, I mean telling someone they have to test negative for weed before they’ll hire you. It’s discrimination. Oh, and they also had a dress code. Can you believe that? They wanted me to wear a jacket and tie to talk to people on the phone!”

“Yeah, a lot of companies are moving towards business casual but there’s still quite a few that expect to you to dress up for work.”

“Fuck that shit! Steve Jobs didn't wear a suit and tie and neither will I!”

“I see. So, um, what did you go to school for?”

“I got my Bachelor of Science in Human Sexuality.”

“I bet that was an interesting program of study. Especially the lab work.”      

 “Yeah. My dad was really trying to push me into something like accounting or engineering but I wasn’t interested in that shit. I wanted to choose something I actually like. Like that old saying goes, if you love your job you’ll never work a day in your life. I really like sex, ever since I lost my virginity - even before, so that seemed like the perfect major.”

“I see. I guess the market for human sexualogists really took a nose dive though when the economy went bad.”

“That’s 'cause Americans are so fucking sexually repressed. It’s really pathetic. Over in Europe they laugh at us over that shit. Laugh at us!” With annoyed, rather than humored tone, he uttered “Ha-ha.”

I looked at my watch and noticed the time. “Looks like I’ve got to get back to the office,” I said. “It was good talking to you. You really gave me a lot to think about.”

“Glad I could help you understand my pain.”

I came away from the encounter I had with that fella outside the train station that day a changed man forever. For the first time I felt there really was no god for, if there was, this young man surely would not have been born into such suffering.

A lot of people view the current generation as nothing more than self-entitled crybabies and slackers. I too, at times, have fallen prey to this misconception. The reality, however, is that young people have a lot to be depressed about these days. They didn’t have it easy like us Gen. X’ers or the babyboomers before us. They grew up with an American dream that promised them everything but delivered on nothing. Many of them were also emotionally scarred by their parent’s unreasonable expectations. As young adults they graduated into a competitive job market that demanded they sell out their individuality in order to procure even menial employment. When they did so, they were generally offered paltry starting salaries while the corporation’s executives took home six and seven figure incomes. Those brave enough to not sell-out found themselves with no employment and under constant threat of having their government assistance stripped from them by right-wing politicians. I thank that god who doesn’t exist that I’ve never had to face the kinds of challenges and hardships that our young people face today. Let us, the fortunate generation who has never had to struggle, turn our thoughts to them and to what we can do to meet their needs.

 

Life is so demanding

Without understanding

I saw the sign

And it opened up my eyes

I saw the sign

-The Ace of Base

 

Little Boy Lost

07/23/2012  10:45pm

I’ve been sickened over the last few days hearing people call for the death penalty in the case of James Holmes, the alleged gunman in last Friday’s shooting spree at an Aurora, CO screening of The Dark Knight Rises. The preposterous assertion that human life is so precious that the only way we reconcile its loss is to causes someone else's death is not only hypocritical but utterly savage. There's no question that the death of twelve potentially innocent people in that theater is absolutely tragic. To call it a random act of violence perpetrated by a homicidal kook, however, shows a lack of compassion for Mr. Holmes that perhaps rivals the actual shooting in its inhumanity.

Yes, we could put Mr. Holmes to death and we will have one less murderer. But will that really solve anything? There are likely plenty more desperate souls like him lurking around, their violent impulses lying dormant until someone or something inevitably pushes them over the edge. And then tragedy will strike - maybe at your local supermarket while you are doing your grocery shopping; maybe on the 5:15 while you’re heading home from a long day at work;  or maybe even at church Sunday morning during prayer services. If we are to have a world where we can truly feel safe, our focus needs to be on treating the underlying problem, not on killing the victims of its symptoms.

James Holmes did not shoot those people for the hell of it. He did it because desperate people do desperate things when they are pushed into desperate circumstances. And Mr. Holmes circumstances were indeed desperate. He was a brilliant student of neuroscience who suddenly found himself unable to endure the academic rigors of his Ph.D. program. He was unable to procure gainful employment and was facing imminent eviction from his apartment.  He seemed thoroughly unable to establish meaningful relationships with other human beings and he was consistently rejected by the ladies. Yes, according to reports, he was indeed an “odd ball” but surely his eccentricities could have been overlooked by anyone caring enough to reach out to him. Perhaps such a person could have found him/herself a friend for life. Perhaps an employer, not so obsessed with charisma and poise, could have gained himself a highly valuable employee that could have been a real asset to his firm. And perhaps a woman of grace, able to look past social awkwardness and fanatical love of superhero comics, could have found herself a soul-mate. Sadly, not a single person was willing to cast his/her prejudices aside.

We failed you James Holmes. You did not kill those people. We did – our society as a whole. Words cannot express how truly sorry I am that you have to pay the price for our collective negligence.

 

THE CURSE OF ADAM WALSH

04/21/2012 10:00pm

When I was ten years old, NBC TV aired Adam, the story of a real life Florida boy who was kidnapped and brutally murdered. It starred Daniel J. Travanti (of Hill Street Blues) as John Walsh, the boy’s father who himself would become a star as host of Fox’s long-running America’s Most Wanted. Jobeth Williams (of Poltergeist fame) played the elder Walsh's ex-wife Revé. I add emphasis to “ex-wife” as apparently having his young son decapitated by a sexual predator made Mr. Walsh really hungry for side pussy. But that’s a story for different day.

To coincide with the airing of Adam, the Parent Advisory Council at my elementary school invited Officer Hancock from the local Police Department to come to their meeting and talk about child abductions. During his presentation, the good constable passed around a series of crime scene photos showing the mutilated remains of children who had been kidnapped, raped, and murdered. Being a young one, I was of course at home under the care of a babysitter while it all went down. Based on my mother’s reaction the following day though, I can only speculate as to the bullshit Officer Hancock spewed on the audience of frightened young parents. I know at least my mom left there convinced that the horrible things she saw were everyday occurrences. I remember how shaken she was as she described one particular photo she saw. It was the charred carcass of a little boy who was tied to a tree, doused in gasoline, and burned alive.

The following weekend my friends were all taking the bus into town to go to Zayre. Back then Zayre was the place to go for your Atari games as they always seemed to have the latest and greatest before anywhere else. Though I couldn’t then afford Demons to Diamonds on my two dollar a week allowance, it was somehow still a thrill to be able to look at it on the shelf and to grab a free copy of the new Atari Video Game Catalog while I was there. Anyway, when I asked my mom if I could go with them, the answer was “absolutely not”, lest I suffer the same fate as Adam Walsh. When I pleaded and told her that all the other kids' parents were letting them go, she said something to the effect of “Well apparently they don’t give a shit whether their kids live or die.” Thus I spent the day at home watching Adam 12 and Streets of San Francisco re-runs with my dad and being yelled at by my mom for having a messy room. My friends had a slightly better time. They walked around town, stopped at Dairy Queen for delicious frozen treats, and came back with boxes of these neat things called “Happy Snappers” - sort of like firecrackers for kids that didn’t need to be lit (you just tossed them on the ground and they went pop and sparked).

For the next few years my mom kept me locked in the house to protect me from the masses of child murderers who were salivating outside, just waiting for me to step out.

Fuck you Adam Walsh. If only your faggot ass ran a little faster that day my childhood wouldn’t have been fucked.

 

ALL HAIL THE

BLUE OYSTER

04/12/2012 08:30pm

Cults seem to have a bad reputation with most people thinking of the Manson Family, Jim Jones' Klan, the Branch Davidians, or those silly freaks who cut off their nuts and drank poison while waiting for the Haley Bopp comet to bring them back to their home planet. I tend to think this a rather unfair perception and that your average friendly neighborhood cult is probably just a gathering of harmless goofballs with a few kooky beliefs and a passion for summertime barbecues and barn dances (where the punch is generally non-toxic). Often I've entertained the thought of joining one myself, thinking it might be great fun. At one point I was actually presented with the opportunity but, for better or worse, I let fear get the best of me.

It was a few years back and I was living in a different part of the country. Through a mutual acquaintance I became friendly with a cute young recovering crackhead named Reignah who kept inviting me to her “church”. By “church” she was not referring to your typical congregation that meets in a chapel every Sunday morning for services. Rather, it was fellowship of  former ruffians who overcame drug addiction through a cooler, hipper version of Jesus. Unlike the very square Jesus of my childhood, their Jesus seemed to really like tattoos and motorcycles and, although I had no photographic evidence to prove it, I imagine he wore a leather jacket and liked his women in tube tops. Collectively known as “The Ark”, this rag tag ensemble of former junkies met each weekend at an abandoned elementary school in a very bad part of town, actually sleeping there Saturday night. Curious though I was, I could not build-up the nerve to accept Reignah’s invitation. Though I was bound to leave with a boatload of entertaining stories, I was pretty sure I would be forced to engage in a number of creepy and potentially homoerotic rituals. Maybe I'm way off base here but when I think of spiritual bonding exercises I get concerned that at some point I'll have to be nude in the woods with other men, at least one of whom strums an acoustic guitar and sings a song about friendship while everyone gets all touchy-feely. I just wasn't ready for that shit. Nor was I way particularly comfortable with the way the Ark's officials would assign new members a fiancée and force them to spend the first half of every Saturday in a Christian marriage class. Reignah already had her man assigned. I may have been a bit more open to accepting her invite if there was any chance they would have paired us. As I said, she was cute and she seemed like she would have been a fun lab partner when we got to that lesson on consummation.

Sadly, Reignah ended-up going back to crack and disappeared one day. Her fiancée, a dimwitted (and possibly retarded) boy named James, was subsequently reassigned to her roommate Patty who lost her own fiancée to a relapse. She, incidentally, ended up leaving the cult and moving to the coast after getting  impregnated by an outsider who was subsequently shot to death while attempting to rob a gas station (there's no hope in dope kids). I'm not sure whether Patty left voluntarily or was excommunicated but I hear she is currently living with her schizophrenic mom who cares for her fetal alcohol syndrome afflicted child while she goes out on the town to recapture her wasted youth and find a new Mr. Right. Hopefully the next one will have a longer life expectancy than twenty-two.

I hope Reignah eventually got her shit together. She was really nice girl and I sometimes wonder where she is now and what she's doing. I kind of regret not going to The Ark with her when I had the chance as it surely would have been an experience to remember. Admittedly though, I’m not the best at concealing how I really feel and I fear the Ark-ians, sensing I was less than serious, may have ended-up cooking me into the main dish at their annual Feast of St. John the Baptist Chili Buffet. In the end that would have been a shitty way to go out. Literally.

HEARTLIGHT

04/05/2012 09:15pm

“Weren’t you just over there?” SHE asked.

“No,” HE said.

“But I just saw you.”

"That must have been my doppelganger.”

“Your doppelganger was playing pool?”

“Yes, he likes to play pool”

“I would have thought him more into darts. They say darts is Apollyon’s game.”

“But why do you suppose it’s yellow or white instead of green? Or sometimes even pink?”

“What?”

“The moon.”

“The moon?”

“Yes.”

“I thought we were talking about your doppelganger.”

“No, we were talking about how the scientists are saying the moon is made of green cheese.”

“I don't recall that. Are you sure?”

“That’s what he said.”

“Who? Your doppelganger?”

“No, the bartender.”

“How does he know?”

“Because I told him.”

“I see,” SHE said, adjusting her sitting posture and noticing his gaze towards her lower extremities.

“May I kiss you legs?" HE asked, "They are very pretty.”

“I suppose,” SHE said. “But do you really think so?”

“I do," HE said. And HE did.  “I have to use the lavatory now,” HE explained and headed for the restroom.

SHE turned to the bartender. “What did that man tell you?”

“What’s it to you doll?”

“I’d like to know.”

“Oh would you now?”

“I would.”

"Then tell me," he said leaning towards her, "what's in it for me?”

"What do you want?"

“I want to kiss your legs. They are very pretty."

“So I have been told. All right then, you may kiss my legs.".

And he did.

“So what did he tell you?” SHE asked

“Nothing. He told me nothing.”

“You lied to me.”

“I didn’t lie. He didn’t tell me anything. You asked me what he told me which was nothing and that’s what I told you.”

“Okay, perhaps you didn’t lie. But you deceived me. He didn't tell you anything yet you kissed my legs knowing I was expecting to hear something."

“Sorry doll. Your legs, they're just too pretty.”

“I don't like being deceived. I won't tolerate it. Understood?"

"Understood."

"In the village where my mother grew up there’s a story about a girl they call La Llorna.”

“Is there now?”

“She had a virgin birth.”

“Like the Virgin Mary.”

“No, nothing like that at all," SHE said. "Upon finding out she was pregnant, her parents demanded she marry the father. They demanded to know who he was but she couldn't give them a name no matter how much they pressed because there was no father. They beat that girl day and night, mercilessly, all through her pregnancy. It's a wonder she didn’t lose the baby.”

“Yes, a wonder.”

“They kept her hidden while she was pregnant and when she finally gave birth they hid the child, lest the rest of the village know them as the parents of a whore.”

“A very puritanical village I guess.”

“Yes, in the worst sense. Years later she met a man and fell in love. He was everything she ever wanted.

"Good for her."

"She thought she was everything he ever wanted as well. And she was right, at least at first. But then she told him her secret."

"About the kid."

"Yes."

“I’m guessing it didn’t go over too well.”

“He was shocked initially but, for a time, he seemed okay with it. But then he began to grow cold, distant. He became more and more withdrawn, incapable of expressing even mild affection. One day he just told her that he didn’t love her any more.”

“Poor girl.”

“Poor boy.”

“Boy?”

“Her son. He was the barrier between her and the love of her life."

"Hope she didn't do anything irrational."

"She drowned him in the lake.”

“I see.”

“Afterwards she ran to tell him the joyous news, that they could be together now forever. But he was horrified. He told her to stay away from him, that he never wanted to see her again, that he'd kill her if she ever came near him again.”

“He didn’t go to the police.”

“No. There was no point. She could quite easily deny it and with no proof there ever was a child, there wouldn't be much of a case."

"Lucky for her."

“She didn't think so. Distraught over her lost love, she drowned herself in the lake."

"The same lake where she drowned the boy?"

"Yes. To this day, there are reports of her ghost wandering the shores of that very lake, often carrying her weeping child, trying to comfort him, but to no avail. It's said that he is inconsolable."

"It's a rough thing for a kid to go through."

"Legend has it when children play close to the lake, she rises from the depth to pull them in, drowning them, hoping that in death they might be a playmate to her child, perhaps help him overcome his sorrow."

“Interesting story.”

“My mother was very cruel woman, abusive. Not so much physical, but very much emotional. She would constantly tell my siblings and me that La Llorna was coming for us. From the time of infancy she would fill our our heads with these abominable stories of La Llorna drowning neighborhood children, graphically describing the fear they felt as their lungs filled with water, their bodies bloated, the blood vessels bursting in their eyes, the panic, the terrible panic as they fought so hard to escape her grip. But it was all in vain. In the end they always died, every one of them."

"How awful."

"I developed hydrophobia."

"Fear of water?"

"Yes. I would wet my bed every night because I was afraid to go anywhere near the bathroom. I had to be bound before they could bathe me. I wouldn't even go near the kitchen sink, much less a swimming pool or, God forbid, the lake."

"Must have been a rough childhood."

"My baby brother suffered even more. He was a sweet but sensitive boy. I remember him gathering wood and scrap metal and plastic. He talked about building a rocket ship that would takes us far, far away. He wanted to run away to the moon."

"Ain't no water up there."

"No, just green cheese. Lots and lots of green cheese."

"That's what the scientists say anyway."

"It was just a silly thought by a naive little boy. We never did manage to get away. We continued to endure her abuse until the day she spontaneously combusted. That was years later though. The damage was already done."

“I guess we all have our cross to bear.”

Suddenly all eyes turned toward the voice of a limbless girl perched upon a stool at the other end of the bar. “Don’t let it get you down," she said then lowered her head to the straw in her wine glass to take a sip of chardonnay.  She continued, "I used to say, ‘I’m just a little girl with no arms and no legs. What can I possibly do in this world?'”

"I don't know," said the bartender, "What can you do?"

“I can love, that’s what I can do. I can still love. I don’t need arms for hugging or legs for kissing. All I need is a heart,” she said and her chest began to glow a luminous red like that of a well-known extra terrestrial from a Neil Diamond song.

SHE turned away from the girl with no arms and no legs to recognize a familiar face. “You’re back,” SHE said.

“No, I’m his doppelganger.”

“What do you want Doppelganger?”

“I’d like to kiss your legs. They are very pretty you know.”

“Yes, please kiss them.”

And he did.

 

I’m Converting to Islam

03/28/2012  09:40pm

I believe all religions to be a path to one universal God – the spoke and hub approach, if you will. One of the wonderful things about spirituality is that we all get to choose the path that works best for us, whether that be idolizing a big fat Chink, praying to some fucked-up half elephant/half octopus thing with an affinity for cows, wearing magic underwear, spending Sunday mornings listening to the angry rantings of an aged queen with a harem of gay kids he calls his “altar boys”, or inviting family and friends over to watch an old heeb in a funny hat cut off a chunk of your son’s dick. Recently I’ve been doing a lot of thinking about what faith might work best for me. I believe it all comes down to what I want most in life. After much pondering, I’ve determined that what I really desire is the freedom to be a hateful, violent, sociopath, yet have the love and respect of the Xanga community and liberals everywhere. Thus it is clear that I should be a Muslim. And so now I am! Going forward, please refer to me as Sheikh Muhammad al Yusuf bin Skanlyn.

Yes, I’ve finally found what I have been searching for all my life. I recently ceased bathing and shaving (Allah really detests hygiene) and I have begun familiarizing myself with Sharia Law. Yeah, it’s a little strict in some areas but there are perks. For example, I get to beat my woman! Now anyone who knows me knows I’m a big fan of violence against women and the “Religion of Peace” is all about dat shit (yeah boi!)! Oh yeah, and then there’s that honor killing provision which may come in really handy someday, should my daughters grow up to be the type of slutty bitches that would try to attend school, dance, or go out in public without a burqua.

For a long time, society used to really frown on violence in general, let alone that committed against women and children. Thanks to 9/11 though, we Muslims are now adored for the very shit that used to be considered evil! It don’t matter what kind of heinous stuff we do, y’all deem us justified on account of American foreign policy during the Reagan, Bush, and Bush years! Is that awesome or what? Man, either you’re all stupid or we’re really, really smart! I like to think the latter. I mean, we have to be brilliant to convince compassionate liberals around the world to hate Jews again. That shit really fell out of style after the Hitler years. Then we started blowing up shit in Israel and talking about Zionism and suddenly we've got you all expressing the sentiments of the most patriotic Germans from 1939!

Yes, savage violence, misogyny, antisemitism. These are all the things I look for in a religion and I’ve found them all in Islam.

What religion best meets your needs?

 

Cloverface

03/17/2012 03:10pm

They say everybody gets to be Irish on St. Patrick’s Day. I say, “No thank you, I’ll pass on that.”  And no I won’t kiss you because you’re Irish! I don’t want to promote stereotypes but let’s face it, the Irish Community is the filthiest, most racist, drunken degenerate group of people you will ever have the misfortune to know. Not to mention that they were the original Al Qaeda, having killed and maimed thousands of British men, women, and children during their I.R.A. bombing campaigns. Yet we let these people throw an annual parade in the streets of every major American city.

During a dark period of my life I lived in that shit fuck of a town called Boston, the filthy Mick capital of the USA. There I found myself surrounded by these disgusting sots who would constantly toss about the n-word while, at the same time, bitch about the supposed discrimination and bigotry they had to endure. They’d talk of some bullshit potato famine and how, when they came to this country, employers would advertise “Irish Need Not Apply” (can you blame them?).  When it came to other ethnic groups who were proud enough to throw a parade though, they had little empathy. Of the Carribean Day Parade they would say, “if you love Carribea so much go back and have your parade there!” Of the Puerto Rican Day parade they’d say, “March in an English speaking parade or get the Hell out of this country and go back to Puerto Rico” (I didn’t bother to explain that Puerto Rico is part of the United State as arguing with the stupid is generally pointless, and the Irish are surely stupid).  And yet every March the streets of South Boston would turn into rivers of vomit as the Irish would hold the most disgusting, vulgar, debaucherous of all ethnic celebrations. I can vividly recall the mobs of angry drunks with shamrocks painted on their faces standing half naked in the 30 degree weather while screaming obscenities, lighting trash cans on fire, and throwing rocks at individuals they perceived to be homosexuals. Regarding the latter, there was a big what-to-do every year about how they were going to keep the gays out of the parade. Kind of ironic when you consider that “Irish” and “Queer” are pretty much synonyms.

Anyway, being Irish should not be a source of pride on St. Patrick’s Day or any other day. Drink all the green beer you want today, dress like a leprechaun and do your silly jig, just do it well the hell away from me. And if you tell me “Erin Go Bragh” I shall tell you “Erin go Fuck Yourself”.

 

Saved

03/15/201210:30pm

How I loved her so

I thrilled when she called me her beau

Thought I’d never be lonely

She was my one and only

But she didn’t love the Lord

 

I heard every woman was a whore

A fact I so much wanted to ignore

Not true of her I believed

But I soon found I was deceived

‘Cause she didn’t love the Lord

 

She tried so hard to get me to break my vow

Didn’t want to wait for marriage, she wanted it now

Told me not to worry for she was on the pill

My seed that evil woman wanted to kill

‘Cause she didn’t love the Lord

 

An angel came to me in a dream

He told me our Father’s anger was extreme

Over how she worshipped the fat Chinese guy

And if I wanted to be saved I needed to say goodbye

'Cause she didn’t love the Lord

 

I had to be brave though I was a wreck

Buried her I did up to her neck

The rocks I threw pelted her face

Her blood it spurted all over the place

'Cause she didn’t love the Lord

 

She cried and cried and she screamed “why?”

I told her “because Christ you deny”

Yet she would not repent

And so to Hades she was sent

'Cause she didn’t love the Lord

 

At first I was sad

But then I was glad

For I knew I was saved

In the right way I behaved

'Cause I love the Lord

Yes I love the Lord

 

 

A Dangerous Pastime

03/12/201210:55pm

As Xanga is the land of self indulgence and godlessness I won’t waste my time explaining how willful destruction of seed is an offense with eternally damning consequences. Instead, I’ll use that so-called “scientific evidence” so cherished by you anti-christs.

For years the media and our shameful public school system have perpetuated the myth that masturbation is “harmless”and “normal”. Some have even gone as far as to call it “healthy”. The research on the other hand paints a very different picture. Multiple studies have shown a link between masturbation and mental illness. Masturbators have higher incidences of depression, obsessive-compulsive behaviors, substance abuse, and sexual deviances than normal persons. We also know that teens who masturbate are more likely to commit sexual abuse against children during their adult years. And yet parents are told it’s no big deal if they discover their child has been touching him/herself in an inappropriate manner. Well, I'm here to tell you it is a big deal.

Sugar-coat it all you want but the fact is MASTURBATION IS WRONG. It is a perversion of nature and it has tragic consequences, not just for the masturbator but for society as a whole.

 

Paradise Lost

03/08/201209:36pm

In what’s become a nation of hedonists and heathens I guess I shouldn’t be surprised that so many people would actually take fault with a man seeking to govern his nation by the Ten Commandments. Yet I still find myself baffled by the mass rejection of those basic laws of human morality.  It cannot be denied though. Look all around you, the evidence is everywhere. Teenage pregnancy. Unmarried couples cohabitating. Government funded pornography, courtesy of the National Endowment for the Arts.  Doctors performing gender reassignment surgery. Insurance companies forced to cover contraception without even being allowed to charge a co-pay as a deterrent. Children burning in Hell for all eternity because their mothers murdered them in the womb before they could be baptized. Homosexuals not only allowed to marry and to actually teach our schoolchildren but also to serve openly in our once proud military. And the growing prevalence of "alternative" religions like Buddhism, Islam, Hinduism, Scientology, and perhaps most despicable of all, Wicca (i.e., the p.c. term for Satanism).

People, secularism does not work. No empire, however great, has failed to crumble when it turned its back on the Lord. We have been warned repeatedly – AIDS, school shootings, the September 11^th terrorist attacks, the collapse of our economy, Hurricane Katrina, the election of Barrack Hussein Obama, the gulf oil spill, and the recent wave of deadly tornadoes in our nation's south and mid west. Just days ago we learned the Lord was sending yet another warning - a celestial body named DA14 that is scheduled to collide with our planet on February 15, 2013. While the asteroid is not large enough to destroy earth, its impact will surely be enough to level one or more major cities. At present, scientists cannot predict where the impact will be but I speculate it will strike one of our more morally depraved metropolises like San Francisco.

I implore those who still retain a sense of moral decency, who have not been perverted beyond return, to heed this warning. Let us be inspired by Joseph Kony and the Lord’s Resistance Army to restore to this nation those Christian values on which the Pilgrim’s founded it. Only then might the Lord might be convinced to hurl that asteroid toward a more wicked nation like Canada.

 

The Solution to Our Failed Public School System?

03/04/201206:31pm

When I was at the doctor’s on Friday I came across a very interesting article. It was a study comparing the average overall GPA’s of one Mississippi school district before and after corporal punishment and school prayer were banned. It showed the average GPA dropped from 2.51 down to 2.03 during the years following the ban on prayer in the public schools and the outlawing of corporal punishment.Whether or not you’re pro or against, you can’t argue that’s a pretty significant difference. I think most of us have recognized a lack of discipline in the younger generation and it’s not too far a stretch to conclude that the main failure of our public schools is their inability to instill and maintain discipline in their students. A prayer before each class would be beneficial in getting students centered for their academic endeavors that day. It also sets a serious tone for learning. Likewise with the sting of a ruler across the knuckles, the impact of which is likely more effective that hanging out in the detention hall for an hour after school with your friends. Of course I respect the Constitution so I believe any school prayer should be strictly non-denominational, so as not to offend those of different Christian sects.

Prayer and corporal punishment – the way to restore our public schools. Wouldn’t you agree?

 

Hope After Loss

02/24/201211:15pm

It all began on the afternoon of February 11^th in room 434 of the Beverly Hills Hilton. Naked in the bathtub, Whitney Houston called out to her sexy young daughter. 

“Bobbi, Bobbi Kristina.”

“Yes mama,” the girl replied

“Come here child,” Whitney Houston said as Bobbi Kristina entered the bathroom,. “Come and wash yo’ mama’s pussy.”

“Okay mama,” said Bobbi Kristina as she extended her arm towards the soap.

“No need to be reaching child. This tub is big enough for the two of us. Why dontcha take those clothes off and get in here with your mama. The water is just delightful.”

“Yes m’am!” Bobbi Kristina said, eagerly tearing her clothes off, “I love being naked with you mama!”

“I know you do baby,” Whitney Houston said.

Bobbi Kristina got into the tub and started soaping her mother’s pussy, caressing the lather into her lovely folds.

“That’s it,”said Whitney Houston, “Clean that pussy. Clean it good! Make yo’ mama’s pussy spic and span!” It was so sensual having Bobbi Kristina washing her pussy that she came twice on the girl's hand. “Baby, you haven’t done that to me in so long. I miss the way we used to play together so sexily.”

“Me too mama but ever since you been seeing that Ray J it seems like you don’t have time to make love with me anymore.”

“Oh baby, don’t say that. Yeah, that Ray J sure got a big ol’ dick that fill me good but there’s nothing like a mother’s love for her little girl.”

“Really mama?”

“Yes baby. I tell you what baby, let’s you and me have a good ol’ time tonight. Let’s get real freaky nasty.”

“I think I know just the thing we can do mama.”

“What’s that baby?”

“I’ll go get my big black strap-on and fuck you in yo asshole. You will love it mama, I promise!”

“Now baby, I don’t know about that. I be a little too old for that shit. Your mama’s asshole don’t open as wide as it used to.”

“No need to worry mama. Just have some Xanax and Vodka. That will relax your asshole good so it will open real wide.”

“Are you sure baby?”

“It works like magic mama. In fact, one night I had both Kanye and Jay-Z dicking me in my ass at the same time.”

“Wow! My little girl had both Kanye and Jay-Z in her asshole at the same time?! That musta been like dying and going to Big-Black-Dick Heaven!”

“It sure was mama, it sure was!" Bobbi Kristina said then went to get the booze, pills, and strap-on. In no time she was slamming her mama up the shit pipe. Whitney moaned and moaned and moaned.But then something went tragically wrong.

It was about two hours later when Ray J came into the room. “Baby doll, where you be at,” he called out. He then heard Bobbi Kristina.

“Over here Ray J.”

Ray J followed her voice to the bathroom. “Whasshup, whasshup, whasshup bish.”

“Hi Ray J,” Bobbi Kristina said.

He looked over to see Whitney Houston partially submerged in the bathtub, “Yo, yo, yo, what the fuck be wrong with yo mama?”

“I think she had a accident or a stroke or somethin’ Ray J. I was fucking her in the ass with my big black strap-on when she just stopped moving and went all limp and shit. She passed away Ray J.”

“Naw, naw, it can’t be. Yo, she was my gurl. MY GURL!  NOOOOOO!!!!!” He screamed and started to tear-up.

“Don’t be sad Ray J. I have an idea how to make you feel better,” Bobbi Kristina said and started sucking his dick.

“Yo, yo, yo! Aw damn girl, you sho knows how to suck a good dick. I’m gonna cum real hard bish! Real hard!” He screamed “Ahhhhhhh!" then spurted his shit into her mouth.

“Damn Ray J, your cum taste goooooood!”

“Yo, yo, yo, all the bishes be luvin’ Ray J’s jimmy juice!”

“Now I know why my mama loved you so much.”

“I loved her too Bobbi Kristina. I loved her so good.”

Suddenly a voice called out Ray J’s name.

“Yo, yo, yo, whassup, whasshup, whasshup bish,” Ray J answered and in came Kim Kardashian.

“Whoa! What happened to Whitney Houston?” she asked.

“My mama died,” Bobbi Kristina told her.

“Oh poor baby,” Kim Kardashian said. “You must be so sad. Let me make you feel better,” she said and started licking Bobbi Kristina’s vag. As she did, Ray J pried apart her plump ass cheeks and began eating her beautiful asshole. Bobbi Kristina felt so nasty having her pussy eaten out by Kim Kardashian while her mother laid there dead in the tub. She came so hard it felt like she was having a earthquake in her pussy.

“Thank you so much Kim, you made my pussy feel sooooo good!”

“Anytime Bobbi Kristina,” she said. “Now let’s call the police so we can get this shit cleaned-up and get on down to Clive Davis’ party.”

One week later everybody was in New Jersey for Whitney Houston’s funeral and being all sad and shit. After the service, the procession headed down to the cemetery for the burial. In the crowd, Bobbi Kristina recognized Maya Rudolph from Saturday Night and went over to talk to her.

“You used to imitate my mama on TV.”

“Yes sweetie I did,” Maya Rudolph  said

“You remind me so much of her. Oh how I miss her!” Bobbi Kristina said, all broken-up and shit.

“Oh there, there baby,” said Maya Rudolph as she took Bobbi Kristina into her arms. Next thing you know they were eating each other’s boxes right there in the cemetery in front of everyone. It was so fucking hot and erotic that all the sexy bitches like Mariah Carey and Jordin Sparks pulled up their dresses and began fingering their sopping cunts until they came so hard they gushed all over Whitney Houston’s casket. Meanwhile, Kevin Costner pulled out his schlong and began stroking it furiously until he exploded, blasting Cissy Houston and Dionne Warwick with his hot white slime. Then everybody started orgying at the grave site. It was so awesome, ‘specially compared to most other funerals where no one ever usually cums.

It was a glorious celebration of a fine bee-yatch who touched so many people, not only with her angelic voice but also with her plump brown titties, sweet juicy punany, and hot, tight asshole.

We’ll always love you Whitney!

 

It’s Simple Math

01/08/2012  05:00pm

All I hear lately is people complaining that there aren’t any jobs out there and how we need to create jobs. They all seem to be under some kooky delusion that this would somehow improve the economy. If you know anything about economics at all then you know this is quite contrary to reality. Labor is, by far, the greatest expense for any corporation. Therefore if you can eliminate jobs, or at least outsource them to some third world country for pennies on the dollar, you increase profit potential. Higher profits mean greater dividends and greater dividends mean more income flowing into your trust fund. Assuming your daddy’s attorney structured it properly, you get to take larger distributions in years when your portfolio generates more income. In plain English, that means you get a raise and, when you get a raise, you spend more.  Spending drives the economy and the more of it you do, the more the economy grows. It’s simple math.

In light of this, I’ve mailed a letter to my Congressman containing a draft of what I call the Jobs Elimination Act of 2012. My proposed bill will grant tax incentives to firms that  eliminate or outsource jobs. Thus, we will provide Corporate America greater opportunity to improve their bottom line which, of course, trickles down to us all. If President Obama has any aspirations for a second term, I urge him to sign this bill immediately when it comes before him.

 

A New Year’s Rant

01/04/2012  08:05pm

It seems these days that everybody’s got a medical excuse for their piss poor behavior. Bad students have “attention deficit disorder”; crybabies with a perpetual case of PMS (whether they be male or female) are “bipolar”; teens who fail to learn basic social skills suffer from “Asperger’s Syndrome”; self indulgent assholes who opt to party instead of work for a living have the so-called disease called “alcoholism” or “addiction”; and lazy fuckers who lie in bed all day whining about their psychosomatic aches and pains have “fibromyalgia” or “chronic fatigue syndrome”.  In my day, we had a cure all for all these “syndromes”, “diseases”, and “disorders” – IT WAS CALLED A GOOD SWIFT KICK IN THE ASS!

What a pathetic group of people we Americans have become! Lazy, stupid, negligent, and completely lacking any sense of responsibility for anything in our lives.  Nowhere is this more prevalent than here on Xanga. I am thoroughly sickened every time I peruse the front page with its scores of posts about slacker angst and eating disorders. It’s a new year people. How ‘bout making a resolution to grow the fuck up? Your bullshit problems are your own making. Instead of smoking that doobie and heading off to your silly Occupy protest, how ‘bout you go to a fucking job fair?! Instead of demanding that I understand your pain, how ‘bout you find a way to pay back those student loans that were funded courtesy of me, the humble tax payer?! Or better yet, just die!

Happy New Year and go fuck yourself!

 

An Ancient Solution to a Modern Problem

10/17/2011 09:10pm

If you’ve ever had a bitch mess around on you then you know that’s some painful shit. Trouble is, good bitches don’t exactly grow on trees so when you finally get your hands and dick on one, it can be quite discouraging to find that she’s a two-timing whore. What then is a motherfucker supposed to do? Well, first thing is to realize that she can’t help it. You see, bitches have a troublesome appendage above their meat hole called a clit. A totally useless organ, the clit serves no necessary purpose. Don’t be fooled into thinking it's harmless though. When aroused and stimulated, the clit brings about intense sexual pleasure in a bitch. And once she discovers this, FORGET ABOUT IT! Even the most prim and proper of bitches suddenly turns into a nympho slut who constantly needs to get her groove on and, if you ain’t around to help her with that shit, she’ll find someone else who is – whether that be the mailman, her mom, or a peanut butter loving dog named Scruffles.

Having dealt with a randy bitch or two in my day, I looked to the ancients for a solution to this modern day dilemma. The ancients, you see, lived back in the days when there was no TV or internet or even porno mags so they had a lot of free time to do lots of thinking. As a result, they thought up all kind of solutions to everyday problems. The solution they came up with for this one, believe it or not, was actually quite simple. That is, take the clit out of the equation.

Dating back to Egypt in the age of the Pharoahs, female circumcisions are performed to this day in such socially advanced cultures as Chad, Ethiopia, Guinea, Mali, Nigeria, Somalia, and the Sudan. While the practicehas recently come under fire by some dykey feminist bitches, all medical evidence suggests that it is a safe and effective way to keep a ho under control. For those of you who are still unsure, however, I’ve created the handy guide below to help you weigh through the pros and cons and make an informed decision on how to handle your bitch.

FEMALE CIRCUMCISION
PROS	CONS
Discourages infidelity by eliminating the potential for significant sexual gratification	Minor pain and swelling is possible after the procedure* which can be easily managed with some Tylenol and an ice pack
In the absence of her own pleasure, frees your bitch to focus on pleasing you	Possible risk of a mild infection which can be minimized by applying Neosporin to where the clit used to be
No more wasting twenty minutes or more on pointless foreplay just so you can get your nut off
Economical – can be performed at home for the cost of a pair of scissors, some gauze, and a bottle of isopropyl alcohol
No more bitching and complaining about being too rough or not rough enough or too much direct stimulation or not enough direct stimulation or licking too fast, licking too slow, and all that other shit you gotta deal with when your bitch has a clit
Eliminates the risk of clitoral cancer

*To minimize discomfort to your bitch, it is generally recommended that you confine sexual activity to anal intercourse and fellatio for at least five to seven days. Of course, as the man, it is completely up to you as to whether you extend this consideration to your bitch.

Greedy, Racist, Piece of Shit Founder of Apple Dead At 56

10/06/2011 09:50pm

 Steve Jobs represented everything that is wrong with this country. A ruthless capitalist, he spent his life accumulating obscene wealth while the rest of us lived paycheck-to-paycheck, deprived of our basic right to free healthcare and the funds necessary to pursue happiness, as guaranteed by the Constitution of the United States of America. Mr. Jobs, you see, used that old tax loophole known as the "dollar salary" whereby rich scumbags draw a nominal paycheck of a buck each year and receive the rest of their compensation in stock options. This means that income is generated through capital gains and taxed at a much lower rate than would be a salary. Thus Mr. Jobs was able to make billions of dollars taxed at only 15% while his much lower paid employees saw their salaries taxed at ordinary income tax rates up to 35%. Meanwhile, the rest of society deteriorated in the absence of important social programs which could not be funded thanks to rich cocksuckers like Steve Jobs who refused to pay their fair share of taxes

On a personal level, Steve Jobs was an evil man if ever there was one. A megalomaniac of the highest degree, he routinely dismissed the hard work his 49,000 employees demanding that the world recognize him, and him alone, as the emporium of innovation known as Apple. He would work his engineers night and day, publicly humiliating them in front of their peers and deeming the fruits of their labor to be “worthless shit”,  only to claim it as his own latest and greatest invention at the next MacWorld Expo.

Jobs ruled Apple with an iron fist. Employees would quiver in his presence, afraid to even say hi, let alone strike up a conversation with the man. He was known for randomly firing people he encountered in elevators and hallways and once even terminated his secretary on the spot when she handed him the wrong brand of bottled water.

His tenure at Apple was filled with evidence of his mean-spiritedness. One former Apple employee described a corporate picnic where he slapped an ice cream cone out of a young boy’s hand. When the child began to cry, Jobs called him “pathetic”, “worthless” and “weak”, telling him “you’re shit, you’ll always be shit but maybe someday I’ll hire you anyway just so I can fire you and ruin your life.”

Jobs didn’t care much for children. For years he denied his daughter Lisa was even his and refused to pay child support, leaving it up to the welfare system to support her and her mother. Seeing children as a barrier to his pursuit of gluttonous wealth, he held a lifelong resentment towards pregnant women. “Steve loved to make pregnant bitches cry. He knew exactly how to play around with their hormonal balance to get them good and sobbing,” says one former Product Manger who recalls how Jobs once told an expectant mother on his marketing staff, “Christ, I know you're with child and all but did you really have to get that fat.”

Jobs was also known for his aversion to people of color. While Apple’s employment ads may not have explicitly stated “Blacks Need Not Apply”, anyone who has ever visited an Apple store and observed the racial make-up of its staff will clearly recognize that this is indeed the case. Jobs made it a point to locate his stores in predominantly white neighborhoods. For his corporate headquarters, he chose Cupertino, CA – a city where African Americans make up a microscopic 0.2% of the population. He blatantly embraced his racist sentiments during an interview with Oprah Winfrey in the late 90’s when he stated that he did not make his computers for African Americans and that he wished “those people” would not buy his products. Winfrey publicly condemned his statements before asking him to leave her studio. Somehow Jobs was entirely unscathed by the incident.

Steve Jobs had everything life could offer. He could have done so much good in this world but instead chose to give the finger to those who made him rich and live a life of selfish excess. In a world wracked with social injustice (thanks to people like him) we can at least take solace in the fact that, in the end, even he could not buy his way out of death.

Steve Jobs leaves behind a wife, sister, and four children. He is widely rumored to have fucked his mother.

 

Before I sold my soul to Corporate America, I had aspirations to be a screenwriter. This is part of a film script I wrote around 1995/96.

An Afternoon with Grandpa 

10/02/2011 04:30pm

FADE IN:      

INT. A KITCHEN

An old man (Grandpa) and his daughter (Suzie), sit at the kitchen table sipping tea.

SUZIE

Well anyway dad, I think Billy might be, you know   .   .   .

GRANDPA

What makes you think that Suzie?

SUZIE

All I know is I walked in his room the other day as he was frantically trying to get his pants up. He told me he was itchy down there and he was just scratching himself.

GRANDPA

Yes well, itchy testicles are just as trying for a young boy as they are for a man. 

SUZIE

I wish I didn’t have such a hard time believing that Dad but he was all flushed and nervous and he had a guilty look on his face.                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                            GRANDPA

But are you absolutely sure Suzie?

SUZIE

Well not 100% but it seems very likely.  In any case, this is an issue I think we need to address before it gets any more serious.

GRANDPA

Have you ever spoken to him about it and told him why this type of behavior is inappropriate.

SUZIE

I’m really no good at that sort of thing dad.  I thought maybe you could have a word with him, tell him in your own special way.

GRANDPA

I’ll tell you what Suzie, why don’t you run along and leave Billy here for the afternoon, do some shopping or whatnot, and I’ll have a little talk with him.

SUZIE

Would you?

GRANDPA

Yes, of course.

SUZIE

Thank you so much dad. You’ve always been there for me.

GRANDPA

That’s what a father is for. Now run along. After today I guarantee that little Billy will abuse himself no more.

INT. GRANDPA’S LIVING ROOM

Billy is sitting on the floor, in front of the T.V., playing Nintendo. Grandpa walks in just as he makes a fatal error that ends his game.

BILLY

Aw, nuts!

GRANDPA

Now, now, they’ll be none of that kind of language around here young man!

BILLY

Sorry Grandpa, I didn’t know you were here.

GRANDPA

Does doing something bad when no one’s around make it any less bad?

BILLY

Well if there’s no one around then you won’t get in trouble for it.

GRANDPA

You may not get in trouble for it but that doesn’t make what you did any less bad.  If a bad man hurt your mommy but they never caught him does that make what he did okay?

BILLY

Well gosh Grandpa, when you say it like that.

GRANDPA

And remember, there is someone who is always watching everything you do, who sees everything.  Do you know who that is Billy?

BILLY

Santa Claus?

GRANDPA

Even more important than Santa Claus Billy.

BILLY

Gosh, who could be more important than Santa Claus?

GRANDPA

God Billy. God.

BILLY

Oh yeah.I guess God is more important than Santa Claus, even if he doesn’t bring presents.

GRANDPA

Oh but Billy, he gave you the greatest present of all – the gift of life. And you know what else Billy?

BILLY

What Grandpa?

GRANDPA

God watches over all of us and makes sure that no one who does bad ever goes unpunished, even if no one else saw them do it.  Now is there anything you may havedone Billy that perhaps you didn’t realize God was watching you do?

BILLY

Gosh no Grandpa.  I would never do anything to make God mad at me.

GRANDPA

Why don’t you have a seat on the couch and we’ll have a man-to-man talk.

BILLY

Okay Grandpa. [He sits on the couch] Where did mommy go Grandpa?

GRANDPA

Your mommy had to run some errands.  Why don’t you just sit back for a moment and relax.  Can I get you anything to drink?

BILLY

No thank you Grandpa.

GRANDPA

Not even one of my famous chocolate malts?

BILLY

Well okay Grandpa, I guess I’ll have one of those.

GRANDPA

I knew you couldn’t refuse that one.

INT. GRANDPA’S KITCHEN.

Grandpa scoops some chocolate ice cream and deposits it into a blender. He then adds milk.  Next, he pulls down his trousers, squats over his hand, and defecates upon it.

ANGLE ON THE FECES LYING IN THE PALM OF GRANDPA’S HAND.

Grandpa drops the fecal matter into the blender then pulls his trousers back up.

ANGLE ON THE BLENDER AS GRANDPA TURNS IT ON AND THE CONTENTS WITHIN ARE LIQUIFIED.

Once the malt is finished, Grandpa pours it from the blender into a glass. He drops a straw in.  He puts the ice cream back in the freezer and the milk back into the refrigerator.  Before closing the refrigerator door, he opens the butter crisper and takes out a zip-lock bag.  He removes a used kotex pad, inhales it deeply several times then puts it back and closes the refrigerator.

INT. GRANDPA’S LIVING ROOM.

Grandpa comes out of the kitchen with Billy’s malt.  Billy is watching a cartoon on TV.  Grandpa takes the remote control and shuts off the TV then hands Billy his malt.

GRANDPA

They’ll be plenty of time to watch T.V. later.

Billy takes a sip of his malt.

BILLY

Mmmm! You sure make a yummy malt Grandpa!

GRANDPA

It’s made with my special secret ingredient.

BILLY

What’s your secret ingredient Grandpa?

GRANDPA

I can’t tell you that Billy, then it wouldn’t be a secret.

BILLY

I bet God knows what it is.

GRANDPA

Yes Billy, I bet he does. I bet he does. In fact, God knows many things. Things that you may think you have kept secret from everyone else.He knows Billy. He knows.

BILLY

What does he know Grandpa?

GRANDPA

Let me show you something Billy.

ANGLE ON GRANDPA’S BACK AS HE PULLS DOWN HIS TROUSERS AND EXPOSES HIMSELF TO BILLY.

BILLY

Grandpa, you have no pee-pee!

GRANDPA

That’s right Billy.

BILLY

Where did it go?

GRANDPA

I cut it off.

BILLY

You cut off your pee-pee Grandpa?

GRANDPA

Yes Billy, I did.

BILLY

But why?

Grandpa takes his Bible from the mantle and opens it.

GRANDPA

Let me read you something Billy. [He opens to Matthew 5:29] “if your right eye causes you to sin, put it out and throw it away! It is much better for you to lose a part of your body than to have your whole body thrown into hell.  If your right hand causes you to sin, cut it off and throw it away!  It is much better to lose one of your limbs than to have your whole body go off to hell.”

He closes the Bible.

BILLY

But Grandpa, why did you cutoff your pee-pee.

GRANDPA

Well Billy, I’m afraid it was my pee-pee that caused me to sin.

BILLY

How did your pee-pee cause you to sin Grandpa.

GRANDPA

Well, this is something I was really hoping I wouldn’t have to be discussing with you but if I must then I must.

BILLY

Oh, I know Grandpa, you were humping.

GRANDPA

Excuse me young man?!

BILLY

You were humping.  You know, when a boy  rubs his hot dog on a girl’s muffin and it makes milk.

GRANDPA

[Angry] Where did you learn such a thing?!

BILLY

Bobby told me.

GRANDPA

Bobby?  Bobby who?

BILLY

Bobby McIntrye.  He’s on my bus.

GRANDPA

Oh really?! Well maybe Bobby’s parents would like to hear about the kind of filthy talk that’s coming out of their little boy’s mouth!

BILLY

No Grandpa, please don’t tell on him.  He’ll beat me up.

GRANDPA

Not to worry Billy, I’m sure little Bobby McIntyre will get what’s coming to him in the end.  Getting back to what I was saying before—

BILLY

About how your pee-pee made you sin?

GRANDPA

Yes Billy, about that.  Back before your Grandpa retired, I was working a lot of hours at the office, trying to launch new products and whatnot. Anyway, I would be staying until very late at night and by the time I got home, both your grandmother and your mom would be already asleep. At work my staff was made up mostly of ladies, and very pretty ladies at that.  Because I was constantly working, I was with those ladies much more than I was with your grandma. A man has needs Billy and it’s not at all unnatural to act on those needs so long as one does so within the context of marriage. Unfortunately, I became so caught up with things at work that I forgot about my marriage and so when it came time to act on those needs, I did so outside the context of it.  It was one Friday night when my assistant Gladys and I were working late. After working nearly twelve straight hours,we took a break to clear our heads.  There was a couch in my office and we were both exhausted so we took a seat on it.  Needless to say, Gladys became very friendly while we were on that couch and I was too tired to resist her friendliness.  We began doing very naughty things until the door suddenly opened.  It was your grandmother.  She was going to surprise me with Chinese food.

BILLY

Grandma caught you two humping?

GRANDPA

Yes Billy, I’m afraid she did.                                  

BILLY

Is that why you got divorced?

GRANDPA

Yes.  She was right to leave.  I was no longer any good for her and things could never be the same between us. Because of my own selfish desires I hurt her and more importantly I hurt God.  I vowed never to let those desires hurt God or anyone else ever again so I checked into a hotel, sterilized my hunting knife, and cut off my pee-pee.

BILLY

That must have hurt really bad Grandpa.

GRANDPA

Yes Billy, it did.  In fact, it was the worst pain I had ever experienced but, after a while, it went away and I no longer had to fight off those evil desires, the desires that made me sin. I could now focus all my attention on serving God.

BILLY

I’ll bet that made God happy.

GRANDPA

Yes, it made him very happy.  The reason I tell you all of this Billy is because your mom thinks you might be starting down the same road I was on. When your mom walked into your room the other day, you weren’t itching yourself were you?

BILLY

No sir.

GRANDPA

You were touching yourself in a naughty way, weren’t you?

BILLY

Yes sir.

GRANDPA

Now I know Billy that this doesn’t seem like a big deal to you right now but believe me when I tell you it will lead to no good later on. There are also certain physical side effects that  –  acne, unwanted body hair, even blindness.

BILLY

I could go blind Grandpa.

GRANDPA

Yes, I’m afraid so.  But more seriously, you will have corrupted the soul that God took so much care to create.

BILLY

Gosh Grandpa, I would never wanna do that.

GRANDPA

Then what are we gonna do about this?

BILLY

Maybe you should cut my pee-pee off like you did with yours.

GRANDPA

Perhaps, but that’s something you’ll have to decide on your own.

BILLY

Will it make God happy?

GRANDPA

Well Billy, you’ll be making a tremendous sacrifice on his behalf and if there’s one thing that pleases God, it’s putting him ahead of yourself.

BILLY

Well then if it will please him, then I will have it done.

GRANDPA

Very well then Billy, very well.

FADE OUT.

FADE IN:

INT. GRANDPA’S KITCHEN

ANGLE ON GRANDPA’S SHINY STERLING HUNTING KNIFE AS HE SHARPENS IT.

Billy sits tied to one of the kitchen chairs. He is trouserless.  An iron stands atop an ironing board beside him.  There is a drop cloth on the floor.

GRANDPA

All right now Billy, this is gonna hurt a bit.

ANGLE ON THE BACK OF THE CHAIR AS GRANDPA BEGINS CUTTING.

Billy immediately starts screaming and begins writhing in the chair to get away from the blade.

GRANDPA

Sit still now Billy, it will make this a lot easier for the both of us.

BILLY

[Screaming and crying] Stop Grandpa! Stop!  Please!

GRANDPA

Now, now Billy, just hold on a bit longer. [He vigorously begins hacking away the last bit of connecting tissue].  There we go, all done. [He places the penis on the ironing board then picks up the iron].  Sit tight, this will stop the bleeding.

Billy screams loudly as Grandpa puts the iron on his wound. There is a searing sound as steam is seen flowing upwards.

ANGLE ON THE IRON WITH STEAM POURING OUT FROM UNDERNEATH.

Billy passes out just as Grandpa finishes.  He puts the iron back on the board.  He goes to the refrigerator and takes out a pickle jar. He unscrews the cap and places it on the counter.  He then picks up the penis and holds it above the jar which has three other severed penises in it.

GRANDPA

[With a deranged look on his face]

And what a tasty pickle this will make!

He drops the penis into the jar.

FADE TO BLACK.

 

 

An Honest Look Back

09/08/2011 08:20pm

December 2004: an earthquake under the Pacific causes a massive tsunami which leaves 230,000 people dead in Indonesia.

October 2005: 79,000 perish after an earthquake in Kashmir.

May 2008: a cyclone hits Myanmar, killing 146,000. Less than two weeks later an earthquake in Sichuan Province, China ends another 87,000 lives.

January 2010: 316,000 die when a 7.0 magnitude earthquake strikes Haiti.

March 2011: a 9.0 magnitude quake hits Japan killing nearly 16,000.

 

It’s a fair bet that if you are an American you have little, if any, recollection of the above events. We are quick to dismiss the misfortune of those who don’t salute our flag with a simple “Gee, that’s too bad” before turning our shallow interests to the Kardashians or American Idol. Yet seemingly not a day goes by when we don’t pay mind to the so-called “tragic events” of September 11th, 2011. While the loss of 3,000 lives was certainly unfortunate, it pales in comparison to any of the above natural disasters whose victims were truly innocent. The same cannot exactly be said of 9-11’s casualties. Preoccupied with fueling their Escalades at the cheapest price possible, they stood silent to their government’s atrocities around the globe. While they may not have deserved to die, they, like the rest of us, were at least contributorily responsible for what happened that day.

I think I speak for all those brave enough to have taken an honest look when I admit that we basically had 9-11 coming to us. That is not to say that Al Qaeda was justified in their actions. Putting aside our pride and our patriotism, however, you can certainly understand why they might feel they were. After all, you can only keep brutal dictators in power so long before those they oppress rise up and attempt to discourage your further support. Likewise, you can only deprive children of food and medicine through an unconscionable embargo for so long before parents start to seek revenge for their dead kids. And, it goes without saying, you can only arm and train terrorists to do your dirty work for so long before they begin using their skills and weapons to terrorize you. Given our guilt of all the above, we should actually have a certain degree of gratitude for the considerable restraint Al Qaeda showed us.

On this particular anniversary, let us finally look past the last ten years of self pity and arrogance to see September 11^th for what it truly was – the consequences of our own sins. Let us not have glee for the death of Osama bin Laden but rather sympathy for a tragic victim of circumstance who did what he thought was right for the sake of his people. Let us not celebrate the retaliatory violence inflicted by our military but rather mourn the innocent men, women, and children whose lives were ended by it. No, let us not look back with anger and vengeance but instead with empathy and compassion, and a firm resolve to improve the moral character of this nation so that Al Qaeda’s warriors will not have reason to attack us. Further, let us commit this election season to finally ridding our government of the Christian extremists that have alienated us from our Islamic friends around the world.

The desperate souls who attacked us on 9-11 didn’t do so because they wanted war. They did so because we denied them peace. Let us finally grant them what they seek.

 

Rabbanā Fāghfir Lanā Dhunūbanā Wa Kaffir `Annā Sayyi’ātinā Wa Tawaffanā Ma`al-’Abrār .

 

 

Pondering the Shit Phantom

08/03/2011 08:00pm

Yes, the Shit Phantom - a menace that I’ve encountered time and time again ever since entering the workforce oh-so-many years ago.  For the benefit of my female readers, as well as those who live in some sort of dream world where the walls of the Men’s Room aren’t routinely smeared with the excrement of their colleague(s), I’ll explain. The Shit Phantom is the evolutionary descendant of that kid in junior high who would shit in the urinal.  He is the elusive chap in every workplace who, upon defecating, reaches down into the toilet, grabs a chunk of his own feces, and scrubs it into the walls around him. 

“Why would anyone do such a thing?” I have often asked myself. Could it be that he simply feels dissatisfied with the humble bathroom stall in which he shits and is thus compelled to accent it, similar to how they put fishnets and lobster traps on the wall at a seafood restaurant? Or is it some sort of masculine ritual he feels he needs to perform in order to keep from developing an unhealthy appreciation for Liza Minnelli? That I do not know. What I do know is that the Shit Phantom’s body of work is by no means a series of isolated incidents confined to my particular place of employment and performed by one specific social deviant. Over the years I’ve worked for many different companies in different cities and there has always been a Shit Phantom. In fact, at my first job out of college, I would encounter shit covered walls so often, and without protest from my coworkers, that I began to question whether I might be the abnormal one for not emulating, or at least appreciating, the Shit Phantom’s work.

Now don’t get me wrong. I certainly don’t suffer from the proverbial stick up my ass (if I did then surely the Shit Phantom would pull it out and use it as a crayon). I fully accept that some very unpretty things happen behind the door to the Men’s Room -  pissing on toilet seats, sticking boogers to the wall, and hocking lugis into the sink. Revolting as these activities may be, I have grown to tolerate them. They are just part of being man, like smoking Marlboros and watching football. Buttering the walls with shit, on the other hand, IS JUST FUCKING SAVAGE ! ! !Sure, like every other red-blooded heterosexual male, I too have enjoyed masturbating under a glass coffee table while a pretty ethnic girl defecated onto the transparent surface above me. There is, however, a time and a place for everything and, outside of a highly passionate sexual encounter, other people’s shit has no place being in my face – especially not at work!

Where, I ask, is Corporate Security on this matter? Where is the Department of Public Health? Hell, where are the fucking Police? AND WHY DON’T ANY OF MY COWORKERS SHARE THESE CONCERNS ? ? ! !

People, there is human shit slathered all over the walls where you read your morning paper each day. What's more, it was put there by someone with whom you work. Someone with whom you might go to lunch on a regular basis. Someone you may have even invited into your home. And yet it doesn't seem to bother you ? ? ? Have you no concern about disease? About good manners? About the undocumented Mexicans who have to clean it up each night?

I just don’t get it.

 

The Devil’s Herb

07/24/2011 03:10pm

As most of you have heard by now, Amy Winehouse was found dead Saturday from a suspected marijuana overdose. It was not entirely unexpected. The troubled singer had struggled for years with marijuana addiction and it was only a matter of time before she took one toke too many.

Reading through Xanga blogs, I am very often perturbed not only by the number of Xangans who admit to using marijuana but also by how many of them are under the delusion that it is a safe drug. Only the other day I saw a post entitled “Cannabis is Safer”, leading me to ask, “Safer than what? A hollow tip bullet fired directly into the brain?” Marijuana kills plain and simple! It may not be your first hit, or your second, or even your hundredth but, if you continue to use this dangerous drug, you will eventually be forced to endure the tragic consequences. Consider the number of celebrities who have died from marijuana abuse:

GG Allin (musician, lead singer of The Murder Junkies)

Syd Barrett (founding member of the British rock band Pink Floyd)

John Belushi (actor, comedian)

Len Bias (basketball player)

Lenny Bruce (comedian)

Jeff Conaway (star of the hit television series Taxi)

Kurt Cobain (lead singer of Nirvana who committed suicide after years of struggling with marijuana addiction)

John Entwistle (bass player for The Who)

Chris Farley (comedian, star of Saturday Night Live)

Greg Giraldo (comedian)

Corey Haim (star of The Lost Boys and long-term “partner” of fellow actor Corey Feldman)

Jimi Hendrix (guitarist, singer)

Janis Joplin (singer)

Heath Ledger (“The Joker”)

Lisa “Left Eye” Lopez (member of 90’s girl group TLC)

Brittany Murphy (actress)

Keith Moon (drummer for The Who)

Jim Morrison (lead singer of The Doors)

Dana Plato (Kimberly Drummond of the TV show Diff’rent Strokes)

Elvis Presley (“The King”)

River Phoenix (actor and brother of Joaquin)

John Ritter (Jack Tripper of ABC TV’s Three’s Company)

Anna Nicole Smith (Playboy model and reality TV star)

Layne Stayley (lead singer of Alice in Chains)

And the list goes on and on.

Even scarier than the musings of the self-destructive fools here who proclaim the wonders of frying their brains on marijuana is the fact that many states are considering decriminalizing or outright legalizing the deadly herb, a move that will surely fill local morgues to capacity with the bodies of our children. Let’s not forget that marijuana doesn’t always just kill the user. While high on marijuana, Sex Pistols’ bassist Sid Vicious stabbed his girlfriend Nancy Spungen to death before dying of a marijuana overdose himself while awaiting trial for the murder. Brynn Hartman, wife of Newsradio star Phil Hartman, shot her husband to death then turned the gun on herself while under the influence of marijuana. Then of course there’s WWE wrestler and noted pothead Chris Benoit who murdered his entire family then took his own life while stoned on the evil weed. Is this the kind of tragedy we want to perpetuate? If anything, states and the Federal government should be pushing for stiffer penalties on the use and distribution of marijuana, not encouraging it.

Let us learn from the tragic mistakes of celebrities like Amy Winehouse. Any way you slice it or dice it, marijuana is bad. At the very best, its habitual users will kill themselves. At the very worst they will take one or more innocent non-users with them.

 

 

Ophthalmological Combustion

07/16/2011 06:23pm

My eyes burn. They itch too but mostly they burn. Now the March of Dimes won’t leave me alone. They keep insisting that I’m responsible for some fucked-up kid with a face growing out of his asshole and they want me to pay up.

“Do you know the kind of suffering you could prevent,” Judy the Time-Life operator accuses. She’s with the March of Dimes, not Time-Life, and her name’s probably not Judy but the only way I can relate to women on the telephone is to think of that chick with the headset who would offer me a pulse tone phone shaped like a football if I subscribed to her magazine. “Rising Vampires” was the cover of one issue. I didn’t think vampires were real up to that point and it made me scared to think that the mainstream media was reporting otherwise.

“Can I call you back later,” I say, “I’ve got a bus to catch.”

“A bus? A bus to where?” she demands to know.

“The clinic,” I tell her, and she does not believe me.

“Are you getting an abortion?” she asks in a most acerbic tone.

“No. My eyes,” I explain, “they burn.”

*   *   *

“Well  .   .  . what seems to be the problem?” Dr. Kelly asks in that same tone Dirty Harry used when he told the bank robber that, in all the excitement, he couldn't remember whether he had fired five shots or six shots.

“My eyes burn. Really bad.”

“Do they itch too?”

“Yes.”

“So what do you think is causing this burning,” he says, making the quote signs with his fingers as he utters the word “burning”.

I’m tempted to say “your mom’s hot wet cunt” but instead just tell him that I don’t know.

“What did you have for breakfast this morning?” he asks.

“What does that have to do with my eyes?” I ask back.

“A whole lot,” he says. “The key here is diet and exercise.”

“Are you saying my eyes burn because I’m fat?”

“I’d really like to see you lose forty pounds,” he tells me.

I hardly consider myself obese at a hundred and sixty pounds and I would seem to be bordering on anorexic if I dropped forty. But then again, maybe I’m a lot shorter than I think.

“Can’t you just write me a prescription for some eye drops or something?” I ask.

“Typical of the instant gratification generation,” he scorns. “There is no quick fix here, none that’s effective anyway. I can give you a prescription for your eyes but it will do nothing for your poor eating habits and lack of exercise.”

“But my eyes burn,” I say.

“I know,” says Dr. Kelly, “And I want to let you know I take these things very seriously.”  He pauses and with a serious look continues, “My brother was eaten by a hammerhead shark – a shark he surely could have out swum had he eaten right and was in better shape. People forget this is a matter of life and death.”

I leave without a prescription, just burning eyes and the words of a so-called wise man: Work eight hours.  Play eight hours. Sleep eight hours. Just not the same eight hours. I don’t know who this fella is that Dr. Kelly thinks is so wise but he seems like one smug asshole.

Leaving the office I decide to go across the street to the pharmacy in lieu of having the bran muffin Dr. Kelly advised I eat for breakfast. I grab a bottle of name brand over-the-counter eye drops and bring it to the register. After she rings me up, the cashier asks, “Would you like to buy a Shamrock for the March of Dimes? Only a dollar.”

If I hadn’t left my gun in the restaurant the other night I would be sticking the barrel in her mouth right now, cocking the hammer back, and demanding to know who sent her. Instead I simply tell her I gave at the office.

“You gave at the office?” she asks with a perplexed face.

“Yes,” I say, “They took up a collection for the March of Dimes and I gave.”

“What office is that?” she suspiciously inquires.

Thinking quickly I tell her, “The Office of the Comptroller of Currency.”

“So you’re telling me you work for the Office of the Comptroller of the Currency and you came all the way down here from Washington D.C. to buy a bottle of eye drops?”

“Yes, that’s right.”

“You don’t have to lie. If you bought the store brand you could use the money you saved to buy the shamrock. It has the same active ingredient.”

“I’m not a liar,” I insist.

“Listen dude, I know you didn’t give at the office. My sister works for the OCC and I happen to know the only charity drive they do is for the United Way.”

“What the fuck is the shamrock about anyway?!” I snap, “It’s July not St. Patrick’s day!”

*   *   *

I exited the pharmacy with the store brand of eye drops. That was a half hour ago. My eyes still burn.

Maybe I’ll have a bran muffin.

 

THIS IS WHAT YOUR SO-CALLED "SCIENCE" GETS YOU:

03/16/2011 01:15am

 

NUCLEAR FUCKING MELTDOWN!

Lesson learned from Japan - put your faith in the lord not in four-eyed lab coat wearing faggots!

 

 

Ain’t Candy Good?

03/06/2011 11:30pm

Why is it every time I call a bitch “Sweet Tits” she gets all offended and be wanting to take me to human resources and shit? I mean it’s a compliment, not an insult. If I called her “Bitter Tits”, that would be an insult. But I wouldn’t! My momma brought me up right. She said if you can’t say nuthin’ nice about a bitch’s tits then don’t say nuthin’ at all. So I don’t! But when I see a bitch with nice juicy honkers and I don’t know her name, my first inclination is naturally to call her “Sweet Tits”. What else would I call her? She has tits and they’re sweet so I call her “Sweet Tits”.  What’s the problem?  I’m saying her tits are like candy. Who don’t like candy? It’s delicious!

 

 

AN UNFORTUNATE EMPLOYMENT

02/21/2011 09:47pm

News of Archibald’s death brought both sorrow and hunger pangs. I had a particular craving for donuts. Specifically I was hankering for a jelly, which is kind of funny because usually chocolate glazed is my preference. I pulled the car into Sparky’s High Boy Restaurant and Bakery at the corner of Broad and Essex, out by the old dump they turned into a recycling center. I didn’t care too much for that recycling center. They had rejected my refuse on two separate occasions. Apparently they have a problem with polyvinyl chlorides and cathode ray tubes. Just where the hell is a boy supposed to bring his waste in this town? I sure do miss having a full service dump. Oh well, at least we still have the High Boy.

I liked Sparky’s. I liked it a lot, even if they didn’t have a drive thru. They made things simple, confining their menu to a limited choice of soups, sandwiches, and pastries, complimented with a few assorted hot and cold beverages. I’m told they once had a reputation for the tastiest fries in all the Upstate. That was many years ago though, back in the fifties. Apparently French fried spuds were removed from the menu after a clumsy staff member tripped over a sack of potatoes in the kitchen and was injured quite severely. The ensuing lawsuit almost cost the High Boy its solvency. To add insult to injury, the court ordered that the injured worker be guaranteed his position back, should he ever be well enough to return.

At the bakery counter I ordered one jelly donut and a coffee with nondairy creamer and no sugar.  The cashier expeditiously retrieved my donut and handed it to me. She then went to get my coffee. While she was gone I bit into the donut and immediately recognized an irregular flavor. There was something more than jelly in this donut. It was salty and kind of metallic. When the cashier returned with my coffee, I looked her straight in the eye and spat into her face. A wad of blood, saliva, and pastry jelly pelted her cheek then slithered down her chin and neck to her blouse, leaving a slimy red trail in its wake.

“I’d like to speak with a manager,” I said

“What seems to be the problem sir?”

“There’s blood in my donut. That seems to be the problem.”

“Wait here,” she said and momentarily disappeared.  She returned a few minutes later and said, “Follow me.”

She led me down a long dark corridor to a room illuminated by single dim light bulb. A dark shadow stood behind a desk with its back to me.  I heard the door close behind me.  The shadow turned and spoke in a soft, feminine voice.

“Allow me to introduce myself,” she said, “they call me the Enigmatic Miss M. And you, you must be Charles.”  The spot where she stood suddenly illuminated to reveal a tall, exotic, dark-haired woman. She looked almost Asian but not quite and wore a black lace peignoir and matching gown. It was hardly the kind of attire one would expect for the manager of Sparky’s High Boy Restaurant and Bakery.

“How do you know my name?” I asked her.

“You’d be surprised what I know about you Charles.”

“Oh? And yet I know nothing of you.”

She smiled and said “I’d be happy to answer any of your questions.”

“Okay then Enigmatic Miss M.,” I said, “What is it that the ‘M’ stands for?”

“It’s an initial Charles. It stands for my name.”

“Which is?”

“What is it that you would like it to be?”

“Guadeloupe Hidalgo,” I said stressing the Spanish pronunciation.

“Guadeloupe Hidalgo?” she asked, also stressing the Spanish pronunciation.

“Yes, as in the Treaty of.”

“I’m familiar with it Charles,” she said, seemingly annoyed at the insinuation that she was not. “Ended the Mexican-American War and, among other things, made the Rio Grande the official border between Texas and Mexico.”

“Yes,” I said, “but I guess that doesn’t begin with M now does it.”

“No Charles, it doesn’t. Now what can I do for you?”

“I took a bite of one of your donuts and it had blood in it, human blood. From the taste of it I’d say it came from one of the nostrils, bled from either the inferior concha or the septum.”

“You don’t say,” she said and pushed a button on her telephone console.  Shortly thereafter a man in a baker’s hat entered through a door to the left which I had not noticed existed. He held a baking sheet. On it were what looked like capsules of smelling salts. The enigmatic Miss M. took one.

“Amyl?” she offered, “they’re straight from the oven.”

“No thank you,” I said.

“Very well,” she said then crushed the capsule between her fingers and inhaled its contents.  She closed her eyes, taking a long pause. She opened them and looked towards her baker. “This is Franz, Charles,” she said then looked back at me, “He’s prone to nose bleeds.”

“Then perhaps Franz should see a doctor. An ears, nose, and throat specialist, or maybe an allergist.”

“Oh, and just who the fuck’s gonna pay for that, you?” Franz said angrily.

“You’ll have to forgive Franz,” said the Enigmatic Miss M., “You see, he is only a part-time employee and thus ineligible to participate in our health and dental plan or our very generous 401(k) which matches one hundred percent of all contributions up to four percent.  He is, however, still entitled to our employee discount. We offer that to all employees, without restriction.”

“Glad to hear it,” I said smugly.

“Oh you should be very glad Charles,” she said.

“Why’s that?”

“Because as an employee you will receive fifteen percent off your recent order.”

I was perplexed. “What are you talking about?” I asked, “I don’t work here.”

“Of course you do,” she said, “you’ve been working here since 1957.”

“That’s Impossible. I wasn’t even born in 1957.”

“Come on now, you know well that the High Boy existed for you long before you ever existed for it.”

“What are you talking about?”

“I know Archie was quite forgetful but I know he didn’t forget this one.”

“How did you know Archibald?”

“Same way you knew him.”

“I need to go,” I said nervously and turned towards the door.”

“Not so fast Charles,” the Enigmatic Miss M. said.

As I looked back at her, Franz took off his baker’s hat and put it on me. “Time to make donuts motherfucker,” he said.

 

ACCEPTING THAT YOU DON’T MATTER!

01/17/2011 05:49pm

FACT: EVERYTHING YOU THINK IS STUPID AND DESERVES TO BE MOCKED AND RIDICULED!

We live on a planet that is eventually going to be swallowed by the sun and nothing you've ever said, thought, done, or achieved will matter. If the life work of our greatest scientists and intellectuals will mean nothing, then what makes you think your silly thoughts are worth an ounce of cow piss? Put down the razor, take the needle off the Joy Division record, and go enjoy your meaningless life instead of demanding tolerance and compassion from the rest of us.

 

Fuck you all, everybody.

 

I Mean, What’s the Deal???

01/13/2011 02:47pm

Every time I get into a conversation with a Republican, it seems all they want to talk about is how great Hitler was and how we need to get rid of the Jews. Take my boi Joey G. The other day we’re watching the game and he turns to me and says, “Wasn’t Hitler a great guy?”

“No,” I says, “of course not, he killed six million people.”

“Yeah but they was all filthy Jews.”

“They didn’t deserve to die because of their religion.”

“Of course they did! They caused the economic collapse of Germany, not to mention they killed our Lord and Savior. Now our economy is all in the shitter cuz they keep hoarding all the money.”

“That’s ridiculous.”

“That’s what the mainstream Jew-run media wants you to believe. Go ask Sarah Palin if you don’t believe me.”

“Sorry but I prefer more credible sources than a murdering bitch who used subliminal suggestion to get a mentally ill Arizona man to kill six innocent people, including a nine year old child.”

“Yeah but they was Jews.”

“I believe the kid was actually Catholic.”

“Six or one half dozen the other. As a Republican I have no use for them if they ain’t White Anglo Saxon Protestant.”

“I probably should have figured that.”

“Say, how ‘bout you put on a fake Hitler mustache and fuck me in the ass.”

“You want me to perform a gay act on you? I thought you Republicans hated that stuff.”

“It ain’t gay as long as you have the Hitler mustache on. Hitler is the one man great enough to get fucked in the ass by and not be a faggot who needs to be killed like Matthew Shepherd.”

“I don’t know if I buy that one. Anyway, as a Democrat I certainly appreciate and respect human sexuality in all its forms, but that’s just not my cup of tea. I also wouldn’t feel right wearing the Hitler mustache.”

“Suit yourself.”

“I will.”

“Say, don’t you hate the blacks?”

“No, why would I hate someone just because of the color of their skin?”

“Wow, you could never be a Republican.”

“I guess not.”

 

I guess not.

 

 

Jared Lee Loughner:

01/11/2011 05:07pm

 

• Frequent attendee of local Tea Party events
  

• A staunch pro-life advocate with ties to the militant anti-abortion group Operation Rescue

• Strong opponent of government funded health care
  

• “Heroes” listed on his Facebook page included Richard Nixon, Ronald Reagan, George W. Bush, Pat Buchanan, Glen Beck, Mel Gibson, and former BP CEO Tony Hayward

• Known for his racist, homophobic and anti-semitic sentiments which were inspired by Sarah Palin
  

• A Christian

• Mentally ill (i.e., a registered Republican)

How much more of a connection do you need?!!

 

Rescued Workers Praise Allah, Pledge Death to America, Israel

10/13/2010 10:55pm

SAN JOSE MINE, CHILE – Trapped more than 2,000 feet below the earth’s surface for sixty nine days, Chilean miners stayed strong by converting to Islam and putting their faith in Allah.

“I have no doubt that ar-Rahim spared us so that we may carry out a divine mission on his behalf,” said Jorge Sanchez, 39, one of the first miners to reach the surface. When asked what he thought that mission might be, he stated “death to the Great Satan and destruction of the Zionist regime.”

Fellow miner Antonio Morales then railed against American imperialism, blaspheming of the prophet Muhammad, and opposition to the Ground Zero mosque, just a few of the many offenses that have enraged Allah according to the twenty four year old native of Copiapó. “And let us not forget the continued occupation of Palestinian lands by the illegitimate Jewish state,” he reminded reporters.

Sanchez, Morales, and their coworkers called for suicide bombings in Israel and expressed a desire to obtain one or more dirty bombs to attack such Jew-infested cities as New York, Miami, and Philadelphia. They then called the holocaust “history’s greatest lie” and encouraged fellow Chileans to embrace the religion of peace and martyr themselves at the site of Jewish temples and synagogues. Sanchez also stated that he wished to travel to the United States to have sexual relations with the little girl from Kick Ass then stone the child for adultery. He said he also hoped to coordinate terrorist attacks against the nation’s public transit systems while there.

Praising their bravery and calling their resolve “inspirational”, President Obama this evening extended a White House invitation to all thirty three of the rescued miners. “Let us be tolerant of their new found faith,” said the President, “I, as both an African American and a Muslim, am all too familiar with the oppression our nation has brought upon citizens of the world both here and abroad. While I do not condone the acts of violence that are committed daily in the name of my faith, my sympathies do lie deep with those who have been forced into desperation by the arrogant foreign policy of prior administrations.” Mr. Obama ended his remarks with his standard closing of “Assalamu alaikum wa rahmatullah”.

 

SKANLYN’s Thoughts on Autumn
09/20/2010 07:13pm

The leaves are already starting to change colors. Soon they will be orange and red and purple and yellow. A lot of you people will say “Oh how pretty!” Some of you will even take a trip to the mountains to see what you can readily see on each side of the road during your drive to work. You are stupid! Leaves are pretty when they are green. They are not pretty when they are orange or red or purple or yellow. Multi-colored leaves are sad. When they change colors, it means they will soon fall from the trees leaving bare branches behind. What’s more depressing than a bare tree? Nothing you assholes! And soon after the trees are bare it will be dark and cold and and everything will be dead. It will not be warm or green again for a long, long time. If you like fall, you are a fucking idiot and I hope you die and go to Fucking Idiot Hell.

That is all

A DAY TO REMEMBER

09/08/2010 12:15am

I remember it like it was yesterday. I was living in Boston at the time and arrived to work that morning just as I had every other. I was, however, feeling particularly sleepy and unmotivated as I booted my computer. I recall saying to myself, “God I can’t wait for this day to be over already!” My prayer was answered a little more than an hour later when the head of Corporate Security came over the P.A. to announce that the company was closing for the day and that we were free to leave. “Imagine that,” I thought to myself, “There really is a God!”

With nearly the whole day free to do with it whatever we wanted, a bunch of us guys decided to head over to the Glass Slipper, a cabaret style lounge over on La Grange Street. The Slipper wasn’t known for having the prettiest girls (especially not in the daytime) but they worked hard for their money and what they lacked in youth and beauty they made up for with sheer enthusiasm.Sure they turned your stomach when you first walked in the door but after a few a.m. boilermakers, those c-section scars and liver spots magically disappeared as you were transported to Hardpenisland screaming “Woo big titties!” all the way.

Anyway, after four or five hours we decided to call it a day and go our separate ways. While walking to South Station to catch my train, I met a very lovely young lady by the name of Daisy who gave me the best blowjob ever behind the Ming Dynasty restaurant in Chinatown. It was only twenty bucks and she didn’t even make me wear a condom!It was awesome!

A little later, after getting off the train, I was struck with a most curious impulse to buy a scratch ticket.  I stopped at 7-11 to do so and guess what? That’s right, I won – twenty dollars! Can you believe that? It was like getting the blowjob free after rebate! Well, maybe not free, I did have to spend a dollar on the scratch ticket. Still, a dollar for a bareback blowjob from a professional is one hell of a bargain! I was quite the lucky boy that day!

When I finally arrived home, my chick was all upset over some shit she was watching on TV and I could tell she was in no mood for lovin’. Good thing I ran into Daisy earlier – I would have been so frustrated if I had to go to bed that night without getting my nut off! With the situation having already been defused, I promptly hit the sack and slept like a baby all night long!

All and all, I will remember September 11, 2001 as one of the best days ever!

 

Tonight's Episode:
EPISTAXIS!

08/29/2010 09:12pm

It all begins in the bathroom where I am standing in front of the sink holding a paper towel to my nose, hoping the platelets will kick in soon. At first I feel pretty lucky as I am the only one here and don't have to explain. I really hate explaining. It’s a nose, it’s bleeding, and it’s not yours so shut the fuck up and stop interrogating me about it! Anyway, I’m of course not alone for very long. The door opens and in pops MrGuyIDon'tKnowButAlwaysSeeInTheToilet (MGIDKBASITT). Fuck! Here it comes.

MGIDKBASITT: Whatta ya got a bloody nose or something?

ME: Yes.

MGIDKBASITT: You gonna be okay?

ME: Yes, it's just a nosebleed. It happens all the time.

MGIDKBASITT: You might want to get that looked at, you know, by a doctor. Maybe they can cauterize you or something.

ME: Yeah, maybe.

I exit the restroom muttering "asshole" under my breath. As I make my way back to my office, nose pinched through a paper towel, I can see heads turn and eyes looking up at me. I am then asked repeatedly if I have a bloody nose (one would think it fairly obvious that I do). After directly answering the first few people, I decide it's easier to just provide a pre-solicited response to everyone I pass.

ME: Just a nosebleed people, I'll be fine. Yup, nose is bleeding. Yes, I’m okay.  No need to inquire further. Very busy, got to get back to work.

When I get to my office, I close the door and take a seat in front of my computer, applying enhanced pressure in the hope that clots will soon form and I can be done talking about my goddamn nose. At that point, MsThinksShe'sMyFuckingMother (MTSMFM) simultaneously knocks on my door and opens it (which kind of defeats the purpose of both knocking and having a door).

MTSMFM: What's wrong with your nose?

ME: It's bleeding.

MTSMFM: That's not good. You should go down to Health Services and get it checked out.

ME: I don’t need to go to Health Services, it’s just a nosebleed.

MTSMFM: Well why do you have a nosebleed?

ME: I don't know, I just do.

MTSMFM: A nose doesn't just start bleeding on its own. There must be a reason. It could be high blood pressure.

ME: It’s not high blood pressure. My blood pressure is perfect.

MTSMFM: How do you know? When’s the last time you had it checked?

ME: I don’t know, a few months ago.

MTSMFM: Well you should have it checked again. You might need to go on Acupril.

ME: I don’t need to go on Acupril.

MTSMFM: Well you don’t want to have a heart attack, not at your young age.

ME: I’m not gonna have a heart attack.

MTSMFM: You can also have a stroke if you have high blood pressure. My ant Mary had a stroke, a bad one. She ended up going blind and was paralyzed on one side of her body. She couldn’t wipe herself or anything when she went to the bathroom and she used to wet herself all the time. It was awful. I wouldn’t wish that on my worst enemy.

ME: I’m not going to have a stroke. I told you my blood pressure is fine.

MTSMFM: How often do you get a bloody nose?

ME: I don’t know, a few times a week lately.

MTSMFM: How many’s a few? Two? Three? Ten?

ME: Probably four or five.

MTSMFM: That's more than a few my friend. That’s definitely a red flag that you should go see a doctor.

ME: I’m fine, I don’t need to see a doctor. It's probably allergies. It's ragweed season and I been sneezing and itching a lot in my nose.

MTSMFM: Are you taking an antihistamine? It might be that too. They can dry your nose out.

ME: Yeah, I've been taking Claritin.

MTSMFM: Claritin doesn't really dry out your nose. I was thinking more Benadryl or Chlor-Trimeton.

ME: I'm not taking those.

MTSMFM: I think Benadryl works the best but it makes you really sleepy. I take one and I'm out cold for the next twelve hours. Claritin doesn't do anything for me. I have some Benadryl at my desk. Why don’t you take one?

ME: You just told me it'll make my nose bleed and put me to sleep.

MTSMFM: Well your nose is already bleeding and we can get you a Red Bull to keep you awake.

ME: I don’t drink Red Bull. It gives me heartburn.

MTSMFM: Wow, you’re in rough shape kiddo, between the GERD and the bloody noses.

ME: It’s not GERD, just heartburn and I don't get it if I don't drink Red Bull.

MTSMFM: Whatever you say but you really should get checked out by a doctor. Do you have a primary care physician?

ME: Not since moving here. I’ve been using Patient’s First.

MTSMFM: Skanlyn, this is your health we’re talking about. You really should have your own doctor, someone who knows you and who you can get an appointment with when you need him.

ME: I don’t need an appointment at Patient’s First. I just walk in and a doctor sees me.

MTSMFM: Yeah but that’s so impersonal. Wouldn’t you rather see the same person every time?

ME: Don’t matter to me. Patient’s First is quick and easy and I hardly ever get sick.

MTSMFM: Yeah,  hardly ever sick, you're just sitting here with blood gushing out of your nose .

ME: A nose bleed isn’t sick. It’s just a nose bleed.

MTSMFM: My husband’s doctor is great. You should go see him.

ME: No thanks, I’m good.

MTSMFM: No, you really need to make an appointment. I’ll get you the number.

She leaves briefly then returns with a post-it note containing contact information for her husband’s physician.

ME: Thank you.

MTSMFM: Are you gonna call?

ME: Yes, I’ll call

MTSMFM: When.

ME: Later.

MTSMFM When later?

ME: I don’t know sometime this afternoon.

MTSMFM: Why don’t you call now?

ME: I’m busy.

MTSMFM: In the time we’ve been talking about it you could have been making an appointment.

ME: Well now that time's gone so it'll have to be later.

MTSMFM: You better call mister. You know I’m gonna keep hounding you until you do.

ME: I said I would.

MTSMFM: Promise?

At this point you are probably wondering why I don't hit this annoying bitch over the head with my stapler. Truth be told, I've kind of got the hots for her and don't actually want her to leave my office. Yeah, go figure. It surprises me more than anyone. She’s not what I traditionally find attractive but I had a sex dream about her a year or so ago and since then my brain has been flooded with lustful thoughts of her moist lips on my neck and her pretty manicured nails scratching across my naked skin. They’re painted some color between pink and light violet today which goes really nice with her skin tone and makes her fingers look most suckable. Her hair smells really good too, even with one nostril pinched shut. In my mind I lean in to inhale its fragrance and we start kissing. The thought of making love to her right here and now on my desk tempts me but I can’t help but think how she wouldn't shut up the whole time, babbling on incessantly about antihistamines and family members who can't wipe their own ass and piss themselves all day because they didn’t have a primary care physician to give them Acupril so they wouldn’t have a fucking stroke.

Meh, I’d still do her.

I un-pinch my nose.

MTSMFM: Did it stop bleeding?

ME: I think so.

I dab my nostril with a clean part of the paper towel and there's no blood.

MTSMFM: You better go clean yourself up, you're a mess. You look like you been punched right in the kisser.

ME: Wouldn't my mouth be bloody if I were punched in the kisser?

MTSMFM: Um, I don't know. Maybe you're an Eskimo.

ME: Huh?

MTSMFM: Well you know, they kiss by rubbing their noses.

ME: Oh, I get it.

MTSMFM: Whenever I think of Eskimos I think of that old song [singing] "Come on without, come on within, you've not seen nothing like the Mighty Quinn".

ME: That's funny, I think of Nanook.

MTSMFM: Yeah, that's probably a better name for an Eskimo. Quinn is too Irish. Maybe if it were "Quinn the Leprechaun" instead of "Quinn the Eskimo".

ME: Yeah, maybe.

Just then GuyWhoCallsEveryoneChief (GWCEC) sticks his head in the door and asks what's wrong with my nose.

ME: Your mama’s on the rag.

GWCEC: [looking confused] What?

Fucking idiot.

STAGE FRIGHT
8/04/2010 07:17pm

It starts off with Miley (aka Hannah Montana) backstage with Lily before her big concert. “I am soooooooo nervous,” she says, “I don’t know what’s gotten into me!”

“You know what would help with that,” Lily tells her.

“What?" Miley tells her.

Lily starts making out with her and next thing you know they’re all lezzing it up and shit. Just as things start to get hot and heavy, Miley’s dad Robbie Ray Stewart walks in.

“Girls, what in the world are you doing?” he says, “It’s almost showtime!”

“Oh daddy, Lily’s just helping me get over my stage fright,” Miley tells him.

“Well why didn’t you say so,” he tells them, “Do you mind if I join in?”

“Sure thing Mr. Stewart,” Lily says.

Next thing you know Robbie Ray is doing Miley doggie style while she goes down on Lily.

“I’ve got my best friend in front and my daddy in back,” Miley tells them. “Now that’s what I call the best of both worlds!”

“Indeed it is my friend, indeed it is,” Lily tells her.

“All right you two, hurry up and come already, I’ve got to get on stage,” Miley tells them and they do.

She puts her clothes back on and goes out on stage to rock down the house. Next thing you know we’re backstage after the show where everyone’s all orgying and shit as “Party in the USA” plays in the background. Robbie Ray and Uncle Earl are dp’ing Lily while her boyfriend Oliver sits in the corner watching and beating his meat; Miley’s gay brother is doing the Mexican kid who runs the snack bar; and Miley is pig-piled under a bunch of well hung black guys. We then see Miley’s dead mother (played by Brooke Shields) looking down proudly on her daughter from Heaven.

“Just like I told her redneck piece of shit daddy before he blew my brains out cuz I left him for Snoop Dogg, ‘once you go black, you never go back!’ Never go back to those needle dick white boys my baby. Never go back.”

THE END.

Cuz Men Who Cry Are Sexy!
07/30/2010 06:05pm

For the life of me, I’ll never understand why most guys are just so gosh darn ashamed to show their emotions. I mean, honestly, what’s the big deal? I’ve always been a sensitive man and I always will be. Why should I be ashamed to shed a tear or three when I am sad? After all, most women find it sexy when a man cries (just look at any Cosmo poll if you don’t believe me). Give me a Nicholas Sparks' book or play me a Sarah McLachlan ballad and I’ll sob like a little girl – no apologies offered!

And why should I apologize? I don’t need to put on some tough guy façade and conform to society’s standards of masculinity. I’m perfectly comfortable in my own skin and who is anyone else to question that?

I mean, am I not manly just because I’d rather be in a yoga studio than pumping iron in a gym? Surely not!

Does it make me less of a man because I’d rather spend Sunday afternoon catching a matinee performance of Seven Brides for Seven Brothers than watching some silly football game?  No way, no how!

Am I not a man just because I’m not constantly all over my girl like some sort of dog in heat? Of course not! As a real man, I seek a relationship that’s based on companionship not sex. In fact, Liza and I hardly even have sex! We’re just not that into it. When we want to get crazy, we pick up a pint of Haagen Dazs or a box of Godiva truffles and pig out while watching From Justin to Kelly on BluRay (I’ll take chocolate over sex any day, thank you very much!).

Does it make me some sort of a sissy just because I occasionally dress like Shirley Temple and sing “Good Ship Lollipop” to a pack of sailors who then bend me over a pool table and take turns proving the security of my masculinity before flipping me over to force feed me their creamy AIDS juices? If you think so then I’m inclined to think you might be the one with the sexual identity issues Mister!

Anyway, you can be a macho man all you want, living an empty life as you aimlessly drift into meaningless short-term sexual relationships with thin, blonde-haired, blue-eyed bimbos with oversized boobs and a tiresome obsession with giving blowjobs. In the mean time, I’ll be spending quality time with my girl going through Us magazine, picking out Hollywood hunks that we think would be a good match for Jen Aniston (that poor girl has had her heart broken so many times!).

CELTIC PRIDE SHAME
06/18/2010 01:35am

I actually don’t give a shit about basketball but I hate the city of Boston and so I am absolutely thrilled the Lakers won the Championship. I can’t wait for all those shitheads to start setting fires and overturning cars because they blew another chance to reclaim past glory. I’m sure they’ll be in full force tonight, as will the racist douche bags in the Boston Police Department who seize any opportunity they can to start shooting at black youths. Hell, they’ll be dragging them out of their beds in Dorchester and Roxbury then bringing them to the scenes of riots started bydrunken Micks, just to put a bullet in them.

Let me tell you, I’ve been all around this country and Boston takes the cake as the most wretched place I’ve been. I had the misfortune of spending several years of my life in that shit fuck of a city. Even worse than the awful stench in the air up there, the sheer filth that surrounds you everywhere you go, and the eleven months ass-freezing cold weather are the awful people with their awful accent. These people are as rude and stupid as they are ugly. Their mouths are all crooked and fucked-up from speaking in that abominable dialect of theirs. Believe it or not, they actually think they’re sophisticated because they’ve got Harvard, Tufts, MIT and a bunch of other prestigious schools up there. Of course the student body and staff of those institutions are comprised mostly of foreigners as the average Bostonian is a semi-illiterate shit brain with a third grade education that limits his or her employment opportunities to construction work or panhandling in the subways. Yeah but they’re the fucking “hub of the universe” all right! These dipshits just re-elected a retarded mayor to a fifth term. Can you believe that? They think it makes them progressive.  It doesn’t! IT JUST MAKES THEM STUPID!

Anyway, fuck the Celtics and fuck Boston.  Your city sucks and ifI were President I’d nuke it to ashes, killing all of you and irradiating the ground so that no one or nothing can ever live there again.

NOW IT’S DARK

As you may have heard, the great Dennis Hopper passed away this weekend after a lengthy battle with prostate cancer. Older movie fans may know Hopper best as the director and star of Easy Rider or as the wacky photographer from Apocalypse Now. Younger fans may better know him as the bad guy from Speed or maybe King Koopa from Super Mario Bother: The Movie. Many will also remember that Quentin Tarantino-penned history lesson on interracial relations in ancient Sicily that he delivered to Christopher Walken in True Romance. Throughout his long and illustrious career, he played many memorable roles. Of all of them, however,  the one that will always hold a special place in my heart is that of Frank Booth, the anti-hero of David Lynch’s 1986 classic Blue Velvet.

For those of you unfamiliar with the film, Frank Booth  is a rather eccentric gentleman with a bit of a rage disorder and slightly warped sexual proclivities. He enjoys himself a Roy Orbison tune (specifically the one about the "candy colored clown they call the Sandman") as well as an ice cold Pabst Blue Ribbon and the occasional puff of nitrous oxide, a convenient travel size tank of which he carries in his jacket.

Like all of us, Frank just wants to be loved. He finds himself falling for Dorothy Valens, a night club singer known as “The Blue Lady” at the local club where she performs each night. But alas, Dorothy doesn’t even know he exists. And so he hatches a plan so crazy, it just might work! Our friend kidnaps Dorothy’s husband and son, cutting off the former’s ear and turning the latter over to the molesting pleasure of Ben, a very suave gentleman who smokes his cigarette from a holder and enjoys hanging out with a group of morbidly obese middle-aged women at place called “Pussy Heaven”. In exchange for keeping Donny and Little Donny alive, Frank asks that Dorothy (whom he affectionately refers to as “Tits”) endure his sexual kinks, which include a blue velvet fetish, some good ol’ fashion infantilism, and a touch of brutal masochism for good measure. Of course, as happens in every Scooby Doo cartoon, some pesky kids get involved and ruin everything – but not before lots of madcap high jinks and a bounty of memorable quotes, including this Shakespeareanesque  monologue:

Don’t be a good neighbor to her  .  .  . I‘ll send you a love letter, straight from my heart fucker! You know what a love letter is?! It’s a bullet from a fucking gun fucker! You receive a letter from me, you’re fucked forever! You understand fuck?! I’ll send you straight to Hell fucker! In dreams I walk with you. In dreams I talk to you. In dreams you’re mine all  .  .  .  forever in dreams  .   .  .

Be sure to pay tribute to the late Dennis Hopper by watching Blue Velvet this Memorial Day.

RIP Frank, you'll live in our hearts forever.

WHAT SHALL WE DO?

As we antitheists know all too well, the advancement of society has fallen under the grave threat of those who believe differently from us. For far too long, many of us have taken the attitude of “live and let live”, a dangerous proposition if ever there was one. We certainly would not take this approach with a malignant tumor and we simply cannot afford to take it with religion either. As with any cancer, it needs to be excised before it can metastasize any further.

My good friend JT, a rising star in the free thought movement, has written extensively about the importance of controlling what other people think. He recommends a strategy that starts with logic and reasoning, followed by ridicule and mockery when that fails. While these certainly appear to be sound tactics, I find myself wondering what we should do if we are still unable to coerce these god-drunk fuckwits into compliance with our standards.  Like many other Xangans who are too lazy and/or stupid to formulate their own thoughts, I generally defer to JT on these matters. As you may have heard though, he recently came down with a case of boiling blood. I have therefore decided to ponder this on my own, freeing him to concentrate on his recovery so that he can get back to planning SKEPTICON III as soon as possible (for those who are unfamiliar, Skepticon is the midwest’s largest gathering of like-minded people expressing the same sentiments to each other over and over for the purpose of advancing civilization).

Basically, I think our solution lies with isolation and containment. In short, those who refuse to accept reality should be relocated to designated sequestration zones. There they can be assigned to public works projects and other duties that will enable them to serve humanity rather than hinder its progression with the continued proliferation of irrationality. With the passage of time, the productivity and utility of sequestrates will of course diminish due to illness, old age, and general unfitness for labor. At this point, we can compassionately and humanely sunset them. Within a few generations we should be able to begin phasing out the sequestration zones. In the mean time, humankind can continue to evolve without hindrance from the superstitious wackos who have anchored us in the dark ages for so long.

Of course the execution of such an initiative is well beyond the capabilities of a few concerned citizens and the government would obviously need to be involved. Just how might we bring that about?  This I do not know. Perhaps though our wise leader the Zerowing will soon be well enough to enlighten us.

PHANTASTIKA

You guys, you guys - I’ve written a book! That’s right, little ol’ me is a published author! It's called, PHANTASTIKA: A Collection of Shit Poetry and  Unoriginal Stories About Fairies, Werewolves, and Other Stupid Stuff and will soon be available for your reading pleasure! Yeah, I know PHANTASTIKA should have been spelled with an “F” but an inferior author already stole the title and I didn’t want to risk you all buying her book accidentally instead of mine.

Anyway, I’ve written it in the most pretentious language possible (making frequent use of adjectives like “splendiferous”) to remind you of how intelligent I am despite my education from a fourth rate Canadian university. You’ll also find my trademark narcissism and morally reprehensible value system evident throughout. It’s 109 pages of pure inspiration!

Yes, I’ve finally made it! I can hardly believe it! I’ve no time to celebrate though. It’s time to get started on my next book already. I’m thinking of doing something about sex next, you know like the irresponsible advice I give to teenage girls in my “Dr. SKANLYN Speaks" posts. Yeah, I know, that one girl committed suicide when I encouraged her to sext her boyfriend and he forwarded it to the whole school but hey, just because it sucks to be her doesn’t mean the rest of us should suffer.

Anyway, be sure to order PHANTASTIKA when it hits the Kindle store in a few days. I’m sure my bestest Xanga buddy “terminal_is_existence” will be good for a hundred copies or so.

RED RIDING HOOD 2010

Having come of age well before the time when it became socially acceptable to lie with beasts, it was quite surprising that Grandma had taken The Wolf as her lover. Nonetheless she found herself seduced by his good looks and dark nature.  Fiercely masculine and irrepressibly dangerous, he got the juices of her youth flowing in a way her late husband had been unable during the last decades of his mostly impotent life. “Take me to the edge”, she’d tell him as she ascended the heights of ecstasy.  And he would – his nails slicing four crimson ribbons into her belly before his paws squeezed shut her windpipe and she began to convulse in pleasure, reaching the peak of excitement just before blacking-out.

Though their love affair had been going on for quite some time, Grandma had yet to introduce The Wolf to friends or family. That was until today. Her granddaughter Red Riding Hood was coming to visit and she felt it important for the girl to meet him. Grandma worried, you see, as grandmas do. Red did not seem to be developing socially like the other girls her age, all of whom had boyfriends  and some of whom were even mothers by now. Not Little Red Riding Hood though. She was still a virgin. This of course concerned Grandma greatly. Things were different now than when she grew up. Old fashioned girls were precisely that – old fashioned, destined to become lonely spinsters never having enjoyed the affections of a man. These days, a girl simply could not afford to be prudish. Boys had high expectations and if a girl like Red Riding Hood wanted to be popular, she needed to give it up. What’s more, if she wanted to keep a man she needed to throw those inhibitions away and be willing to get down and dirty. If she would not, then there were plenty of other girls out there who would. Grandma thought The Wolf perfect to bring about her erotic awakening and liberate her from the bondage of her outdated morality. He gladly obliged, agreeing to train Red Riding Hood in the delicate art of pleasing a man.

As they awaited her arrival, The Wolf started to become rather amorous with Grandma. It began with some light caressing and tender kisses. She tried to ward him off telling him “Stop it! Red Riding Hood will be here soon” but when he breathed onto her neck, she just melted into his touch. He eased her on to the bed and they began to make love as they so often did. It was faster and more intense than usual, as they knew her granddaughter would soon arrive. The Wolf had worked himself up into quite a frenzy leaving scratches over much of her abdomen and bite marks on her neck, shoulders, and bosom. “I’m so close,” he told Grandma.

“Do it!” she cried, “take me to the edge!”

In that moment of extreme passion, he grabbed a fist full of hair and tore her head clear from her neck as he growled and discharged inside of her. “Oh potato sticks!” he exclaimed when he realized what he had done. Just as he started to catch his breath and his protrusion began to subside, there was a knock on the door.  “Just a minute deary,” he called out in his best old lady voice. He then did the only thing of which he could think -  he quickly ate Grandma’s head and carcass then fetched a bedgown from the closet, sprayed himself with her perfume, put on her nightcap, and positioned himself in the bed.  He took the reading glasses from the nightstand and parked them on the bridge of his nose for added authenticity. “Come in Red Riding Hood,” he called out.

“Grandma, is that you?” the girl called out.

“Yes dear, it is I, your grandmother.”

Red Riding Hood entered the room. “Your voice sounds so different Grandma.”

“Oh I’m afraid I caught myself a death of a cold.”

“I’m sorry Grandma. I wish I had known. I could have brought you some of Mother’s chicken soup.”

“Oh don’t you worry dear, your grandmother will be just fine.” Looking at what she was wearing he asked, “Why ever are you wearing that dreadful red hood child?”

“I always wear my riding hood Grandma. It reminds me of my name.”

“That’s just silly! A girl your age shouldn’t be covering up so much. Look at how long that dress is. How will boys ever know how pretty you are?”

“Mommy says I’m too young to be worried about boys at my age.”

“Balderdash! A girl like you should have lots of boyfriends.”

“Well just one would be nice.”

“Oh? Is there a particular boy at school you like?”

“Well  .   .   . kind of.”

“What’s his name dear?”

“Tommy. Tommy Nickols. But he likes Susie Chapman. He hardly even knows I’m alive.”

“Well then it’s up to you to let him know.”

“But I wouldn’t even know how Grandma.”

“Come sit on the bed with me,” The Wolf said and she did. He gently massaged her neck, shoulders, and back telling her, “Sweet, sweet child” as he did.

“What are you doing Grandma?”she asked. He hushed her then removed the riding hood revealing the golden locks beneath.

“Such beautiful hair,” he said, running his fingers through it. He noticed goose bumps and she began to feel a tingly sensation on her scalp and the back of her neck.

“Grandma,” she said  in a soft voice.

“Just relax child,” The Wolf whispered to her.  He kissed her ear and she closed her eyes, letting out a soft moan. She felt like she should have the urge to resist but no such urge existed. Finding herself touched in ways she had never been touched and feeling feelings she had never before felt, she was helpless to do anything but submit to these strange and wonderful sensations.

Opening her eyes and looking into those of her surrogate grandmother, she said “Grandma, what big eyes you have!”

“The better to see you with my beautiful child.”

She reached over to stoke The Wolf’s face. Running her hands over his ears she said, “Grandma, what big ears you have”.

“The better to hear you with my child.”

Looking down and seeing the protuberance under the sheet, she said “Grandma, what a big bulge you have.”

“The better to love you with my dear.”

“Love me with Grandma?” Red Riding Hood said.

“Yes,” said the Wolf. He moved the sheet away.

“Oh Grandma!”

Unable to resist the temptation before her, they were soon engaged in a most sensuous act of bestiality. Such a skilled lover was The Wolf that she hardly felt any pain when he entered her. The obtrusive barrier seemed to have just melted away leaving only the secretions of desire in its wake. She called the name of her Maker over and over as he plunged the depths of her pleasure. After bringing her through her third coital apogee, he was still inside, gently thrusting. Looking into his eyes she said, “You’re not my grandmother, are you?”

“No my dear.”

“Where’s Grandma?”

“She’s in a better place now my child.”

“What do you mean?”

“When we get old,” The Wolf explained, “our bodies ache, our  souls grow tired, and our spirit begins to sicken.”

“Grandma got sick, like Grandpa did?”

“Yes, I’m afraid so,” he said and Little Red Riding Hood began to cry. The Wolf comforted her. “No child, weep not for your grandmother. She’s in place where there’s no more pain or sickness or sadness.”

“But she’s dead! She’s dead!” Red Riding Hood sobbed.

“No my dear, your grandmother lives, lives in that one moment forever.”

“I don’t understand.”

“Remember how you felt just a few minutes ago? The way your whole body quivered in divine joy?”

“I’ve never felt anything like that before. It was just so, so . .  . amazing.”

“That’s where you’re grandmother is – in that amazing feeling. Forever and ever.”

“Grandma feels like that forever?”

“Yes darling.”

“I wish I could feel like that forever. Most of the time though, I’m just so sad.”

“Oh?”

Red Riding Hood opened up to The Wolf, telling him about Mother’s restrictive ways and lack of understanding and about how she was teased and bullied at school. She even revealed that she would sometimes injure herself as a distraction from the constant pain she felt inside.

“You poor child,” said The Wolf.

“Please, make it all go away. I want to be where Grandma is.”

The Wolf tried to convince her otherwise but Red Riding Hood was persistent. When he was certain she knew the implications of her decision and that it was irreversible, he asked one more time. “Are you sure?”

“Yes,” she said, “take me over the edge!”

With that, he began to thrust more forcefully. She sighed and moaned and moaned and sighed, her respiration becoming more rapid.  Teetering on the brink, she cried out for him to take her. He threw his head back and howled. She screamed in ecstasy and death as his teeth ripped into her throat. Blood splashed over both their faces. She wheezed and coughed and twitched for a bit then was still.

It was a premature yet wonderful conclusion to Little Red Riding Hood. No more sorrow. No more pain. No more social awkwardness. No more parental tyranny. Above all, there was no more worrying about all those things that concerned a girl like her – the blemish that always seemed to appear at the wrong time, the boys who would not ask her to dance,  hormones,  mood swings, obsession with weight. Yes, Little Red Riding Hood had died but in doing so she lived as never before  –  in that one moment of bliss, always and forever, happily ever after.

The Wolf came.

 

FUCK YOU

Yesterday was tax day and boy is my asshole sore from the raping inflicted upon me by the IRS and the state revenue department. Before you start telling me how the United States is one of the least taxed nations in the world, go fuck yourself! As if the ridiculously high tax bracket the Federal government put me in wasn't enough, my home state has hit me up with an income tax,  a consumer use tax (for goods I allegedly bought out of state), and a surtax. That’s right, surtax – a tax on my fucking taxes! If you make over sixty grand a year, they make you add another 3% to your bill (a reverse discount, if you will). When exactly did the value of the U.S. dollar rise to the point where a person is rich at sixty thousand dollars a year? Shit, when did it rise to the point where $250,000 (that magic number the Dems like to throw around) was considered wealthy? Oh wait, what’s this that just came in the mail? Oh it’s from the county - they want three hundred bucks for allowing me the privilege of owning my vehicle for another year.

I am not rich in the least. I live a comfortable life because I’ve earned it by working. It therefore annoys the piss out of me when I hear the little fuck faces out there bitching about how they deserve free health care and that we need to tax the “rich” more. Fuck you! Cut your goddamn hair, shave that shaggy beard, and go out there and get a real fucking job if you want health care! But then again, the current generation doesn’t believe in that sort of thing. I got out of college and spent the last fifteen years building a career. These days that shit don’t fly. Making money isn’t cool man. People like me are all about the materialism. If I were a righteous dude I’d be working at a video game store for minimum wage or perhaps find employment on an organic farm where I’d get to smoke weed all day while raking dirt.

Fuck you!

A TRUE STORY

Back when I lived in another city, I found myself residing in a neighborhood comprised mainly of three family houses. The abode directly across the street from me was home to three gentlemen who had very curious habits involving an open window. On the top floor was Mr. Wurley. He liked to shave out the window using one of those real sharp straight edge razors, like the ones the barbers use in old cowboy movies. On the middle floor was Mr. Johnson. He liked to urinate out the window. This was much to the chagrin of passersby who occasionally found themselves  dampened by a sudden storm of yellow rain, though it was often to the delight of his neighbor below who would sometimes get soiled when the wind changed directions. That man, Mr. Von Schlonnegut, liked to eat pickles out the window – delicious Polish dills that he prepared himself!

Well, as you know, accidents are bound to happen. One day, when all three just happened to be at their windows at the same time (though unbeknownst to them), Mr. Wurley lost his grip and his razor fell, slicing through Mr. Johnson’s johnson which happened to drop right into Mr. Von Schlonnegut’s pickle jar. Apparently oblivious to the splash it made, Mr. Von Schlonnegut reached into the jar for his next treat and, without noticing he was holding a severed phallus, bit into it and declared “Mmmmm   .   .   .  what  a delicious pickle!"

ON THIS WORLD AUTISM AWARENESS DAY, LET US FINALLY RECOGNIZE THESE FREAKS OF NATURE AS THE VIOLENT MONSTERS THEY ARE

http://abcnews.go.com/US/AutismNews/story?id=6848289&page=1

http://news.bbc.co.uk/2/hi/uk_news/1165848.stm

http://www.salon.com/life/feature/2009/03/26/bauer_autism

http://findarticles.com/p/articles/mi_hb4384/is_8_41/ai_n29372559/

http://www.thisislondon.co.uk/news/article-23367740-asperger-sufferer-stabs-colleague-to-death-at-mcdonalds.do

http://www.npr.org/templates/story/story.php?storyId=7382359

As the anniversary of my arrival at the Xanga comes upon us, I present

THE BEST OF ME:

Children of a Lesser God

If the comments are at all representative, the deaf community is really lacking when it comes to a sense of humor.

Darwin & the Uninsured

Exploring the impact of Obamacare on natural selection.

Make Miley Wholesome Again

Parenting advice for Billy Ray.

Ahem

Stop clearing your fucking throat every three seconds!

Fact or Faux

Richard Gere and the gerbil: an urban legend – OR IS IT???

New Movie

My slasher film.

A Late Summer Trip To Hotlanta

It was quite a night!

The Sharif Don’t Like It

A synopsis of the ultra-violent lost episode of The Brady Bunch.

9/11: What Really Happened?

Nothing but the truth here.

Santa’s Revenge

He’s coming to town!

Let’s Have Peace

I believe we should not have war because it is very bad and many people get shot and blowed up and some of them even die such as children which is not good because they are innacint and have done no harms and such against diffrint peoples. Instead of buying guns and earplanes with bombs we should buy food for poor people so they will not starve and be very hungry. I also think we should build schools for  learnen and hospitals for people to get unsick in. That way they could be healthy and educashunned. We should make love not war. Instead of fighting and dying boys should put penises in girl’s vaginas and mouths and girls should lick boys buttholes and testickles too and eat their salty love pudding so that they will have clear skin and boys will want to do things with their vaginas.

Anti-Abortion Propaganda Hurts Women

Despite my gender, I’ve always fancied myself a feminist. That’s why I took so much offense to this faggot Tim Tebow and his mom appearing in an anti-abortion ad that will run during the Super Bowl. If there's one thing I can’t stand it's these pro-life assholes and their propaganda. Between their dead baby pics and their picket signs and their silly chants, these jackasses really fry my nose! While most of us guys can recognize these dipshits as the fools they are, broads don’t have as advanced a brain so a lot of times they end up feeding into this bullshit. Believe me, I know first-hand! A few years back, I accidentally knocked-up my bitch and she tried to tell me that she was keeping it. “Like Hell!" I said, "get into the car, we’re going to the clinic.” When she refused, I had no choice but to push her down the stairs. Fortunately, she lost the baby from the fall which doesn't always happen. Unfortunately, she ended up snapping her neck. Now she’s a quadriplegic and I have a bad reputation in the community. Just my luck! Ironically the ho has actually taken out a restraining order on me. Like that was necessary! I mean it’s not like she can fuck anymore.

Anyway, child support blows, abortion is good, and crippled bitches can’t give you any. Keep abortion legal my friends and keep the pro-life douches off the damn Super Bowl!

IF YOU’RE LOOKING FOR RONALD .  .  .

You sure as Hell won’t find him here! Nor will you find Mayor McCheese or the Hamburglar or Birdie or that big purple retard who’s always drinking the shakes. No, there’s no talking trio of Hamburger/Soft Drink/Fries (all regular size!) and Mac Tonight doesn’t tickle the ivories in the lounge. Here you’ll find only pale bald children with stage IV carcinomas retching and crying, their emaciated frames trembling from the toxic chemicals circulating through their ailing bodies with little or no effect on the rampant metastases raging within. The stench of vomit permeates as hoarse voices beg parents and staff to just let them go to Jesus already.

Hungry are you? Well you’re shit out of luck! You can’t get a Big Mac here at the Ronald McDonald House or a Quarter Pounder or a Filet O’Fish or even a McLean Fucking Deluxe. And you can just forget about trying a McDLT (the delicious new sandwich specially packaged to keep the beef hot and the cool crisp). Some glucose in an i.v. drip is about as tasty as it gets around here. Now that’s what I call an “Unhappy Meal”!

Man, this place is really bringing me down! Fuck the Ronald McDonald House! I’m off to the much more uplifting P.F. Chang Pagoda where pretty Asian girls carrying trays of egg rolls roam the halls in search of tense occidentals needing backrubs and hand-jobs.

Good day!

EAT MORE LEGUMES ASSHOLE ! ! !

It’s a new year and time to start getting serious about nutrition you motherfuckers. That’s why I’ve decided to author a blog each month dedicated to teaching you fuck-faces how to eat right. And what better way to begin than with a group of foods that’s not only nutritious but also quite delicious as well? I’m talking about legumes you cocksuckers. With nearly an endless variety from which to choose, there’s sure to be a legume for every palate: there’s your fucking lentils and your fucking peas and your fucking beans, just to name a few. Let’s not forget about peanuts. That’s right shithead, believe it or not, peanuts are legumes! Who the fuck doesn’t like peanuts? Only a real douche bag – that’s who!

So what’s so fucking healthy about legumes you ask? For starters, they’ve got a shitload of protein which is essential for healthy muscles, bones, skin, and hair.  A single half cup serving of legumes has as much as nine grams of protein. That’s almost 60x’s more than found in the average wad of cum your daddy swallows at the truck stop glory hole! Then there’s the amino acids, potassium, zinc, calcium – basically all the shit the doctor says you need more of when you get a physical. Legumes are also rich in iron which is particularly important for bitches since they get all depleted after ragging out each month. Most also contain a good amount of dietary fiber to help you shit better.

Among the many other benefits of eating legumes are the following:

• They lower your fucking cholesterol.
• They’re rich in antioxidants so they detoxify your ass.
• They help balance your glucose levels so you don’t get fat, lose your toes, and have to pee all night.
• They reduce the risk of getting cancer in your shit pipe.
• They make your skin look younger and healthier so you don’t turn into a wrinkled mess and cause your husband to start fucking the babysitter.
• They’re mad cheap! Even you unemployed white trash out there can afford to add them to your grocery list!

The next time you’re at your favorite fast food joint, consider ordering some lima beans instead of those greasy French fries you fat fuck.  While you’re at it, maybe you should also opt for a salad instead of that Double Monster Thickburger. Be sure to add some lentils and kidney beans you fucking porker.

Here’s to a healthier 2010!

Oh, and your mother’s a whore.

That is all.

Let's Hear It for the Bam!

Great news

– those fun-loving atomic scientists have given us an extra minute in their silly board game (an inferior version of "I Vant to Bite Your Finger" if you ask me). This is of course thanks to President Obama, the man who could turn back time. And he didn't even have to shake his tattooed ass in front of a battleship full of effeminate naval officers to do it! In a press release, the scientists praised Obama for ushering in a new era cooperation with the international community and for his pragmatic and problem solving approach to volatile world issues.

It wasn't so very long ago that Islamic terrorists were trying to blow up planes and rogue nations like North Korea and Iran were developing nuclear weapons. The difference a little regime change at home can make!

The great philosopher Sean "Puffy" Combs once said "Vote or die!" Those words ring especially true in light of this latest move by the Bulletin of Atomic Scientists, less than a full year into the Obama Administration.

.  .  .  and so are the people

No one understands, wah!

[SLICE]

I cut myself because I’m in pain, not to cause pain, wah!

[SLICE]

No one is noticing my cuts and giving me the attention I deserve, wah!

[SLICE]

I gained five pounds and now I wanna kill myself, wah!

[SLICE]

My boyfriend doesn’t love me anymore ‘cause I’m fat and scarred, wah!

[SLICE]

No one wants to read my stupid goth girl poetry, wah!

[SLICE]

The fucktards who actually work for a living and contribute to society don’t wanna pay higher taxes to fund healthcare for my lazy ass, wah!

[SLICE]

Some chink in a wheelchair doesn’t like my sexual fantasies, wah!

[SLICE]

I can’t get anyone on Xanga to pay my way to France so I can mourn my dead cousin while shopping for sex toys in Paris, wah!

[SLICE]

No one will hire me because I posted a close-up of my balloon knot to raise awareness during National Asshole Cancer Month then got naked on Xanga TV to protest Christian oppression of public nudity or some stupid shit like that, wah!

[SLICE]

You're hurting my feelings with your mean comments, wah!

[SLICE]

You’re ignorant for making fun of my pain, wah!

[SLICE]

You should get the facts straight, you don’t know what it’s like, wah!

[SLICE]

OH GO TO HELL! I HOPE YOU ALL GET TETANUS AND DIE!

 

Happy Thanksgiving.

Now go fuck yourselves!

Peace be upon you had Allah's Mercy

John Allen Muhammad was a loving father.

 

John Allen Muhammad was a proud American.

 

John Allen Muhammad was a Gulf War veteran.

 

John Allen Muhammad was a victim of post traumatic stress disorder caused by the horrors he witnessed while fighting for his country.

 

John Allen Muhammad was a Muslim.

 

John Allen Muhammad was a black man.

 

John Allen Muhammad was murdered by the Commonwealth of Virginia.

 

Shame on the Supreme Court! Shame on Governor Kaine! And shame on President Obama for not intervening to stop this madness!

Something evil lurks in the dark of night. The dismembered bodies of young women are piling up all around town. A woman with a haunted past vows stop the killer and bring him to justice. She’ll team up with a most unlikely ally in a race against time that is sure to keep you on the edge of your seat.

 Terror has a new set of initials  .  .  .

P. B.

11/03/2009 12:57am

As most of you know, when I’m not blogging about the issues of the day out here on the Xanga, I am an acclaimed director of motion pictures. My latest project, entitled P.B., opens next Friday. An intellectual slasher film, as I like to call it, P.B. is a tale of revenge and redemption. It all begins one night when young professional Tommy Mitchell comes home to his girlfriend Debra Ferrick. He tells her about a most exciting commercial he just heard on the radio. The actress who played the Captain’s daughter on The Love Boat was inviting everyone within listening distance to “get out of Dodge”. In celebration of the opening of Fijian Isles, Sin City’s newest five star resort, an all expenses paid trip to Las Vegas was awaiting anyone willing to dial the 800 number.  In fact, if you called in the next ten minutes, she would even throw in tickets to a hot show – right on the strip! But alas, Debra is eight months pregnant and both airline restrictions and doctor’s orders prohibit her from flying.

“I’ll just get an abortion,” she proposes.

“Not in this state,” laments Tommy, thinking of the continued erosion of reproductive rights by the Republican Nazis in the state legislature. The quick thinking Debra then suggests they cross the border into their more enlightened blue state neighbor, which properly extends a woman’s right to choose right up until labor. They take a road trip and are then on the next plane to Vegas for three days/two nights of glitz, glamour, gambling, and a four and a half hour high pressure sales pitch on Fijian Isles time shares.

As the jet carrying them leaps into the sunset, we cut to the alley behind the clinic where Debra’s procedure was performed. There is a close up of a garbage bag lying at the top of the dumpster. Suddenly, a little bloody arm bursts through the plastic. The tiny fingers clench into a fist, foreshadowing the horrors to come.

Later that night, a religious kook named John Paul Benedict is seen creeping into the alley under cover of darkness. A typical Christian, Benedict carries a duffel bag full of explosives that he plans to install in and around the clinic then detonate the next day during peak pregnancy termination hours. As he is about to begin his work, he hears child-like cry from the dumpster. He goes over to investigate and discovers the ejected parasite lying there all battered and blood stained. Taking a psychotic liking to the little monster, he decides to take it home and blasphemously raise it as if it were a wanted child, naming it P.B.

Fast forwarding twenty five years, Debra (now played by real life abortion haver Amy Brenneman) is a Pro-choice activist who works tirelessly to preserve and extend women’s rights. In speeches she speaks optimistically of a day when no woman will have to drive more than an hour when seeking a third trimester abortion in order to accept a free trip to Vegas. Though Debra offers hope to the masses, all is not well. Women who have patronized area clinics have begun turning up dead. We learn that P. B. is behind the murders. Now all grown up and played by Chris Burke (“Corky”, the lovable retard from TV’s Life Goes On), P.B. has been brainwashed with the evil Christian values of his stepfather. Breaking into the clinic where he was to be terminated so many years ago, he finds the records from that night and narrows down his possible mothers until he is able to determine that it is Debra Ferrick.

Soon after, Debra is awoken by a bump in the night. She notices that Tommy (to whom she is still unwed) is not lying next to her. She calls his name and gets no answer then proceeds to get out of bed to look for him. In the kitchen she finds P.B. standing over his lifeless body. P.B. tells her how he is the result of her failed abortion and that he is going to make her pay. She asks whether he is going to kill her and he says “no”. Instead, he will continue to kill other women who have abortions, leaving her to live with the guilt of having indirectly caused their deaths. “I could have been a movie star, or an astronaut, or even the President of the United States” he tells her before fleeing into the night.

We are then introduced to right-wing Senator R. Stephen Dunhill (played by Alec “you are a rude, thoughtless little pig” Baldwin). Having sold his soul to the evangelical Christian voting block, Dunhill is a fierce opponent of abortion rights when we first meet him at a rally celebrating the anniversary of Matthew Shepherd’s arrival in Hell. He continually lobbies for prayer in public schools and participates in ceremonial burnings of science text books and pornographic novels like Catcher in the Rye. His tune changes, however, when his daughter Emily is murdered. Upon her exit from a nail salon at a local strip mall, P.B. mistakes her for a customer of the neighboring abortion clinic and slashes her throat.

“There is no God!” Dunhill declares to a TV reporter. Debra sees this on the evening news and decides to pay him a visit. She tells him she knows who killed his daughter and explains the story.

“It’s my fault!” says the Senator, “had I not so vehemently opposed Federal funding for abortion clinics, the facility that performed your abortion would have had the proper tools to do the job right and my daughter would still be alive!”

“You can’t blame yourself for that now,” Debra tells him, “What’s done is done. Right now we have to find P.B. and stop him before he can do it again.”

The two unite for their common purpose and proceed to hunt down P.B. As they do, a friendship develops, eventually leading the Senator to share his deepest, darkest secret with her. “I like boys,” he admits, “young boys”.  She tells him it’s all right and now that he’s accepted that there is no God and no such thing as sin, he is free to explore that which he desires most.

"Let the lure of your own pleasure be your only moral compass,” she says,  “Once you drop the ridiculous notion of a sky man judging you, you are free to indulge in all sorts hedonistic sensualities that were once so taboo!”

“Gosh, I never realized about how stupid I was for being Christian all those years. To think that I kept myself from having sex with small boys ‘cause I thought I’d go to hell,” he says.

Debra urges him to find himself a significant other. She has him purchase large bag of Tootsie Rolls and they go patrolling the neighborhood in search of love. Unable to get a single boy to accept his candy and get in the car, however, he quickly becomes discouraged and is ready to give up. During a monologue of self pity in the park one afternoon, Debra encourages him to expose himself to a boy standing by the swings.

“But, but  .  .  . no. I mean, I could never  .  .  .,” he says hesitantly.

“Trust me Stephen, just do it,” she replies.

He decides to follow her advice and the boy, who is named Jared, ends up performing oral sex on him. They quickly fall in love but the romance appears to end before it even began. With a sinister plan brewing, P.B. kidnaps the boy and, to spare his life, demands that the Senator accept a most evil proposition that will force him to betray the very woman who made his love affair with young Jared possible.

What does Senator Dunhill do in the face of this grave moral dilemma? You’ll of course have to see the movie to find out. I assure you that you will not be disappointed. Amy Brenneman and Alec Baldwin are both outstanding in their respective roles. It is Chris Burke though who truly gives a knockout performance. At the audition, I remember him telling me how sick he was of being type-cast as the happy-go-lucky mongoloid and how he felt this was the perfect role to help him shake that image. I must admit, at first I really didn’t think he could pull it off.  Sure his droopy face, over-sized tongue, and other distorted features make him most believable as a failed abortion before a single layer of make-up is applied. Even still, he is a chromosomal fuck-up who should have rightfully been killed before he had a chance make it out of his mama’s gash. What can I say though? I’m a sucker for a retard who dreams big. I decided to take a chance on him and I am oh-so-glad I did. Believe me, you’ve never been so terrified of a ‘tard.

P. B. opens nationwide on Friday.

 

The Kennedy Assassination

The date was November 21, 1963 and young Bobby Anderson, aged 10, was carrying his sleeping bag up the walkway of his friend Charlie Kauffman’s house. As he got to the front steps, Charlie opened the door. “Did your mom say it was all right to sleep over?” he asked.

“Yes,” Bobby answered.

“Well, what are you standing out there for? Come on in.”  Charlie was an odd looking child with pointed ears, canine-like incisors, and menacing hair (if you can imagine such a thing). Upon showing Bobby to his bedroom he said, “I’ll be right back.”

As Bobby began unrolling his sleeping bag, two mischievous bats found their way into the room. “Get away,” he said, swatting at them. They disregarded his request and belligerently hovered around his head, grazing his hair with their wings.

Charlie returned. “Don’t worry Bobby,” he said, “they’re just my parents.” He turned to the bats, “You can go now Mom and Dad.”

“Sure thing son,” his dad said

His mother whispered to Bobby, "We’ll get you when Charlie’s asleep" and they exited.

Bobby felt uneasy the rest of the night, keeping a constant eye on the door and the windows. Charlie was asleep now and he was all alone. In the corner of the ceiling, opposite the door, a speck of white light began to erode the darkness, expanding into a spider web. A tall, silhouetted figure in an over-sized top hat stepped out from the threads. He removed his hat and spoke.

“Oswald is innocent,” he said.

“Oswald?” Bobby asked.

"It was the Swedes,” said the specter. “Oswald will be the scapegoat. Swedish spies have contracted with a man named Jack Ruby to assassinate him before the trial.”

“What trial?”

A look of concern came across the specter’s face. He put his hat back on and quickly dissolved himself back into the dark. Charlie awoke with glowing red eyes, his incisors now protruding from his lips as he crawled towards Bobby.

“My mommy and daddy said you’re a bad little boy.”

President John Fitzgerald Kennedy was shot and killed in Dallas the next day. To this day there has been no official recognition of the Swedish government’s involvement.

Oh Papa!

There has recently been a lot of press coverage surrounding the revelation that One Day at a Time star Mackenzie Phillips had a sexual relationship with her father, musician John Phillips. Most of the news reports were, of course, highly judgmental of the late Mamas & the Papas founder. This got me wondering about the inane taboo we Americans have with regard to incest, even on a consensual level.

While sexual relationships between parents and their adolescent children are quite common in more evolved countries like Canada, France, Germany, and Greece, they are socially unacceptable, if not illegal, in most of the United States. How unfortunate this is. Personally, I think it imperative that both parents help their sons and their daughters explore their sexuality, beginning around the time of puberty. This will help them build the foundation for a healthy sex life in their later years. I say both parents because I feel it is important that we provide our offspring with a sound basis for evaluating heterosexuality, bisexuality, or homosexuality as a potential lifestyle choice. Absent such valid experience with both parents early on, many women might go through their entire life without realizing they have a palate for the succulence of fine sashimi tuna. Likewise, many a boy may grow into a frustrated man, never knowing that a plump and juicy all beef frank was the missing piece to what would have otherwise been a happy life.

Alas, as Charles Dickens once said, “the law is an ass”. Thus we will continue to see generation after generation grow up without ever realizing their sexual potential. I blame the Christians and Republicans. 

Let’s Ditch the Stars & Stripes Along with That Silly Pledge to the Murderous Imperial Republic For Which It Stands

09/16/2009 01:26am

There was a story in the news the other day concerning the requirement, in certain school districts, that teachers inform students of their right to remain silent during the “Pledge of Allegiance”. As you might imagine, the right-wing nuts over at Fox News were quite perturbed by this. Aside from my belief that this is only fair, I got to thinking about our flag and that for which it really stands.

Growing up, I was of course fed the standard pack of lies about freedom and opportunity and equality for all along with truth, justice, mom, apple pie, etc. As I grew older and wiser, however, I saw that the reality is much different. It became clear that what those stars and stripes stood for was every bit as nefarious as that represented by the swastikas flying above Germany and its occupied lands during World War II. Yes, behind the red white and blue that we so proudly hail are some of the greatest evils ever known: genocide of Native Americans; enslavement of the black man; internment of fellow citizens whose only crime was their Japanese heritage; the invasion and occupation of sovereign nations; and of course, the failed experiment known as capitalism which has caused more death, destruction, and ruined lives than any of those totalitarian dictatorships with whom we felt so justified in making war.

During the months following the alleged Al Qaeda attacks of September 11^th 2001, I could not help but think that all the arrogant flag bearing and nationalism were perhaps the very sentiments that might incite such a terrorist act. It is my continued belief that patriotism is a barbaric, dangerous, and outdated concept which must be eliminated if we are to peacefully co-exist with our fellow citizens of earth. I therefore propose we take the first step in eliminating this jingoism by retiring the American flag along with all those foolish salutes, pledges, and hand-on-heart gestures. I submit that in its stead we adopt a new flag which replaces those thirteen stripes and fifty stars with the big blue marble in space that we all share. That is, a symbol of one unified world under the United Nations with no borders, a common currency, and a respect for all the citizens of our common planet. Surely this only makes sense. After all, are not these the very principles to which we thought we were pledging as naïve school children?

Liberty and justice for all.

 

How It All Went Down
09/11/2009 12:01am

It should be apparent to all by now that the U.S. government was responsible for the attacks on September 11, 2001. Even Charlie Sheen says so. However, it seems that many of my fellow liberal Xanga bloggers are still in denial over this incontrovertible fact. After all, it seemed like truly a great day for us Democrat voters as America finally got its due punishment for what our Republican leaders have done in the name of oil. Many of us danced in the streets, handing out candy to the children, as we celebrated the great victory that we thought we witnessed. As time went on though and more and more information came to light, it seemed that there were more questions than answers and it became clear that the Bush Administration was engaging in a massive cover-up. This culminated in the September 11^th Commission Report, a 571 page volume that seemed only slightly more believable than something authored by the Brothers Grimm.

So what really happened on September 11^th? To answer that, I carefully examined all of the circumstantial evidence and compiled the following transcript of a meeting in the Oval Office that took place on Friday, September 7th, 2001.

George W. Bush: Before we adjourn, does anyone have anything else they’d like to bring up?

Dick Cheney: Yes Mr. President, there’s something that I’ve been meaning to discuss.

George W. Bush: Sure thing. What is it Dick?

Dick Cheney: Well, as you know, when I resigned from Haliburton they gave me a very handsome severance package worth nearly sixty million dollars.

George W. Bush: Well I’d say that was mighty generous of them Dick.

Dick Cheney: Well yes Mr. President, it was. But, with such generosity comes a certain amount of obligation. You see, when I stepped down there was quite a bit of concern about the future of the company.

George W. Bush: That’s very understandable.

Dick Cheney: Yes Mr. President. I was however able to reassure everybody that once we stole the election from Gore and I was Vice President, I would see to it that Haliburton would be privy to lots of sweetheart deals and government contracts.

George W. Bush: I see.

Dick Cheney: Now, as you know, things have been pretty dry and I was hoping you might be able to help me out, see to it that the shareholders and hardworking executives of Haliburton don’t continue to suffer.

George W. Bush: Well, what did you have in mind Dick?

Dick Cheney: Well Sir, I was thinking we could invade Iraq. We do, after all, still have some unfinished business there leftover from your father’s administration.

George W. Bush: Gee Dick, I don’t know if that’s a good idea.

Dick Cheney: Now hear me out Sir, we would start with a massive bombing campaign, lots of destruction. It goes on for a couple of months, then you fly in and declare victory to our troops and we have Haliburton go in and clean it all up and spend the next several years rebuilding.

George W. Bush: Ohhhh, I don’t know. I mean I just can’t go around invading countries. The American people would never go for it, putting their sons and daughters in harm’s way for no good reason.

Dick Cheney: Well, I was thinking we could give them a good reason.

George W. Bush: Oh?

Dick Cheney: What if we were to fly a couple of planes into the Pentagon and World Trade Center? You know, bring the Twin Towers right down and do some heavy damage to the Pentagon then blame it on that Osama Bin Laden.

George W. Bush: But Dick, Osama Bin Laden is in Afghanistan, not Iraq.

Dick Cheney: Yeah, yeah I know Sir. Here’s the thing though, we can start off by bombing Afghanistan and shooting the place up. That way we’ll get to kill off lots of Muslims. We’ve been meaning to wipe out Islam for a while now because of how it empowers the blacks.  

George W. Bush: Yeah,like that up and coming Senator Barack Obama. You just know he’s eventually gonna be trouble. We Republicans sure do hate Muslims and blacks – all minorities in fact. Except of course for the Indians and Orientas since they’re good at math and science and can help us build the bombs and missiles we need to unjustly force our will on the rest of the world.

Dick Cheney: Exactly Sir. Now after we’ve been bringing death and destruction to the Afghan people for several weeks, we tie everything back to Saddam Hussein who we say is funding Bin Laden and producing weapons of mass destruction. Then we let the fireworks begin.

George W. Bush: Sounds like a plan but how will we set it in motion?

Dick Cheney: [pressing the intercom button on the President’s desk phone] Maria, send in our envoy.

Marie: [speaking over the intercom] Yes Mr. Vice President.

The door to oval office opens and the envoy enters.

George W. Bush: Ah, Everybody Loves Raymond, how are you?

Everybody Loves Raymond: Great Mr. President. As they say, TGIF – thank God It’s Friday.

Dick Cheney: Ha, ha, ha, yes indeed Mr. Loves Raymond, yes indeed.

Everybody Loves Raymond: Dickie C., how the hell are ya?

Dick Cheney: Never been better my friend. Never been better. Love the show by the way.

George W. Bush: Yes, it’s been real funny lately. Love that guy who plays Young Frankenstein. He makes Laura and me laugh real hard.

Everybody Loves Raymond: Why thank you. We try our best to entertain the people.

George W. Bush: Well you’re doing a good job.

Everybody Loves Raymond: Much appreciated Mr. President. So what can I do for you boys?

Dick Cheney: Well I know you have some suicide bombers on retainer.    

Everybody Loves Raymond:  I certainly do.

Dick Cheney: Can any of them fly large aircraft?

Everybody Loves Raymond: Can any of them fly large aircraft?  Can any of them fly large aircraft, he asks? Why of course, they all can! Not very good at landing but they definitely can handle themselves in the air.

Dick Cheney: Great! We need a couple of planes to take out the World Trade Center and one to hit the Pentagon.

Everybody Loves Raymond: Consider it done Mr. Vice President. I got ‘em ready and waiting. Monday night on my show I’ll just give the ol’ secret hand signal and it will be done Tuesday morning.

Dick Cheney: Outstanding!

Colin Powell: In all due respect Mr. Vice President, I don’t think it’s such a good idea to kill hundreds, if not thousands of our own citizens in an act of false flag terrorism. That type of thing could really backfire on us.

Dick Cheney: Hush boy, you need to learn your place as one of our token darkies. Learn to be more submissive like Condi over there. That’s why she gets to sleep in the house and you have to stay in the barn all night.

Condoleeza Rice: Oh lawdy Masser Vite Pred-dent, I sho does appree-dee-ate dat. You and Masser Pred-dent showly am the Massers of Massers.

Dick Cheney: Aw Miss Condi, you are just too kind. Say, why don’t you go and mix us up a nice pitcher of Country Time lemonade.

Condoleeza Rice: Yessah Masser Vite Pred-dent, yessah!

George W. Bush: But what about what Colin says Dick? Could this end up backfiring on us? I mean what if someone finds out about our evil plan.

Dick Cheney: We’ll just call them crazy and un-American then pass the PATRIOT Act and send them off to Guantanamo Bay to be imprisoned indefinitely without writ of Habeus Corpus. We got it all figured out.

George W. Bush: Well, okay then but do you think a couple of planes are going to be able to take down those two towers? I mean no plane crash in history has ever been able to take down a building that size.

Everybody Loves Raymond: Not to worry Mr. President, I’ll call my buddy King of Queens and have him send his set crew over there this weekend to wire up some charges inside the North and South Towers, as well as Building 7. We can take down that one too for good measure and blame it on flaming debris.

Dick Cheney: Great idea Everybody Loves Raymond!

Everybody Loves Raymond: No problem. Anything me an my ultra right wing TV wife Patricia Heaton can do for your corrupt and illegitimate Republican administration, just let us know. We’re happy to oblige, even if it results in the deaths of 3,000 fellow Americans.

George W. Bush: All righty then, let’s blow them up, blow them up real good.

Dick Cheney: As you wish Mr. President.

George W. Bush: Excellent, now if you’ll all excuse me, I’m off to go have bestialities with an armadillo, which is what we fundamentalist Christians from Texas do between rallying for school prayer and petitioning for a constitutional amendment to protect the sanctity of marriage. [Looking at Cheney] Dick, I believe we have a meeting later this afternoon to discuss how we can deny affordable health insurance to a greater number of working people while creating more tax breaks for the wealthiest one percent of Americans.

Dick Cheney: Yes Sir we do.

George W. Bush: Great, I’ll see you then.

On the night of Monday September 10^th, 2001, Everybody Loves Raymond gave the secret hand signal during his time slot on CBS, green lighting the attacks that would happen the following morning. His show would continue to run for another four years and continues in syndication to this day. Bush and Cheney wrecked havoc around the globe for the remainder of their tenure under the guise of a so-called “War on Terror”. On January 20, 2009, that troublesome Senator Barack Hussein Obama was sworn in as the nation’s first African-American, Muslim, communist, terrorist-sympathizing President. As for the pitcher of lemonade that Condoleeza Rice was supposed to make, well no one quite knows whatever happened to that.

And the rest, as they say, is history. 

 

Oh What A Night!

So anyway, me droogs and I headed on down to Turner Field in Atlanta this past Saturday night to see the Braves take on the Phillies. The game started about half an hour late due to rain and, unfortunately, we ended up having to leave shortly after it began on account of an altercation with park security and some tardy season ticket holders who didn’t like our seat upgrade. Fortunately, we still had some beers left in the car from the ride down so we chugged some Meister Bräu and took a drive around town. We finally ended up at Atlanta Underground where we found an Irish Pub to watch the rest of the game at while munching on Chicken O’Tenders and doing Jäger shots. We sort of lost track of the game ‘cause of all the commotion going on and being asked to leave on account of an altercation with some big fat goomba and a waitress who couldn’t take a compliment. I heard Sunday morning though that they called the game early when it started to rain again so I guess we didn’t miss much. 

Anyway, after leaving there we found ourselves over by Johnny Rockets trading fascinating facts, our favorite past time (next to fucking bitches of course). We covered a range of topics from zoology to U.S. Presidents to quantum physics. Bobby totally blew our minds with his facts about time dilation and relativity. For instance, did you know that if you jumped into a spaceship and traveled at the speed of light for a year then came back you’d be two years older but it’d be 1,300 years later on earth and everyone you ever knew would have been dead for hundreds of years?? Is that fucked-up or what? It’s true though! Scientists have totally proven this shit and everything!

Anyway, just as we were getting into the “how many” questions (e.g., how many beats does the average human heart beat in a lifetime, how many steps are there to the top of the Eiffel Tower, how many years would it take to walk the circumference of the earth at an average speed of 2.5 miles per hour, etc.), an old man came out of Johnny Rockets and decided to get in on the action. Without even saying hi or nothing, he comes over and in his retarded Georgia accent is all like “Do you know how many gallons of water it take to fill an acre of land?” I was like “Whahht?” then Bobby was like “Gus Witherspoon here is asking us how many gallons of water it takes to fill an acre of land.” The old man was like, “Now son, I don’t know who this Gus Witherspoon is but my name is Ron.” Then Joey was like, “No, you’re Gus. We call you Gus Witherspoon because you remind us of the diabetes guy from Our House.” I was like, “What kind of stupid question is that about how many gallons of water it takes to fill an acre of land? I mean you can’t even give a definite answer for that with all the variables involved. That shit’s gonna depend on the chemical make-up of the soil, how porous it is, and all sorts of other stuff. Shit, even the outside air temperature is gonna affect it.” Gus was then like, “What I meant to ask was how many gallons of water does it take to fill an acre of land one inch deep.” I was like, “So with no absorption” and he was like, “Yeah.” Bobby was like, “Well considering an acre is 43,560 square feet and a gallon is 231 cubic inches, doing the conversion then dividing you get roughly 27,154 gallons.” Gus was like, “I reckon you’d be exactly correct son.”

Anyway, I was like, “Who cares old man, that’s a stupid question! We like trading fascinating facts and some shit about gallons of water on an acre of land definitely ain’t fascinating.” He was like, “Well I was only try’na – ”. I cut him off with a punch to the gut. He keeled over and Mikey kicked him right in the nuts then Bobby punched him in the face and knocked him down. Just then this little girl came out of Johnny Rockets and was like, “What are you doing to my granddaddy?!” I was like “Shut-up little girl” then we all started kicking and stomping Gus as he curled up on the ground trying to protect his face and balls. She tried to stop us but Mikey grabbed her and held her back as me, Bobby, and Joey continued to kick the old bastard. The little girl was like, “Please stop! You’re hurting him!” I gotta admit she was pretty fine for her age, even though she also had a retarded Georgia accent. She was probably twelve or thirteen but already had tits. I totally would have hooked up with her but I get real sleepy after I blow a load and we had a long drive ahead of us, not to mention how fucked up I was from all the beer and Jäger Meister.

Anyway, when our legs eventually got tired we whipped out our dicks and pissed all over Gus who was all wheezing and clutching his chest and shit. Mikey let go of the little girl and we took off. As we walked away we could hear her screaming, “Granddaddy! Granddaddy! No granddaddy! Where are your pills granddaddy?! Oh God! Someone please help my grandfather!” It was wicked funny.

Anyway, pulling out of the parking garage, I accidentally plowed into some jackass who was crossing the street. Fortunately no one saw us. I was a bit worried about what damage I might have done to the car but I didn’t really want to pull over and check until we at least got across the state line. At first I was really freaked out by the dent in the plastic bumper but Bobby reached under it and popped it right out. No permanent damage or nothing. After a little soap and water to clean it up, it was like new again.

Anyway, all and all it was quite an interesting night. Maybe next time we can actually see the game. As the Ricans say though, “que sera sera.”

It’s Survival of the Fittest Baby!

 

To the 15% of Americans currently without health insurance, I would just like to say TOUGH SHIT! If someone as utterly lacking in intelligence, charisma, good looks, and motivation as I can manage to obtain coverage then so too can you all! And to all you filthy liberals who are always whining about the need for a national health care plan, how’s this for an idea: FUND IT YOURSELVES – VOLUNTARILY! We don’t make you tithe to our Church so stop trying to make us give our hard earned money to a government operated charity for the lazy and irresponsible! You don’t care about God and we don’t care about poor and middle class people without insurance so shut up and let’s peacefully co-exist (side by side on my piano keyboard, lord why don’t we).

 

Of course it is pretty ironic that you godless lefties would be so concerned about healthcare given that y’all are such fans of a certain shaggy bearded, cousin fucking, asshole named Charles Darwin. This homeless looking motherfucker turned his back on his Maker when his impudent bitch daughter caught the scarlet fever and died (wage of sin = death people). He then concocted all sorts of cockamamie theories to explain away the existence of God. Incidentally, Mr. Darwin was not nearly as upset when his infant son also died of the same disease a few years later, leading me to believe that there was probably something a little improper about his relationship with young Annie. But that’s a topic for another time. Anyway, one of Darwin’s theories does seem incredibly relevant to this debate.

 

Based on his assertion of so-called “Natural Selection”, what would Mr. Darwin say of the 47 million Americans currently without health insurance, were he not too busy burning in hell to comment?  “Fuck them” is what he would say and I am inclined to agree.  While there are always exceptions to the rule, there is a high probability that if you are born to lazy and poor parents, you too will be lazy and poor. You will thus contribute nothing to society and will only take from it through your free school lunches, welfare allowances, and Section 8 housing subsidies. Therefore, if you step on a rusty nail and can’t scrap together enough cash for a tetanus shot – good! The world will most certainly be a better place when you all die from your inability to obtain antibiotics and vaccinations. Not only should we deny health insurance to you leeches, but we should stop mandating that emergency rooms treat you. If I own a hospital and you come in without insurance, a big wad of cash, or a credit card with a sufficient credit limit, then I should be able to toss your ass out on to the street where you can wait for your myocardial infraction to reach its conclusion.

 

In summation, the uninsured can go fuck themselves.

 
That is all.

 

I HATE PEOPLE WHO  .   .   .   .

 

• bite their nails

 

• constantly clear their throat

 

• chew loudly

 

• snap their gum

 

• suck their teeth

 

• sigh when they yawn

 

• breath noisily

 

• inhale their mucus

 

• always have a fucking cold

 

• smell like tobacco

 

• clip their nails in public

 

• TiVo or DVR My Name is Earl

 

• try to convince me to watch Lost

 

• own Titanic on VHS, DVD, or BluRay

 

• shop at Ambercrombie & Fitch

 

• bring reusable bags to the supermarket

 

• purchase their groceries from Whole Foods, Earth Fare, Trader Joe’s, or other such left wing supermarkets

 

• drive a Smart Car

 

• extort money from hardworking Americans each October on behalf of the United Way

 

• aren’t Roman Catholic

 

 

 

An Open Letter to Billy Ray Cyrus

 

Dear Mr. Ray Cyrus,

 

I just want to start by saying that I am a huge fan of your work.  I consider Some Gave All to be the absolute greatest record album of the 1990’s (all genres considered). Aside from the Beatles and the Stones, few artists’ work holds up as well as yours. Anyone who’s ever been to the AMF lanes on a Saturday night knows just how wild the crowd gets when they pump “Achy Breaky Heart” just before closing time! Everyone totally drops their balls and the place erupts into a jamboree of line dancing and song! Man, your daughter Miley sure must be proud to have such a superstar like you for a daddy! Not that you’re not equally as proud to have a superstar like her for a daughter (I’m sure she’ll too have a cosmic bowling anthem of her own someday – “Party in the USA” perhaps?).

 

Ah yes, dear sweet Miley, the real subject of my letter. How hard it must be as a father to hear the media reporting on another scandal involving your nubile teen daughter every other day. First there were the leaked cell phone pictures of her in extra cute (though relatively unrevealing) undies. Then there was the topless Vanity Fair pictorial in which her succulent young breasts were covered only by her top and a bed sheet. Next were those shocking paparazzi photos which captured her wearing a bikini on the beach. And just last week we witnessed her latest act of unrighteousness on the Teen Choice Awards when she performed a striptease (sans the stripping). Every jaw in the house dropped straight to the floor. “Is this even legal?” some wondered.

 

I must say that I have developed somewhat of a concern over the public’s reaction to these events. At the same time, I am also quite perplexed by it. After all, for most girls her age living outside the Muslim world, none of these episodes would so much as raise an eyebrow. Why then, you may ask, is there such uproar when it’s Miley? I can only speculate but it is clear that Ms. Cyrus is not like her peers, the vast majority of whom are unattractive pigs with bad skin, braces, and may be as much as three to five pounds overweight. Unlike them, Miley is good looking – really, really good looking.

 

 

Yes, your daughter has been cursed with the vice known as beauty. Unfortunately, as long as she carries this defect, celebrity bloggers will call her “Slutty Cyrus” every time she puts on heels. Likewise, angry parents will comment with disgust whenever there is a news story suggesting that she is attracted to boys at her tender young age. This can only mean a life of unhappiness and disrespect for the poor girl.

 

Mr. Ray Cyrus [Billy, if I may] – you must rid your daughter of this evil! As difficult as I know it will be for you to do, you need to fetch a bucket of acid at once and toss it onto Miley. I know it sounds horrible but only by hideously disfiguring her with chemical burns can you save her from the same contempt and derision that pushed fellow Disney star Lindsay Lohan into a life of substance abuse, unemployability, and lesbianism (although the latter might be kind of hot, especially if it involved that Asian chick from the show with the twins).

 

Yes, it will be tough to hear her horrific screams of “Daddy why?! Why daddy why?!” and it will be even tougher to see her once pretty face transformed into a disfigured mess that would scare off even Sloth from The Goonies. It is necessary, however, and it is the only way she can be the tween idol that all the suburban house mothers expect her to be. Once the stinging tears have evaporated from her raw burned skin and the pain has subsided to a tolerable enough level that it can be controlled by a light narcotic such as Vicodin, I believe you will start to see immediate benefits. Her music will finally be taken seriously as critics start taking note of how she sounds rather than how she looks. Also, you’ll no longer have to worry about the Hannah Montana writers pulling a fast one and introducing a love interest for her, with its implications of French kissing, feel copping, and over the clothes naughty place touching. I mean that would be quite unrealistic given that only rows of blistery tumors remain of her lips, the raw skin on her mammary glands requires a constant air tight wrapping to prevent bacterial infection, and .  .  . well I’ll spare you the gruesome details of her genitals (eeesh!). Instead, the show can start to focus on more important issues like helping children deal with classmates that might be different and loving the Lord and your daddy even after they’ve  allowed caustic anti-alkaline liquids to painfully corrode your flesh. Who knows, she may even be nominated for an Oscar when producers start casting her in more serious roles (e.g., Mask II, The Elephant Girl, The Woman without a Face).

 

Billy, Mr. Ray Cyrus, won’t you please give Miley the life she deserves. Throw that acid on her face, neck, chest, and lap and make this dream a reality.

 

Thank you so much for allowing me the opportunity to provide these constructive parenting tips.

God bless.

Ever truly yours,

SKANLYN

Rocker Dead at 61

 

Steven Tyler has died after falling from a concert stage in South Dakota. Tyler was front man for the rock group Aerosmith, Beantown’s answer to Frankie Goes to Hollywood. Makeshift memorials have popped up all over the city of Boston where the group first grew to popularity among the city’s population of Irish American white trash. They often used Aerosmith’s music as the soundtrack to a night of wild drinking and beating up queers. Ironically, Tyler himself was widely rumored to be gay and was inseparable from purported lover Freddie Mercury during the 1970’s. Mercury, lead singer of the rock band Queen, died of AIDS in 1991. Many speculated that Tyler’s alleged struggle with Hepatitis C was in fact AIDS.

 

While it is a sad day in the rock world, many have taken comfort in the fact that Tyler died doing what he loved best – prancing around on stage like a little gay boy while singing machismo lyrics of highly fictitious heterosexual exploits, such as the chart topping “Love in an Elevator”.

 

Said Joe Perry, Aerosmith’s guitarist and Tyler’s long-time song writing partner, “I guess Satan needs another fag to suck off Apollyon while Legion pounds his asshole until he explodes in an eternal ejaculation of fiery magma.” When a reporter asked Perry why he thought Tyler in Hell, he responded, “Oh no, believe me, for Steven that is surely Heaven!”

 

 

LET’S STOP WASTING TAXPAYERS’ MONEY TO PROSECUTE UPSTANDING CITIZENS WHOSE ONLY CRIME IS RIDDING THE WORLD OF PEOPLE THAT NO ONE CARES ABOUT ANYWAY! ! !

 

If you kill a hitchhiker, no one will miss him or her. If anyone cared about said hitchhiker, he or she would have a ride already and wouldn't be out there thumbing for one. Therefore it should not be a crime to murder a hitchhiker. Wouldn’t you agree? I thought so.

Oh, It’s What You Do to Me  .  .  .

 

While browsing the summer collection of a local clothier yesterday afternoon, I was hit with a most unpleasant blast from the not too distant past. As you have probably noticed, retailers make the very peculiar assumption that their customers are hardcore soft rock fans and so they make a practice of pumping the local “Magic” or “Mix” station through their P.A. system. This was indeed the case at the merchant I was visiting. As I thumbed through the racks on this warm Carolina Sunday, the melodies of the Savage Garden suddenly morphed into that thoroughly awful acoustic ballad entitled “Hey There Delilah.” I had almost forgotten this atrocity which was all the rage a year or two ago. This seems quite unfathomable of course as “Delilah” was the song that finally managed to end the twenty year reign previously held by Simply Red’s “Holding Back the Years” to become the worst song ever. While we should never forget the horror brought upon us by that freak with the red dreadlocks, this Delilah song guy takes the cake with his purest of all pieces of shit. “Oh, it’s what you do to me”, he sings in his stoner kid voice, sounding a lot like that dude in the Hardees’ (aka Carl’s Jr.) radio spots – the one who woke up after a night of heavy partying to find he accidentally fucked his friend’s dog, a shame to be cured only by a breakfast burrito from his favorite fast food chain.

So, you ask, how in heavens did such a nausea inducing ditty manage to become so gosh bloody darn popular? Well, it seems chicks actually dig a shaggy bearded, pale, emaciated, long haired fuck face (he’s probably a vegan as well, assholes like him usually are) who sings tenderly about taking care of his girl when he becomes a big star. Of course, I’m just guessing as to what this douche looks like as I’ve never actually seen him. I was tempted to do a Google search but frankly I would be more embarrassed to have someone find that in my browser history than those sporadic visits to trannyfuckers.com. Anyway, upon contemplating this, I came to an important realization. THIS IS IT –  the root cause of homosexuality. No, it’s not genetics or childhood trauma, nor mental illness. It’s having a surplus of self respect, so much so that you would rather suck on a slimy, hairy, sweaty and putrescent sac of balls than resort to charming the object of your affection in as disgusting a manner as writing a “Hey There Delilah”.  

 

So there it is. Religious right take notice: it’s not the homosexuals you should be burning at the stake –  it’s guitar playing pussies like this! No Virginia, God doesn’t hate fags. He hates faggy balladeers.

 

Had I more self respect I’d be heading right now for the bath house. For better or worse though, I am deficient when it comes to self worth so I shall maintain my scrotum free diet, at least for the time being.

The Chronic Throat Clearer: A New Breed of Domestic Terrorist

 

It seems people cannot be silent these days. No, I don’t expect everyone to go all Marcel Marceau and shit. I’ve come to expect and I accept that people are inclined to converse with one another. However, when a person is not speaking, one would logically expect their mouth to not make sounds. Observation tends to demonstrate otherwise. Nearly every time I am in a public setting, I find myself in the presence of one or more persons who are compelled to create a Phil Spector-esque wall of sound with their noisy breathing, humming, whistling, sighing, gum snapping, teeth sucking, loud yawning, or various other noises. Worst of all are the assholes who incessantly clear their throats every twenty seconds or so.

 

I first began to notice this phenomenon a few years ago while at the local library perusing back issues of Tiger Beat on microfiche. I was doing some research for my Leif Garrett fansite and, while reading the heart wrenching account of Leif’s very painful break-up with Tatum O’Neal in the June 1977 issue, I heard it for the first time. From out of nowhere, an indescribably terrible sound reached up from the depths of Hades and violently shredded the silence. Then there was snort and it happened again. I wondered who could be making these awful noises and how I might murder him or her whilst avoiding prosecution. As the quiet returned, reason took over me and I decided to let it go and get back to the fiche. But then it happened again – gravelly vocal chords grinded together in a most caustic manner then melted into a gurgling of slimy residue. Only a few moments later, there was an encore then another and another. Now I just could not let it go. I got up and walked to the reading room where these sounds emanated. There sat an old man reading the Times Dispatch (folded in quarters, in typical old fuck fashion). He took a breath then did it again. This time the snort was far more intense as he sucked the mucus from the upper reaches of his nasal cavity down into his throat then briefly gargled and swallowed it like a freshly milked load of his daddy’s semen. Then there was a three bass note hum – “m-m-m”. That was all I could take so I decided to confront the nasty fucker. I did so politely of course, because I respect my elders. He was not as refined.

 

“I got post nasal drip asshole!” he explained, “If you don’t like it go find yourself another fucking library!” He then began to yell, declaring me and my generation the cause of this once great nation’s decline and citing us as the reason “the Chinks are taking over everything”.

 

Shortly thereafter, the librarian was telling me “You’ll have to leave sir” and the janitor was physically ejecting me from the building. Ironic given that all I did was point out their  own “QUIET PLEASE” sign to the old prick. Oh well, I should have known you can’t go up against an old fuck who spends his afternoons gurgling mucus at the library because he is too cheap to spend fifty cents on his own fucking newspaper. Greatest generation my ass! Sorry but being conscripted into the military under force of Federal Law back in the 40’s doesn’t grant you the perpetual right to be a whiney, inconsiderate, disgusting old fuck who burdens society until his heart finally does itself in because it can’t stand listening to your bitching anymore. But I digress.

 

Anyway, since that day, these monsters have become more and more prevalent. Often they will come together like some abominable orchestra playing an endless symphony of repugnance, each of their throats acting as a different instrument. There’s the standard ahemmer – classically annoying in all respects. Then there are those who start off with a half sneeze which they gradually segue into a short cough followed by inhalation of the resulting expectoration down into their throat which is then cleared with a sonic boom. Next are the staccatos. They rapidly play their notes in short consecutive bursts (approximately seven to ten in a row), not unlike the firing of a Thompson submachine gun. Last, but certainly not least, are the growlers. Think of a rabid German shepherd painfully screaming out his last barks.

 

Many times I have pondered how anyone could possibly be so selfish and inconsiderate as to continuously drive their fellow man to the verge of homicide, suicide, or just plain insanity.

 

“I’m afraid it’s more than mere inconsideration,” says Dr. Phillip Randolph, Managing Director of the Institute for Cocksucking Motherfucker Studies (ICMS), a Washington D.C. think tank that seeks effective ways to deal with a wide variety of cocksucking motherfuckers including people who end sentences with prepositions, Ron Paul supporters, the United Way, and those fatsos who always sit next to you on an airplane. “[Chronic throat clearers] seek to destroy our way of life ,” Randolph continues, “They want to make the mere act of being alive painful for the rest of us.”

 

“But why Dr. Randolph?” I ask.

 

“Basically these people hate America and they hate freedom but as long as they have it, they’re going to use it to deprive you of your ability to pursue happiness. That my friend is what I refer to as terrorism.”

 

“Gosh, I never thought it was that serious.”

 

“Contraire mon frère. Right now these fiends are at work destroying our financial system. In workplaces all across America, they are decimating morale and productivity by tormenting their coworkers. Recently they appear to be enhancing their efforts by combining throat clearing with a plethora of other irritants such as coffee slurping, eating loud foods like apples and potato chips at their desk, and boosting the volume of their voice to extreme decibels when speaking on the phone. Their efforts appear to be paying off too. It’s been estimated that these terrorists will cost corporate America nearly $175 billion in lost productivity this year.”

 

“Wow! That’s an astounding number! Why don’t employers crack down like they do with March Madness or fantasy football?”

 

Without hesitation he looks me square in the eye and says, “The Americans with Disabilities Act – the greatest legislative evil this country has ever known.”

 

*   *   *

 

Freddie Womack is a proofreader at a New York based publishing company.  An avid throat clearer and coffee slurper, he shares workspace with several coworkers in a cubicle environment.

 

“Hey, I can’t help it if I got a frog in my throat,” says Womack.

 

“You realize that continually clearing your throat can be quite irritating to your colleagues.”

 

“Oh well,” Womack tells me, “It don’t bother me so it shouldn’t bother them.”

 

“But it does Freddie, it does.”

 

“I say if they can’t stand the heat, they should get the hell outta the kitchen. Let ‘em go flip burgers if they don’t like it.”

 

I have the urge to slam my fist into his fucking face right then and there but resist.

 

Womack’s coworkers, speaking on the condition of anonymity, tell me that they generally have to do their work after hours as it is all but impossible to perform the task of proofreading as long as he is in the office. I asked why they hadn’t brought this to the attention of their manager or Human Resources. They told me that wasn’t an option, a lesson they learned last year when three of their fellow employees were terminated after attempting to raise the issue with management. Womack turned the tables on them and they ended up getting fired for harassment.

 

“These are terrible, terrible people and they need be stopped,” Dr. Randolph says. “Unfortunately they’ve got the Law on their side.” When I ask how then can we defeat this most elusive enemy, he has one word for me, “vigilantism".

 

Yes vigilantism, perhaps not an ideal solution but at present it is the only hope for preserving our nation and our freedom. Who will step up to the plate though? Who will put aside their own security, safety, and the well being of themselves and their family to stand up for truth, justice and the American way? Images of Charles Bronson as Paul Kersey cleaning up the streets of New York come to mind. Some may even think of the Batman. But there is no Paul Kersey and there is no Batman and even if there were, it would take much more than a single Polish man with a gun and a Death Wish or a caped crusader and his boy wonder. Clearly it is up to us, all of us. We patriots, the non-throat clearers, must unite. We must stand together as one and let these haters of God and country know that we’re as mad as hell and we’re not going to take it anymore!

 

Then conquer we must, when our cause it is just,
And this be our motto: 'In God is our trust.'
And the star-spangled banner in triumph shall wave
O'er the land of the free and the home of the brave

– Francis Scott Key

 

AN OFFICER AND A GERBIL

 

Fact or Faux:

Actor Richard Gere once made a late night trip to the emergency room to have a gerbil extracted from his rectum.

 

FACT!

 

But don’t worry, he’s not homosexual, just Buddhist.

 

This story has been confirmed by my friend Joey G. whose cousin was a nurse at Cedars Sinai Medical Center back in 1984 and was in the building that fateful night when Mr. Gere made his appearance. Apparently he was practicing a Buddhist ritual that went awry. Curious as to what kind of religion condones the insertion of small mammals into the anal cavity, I decided to look into the matter further. I put on my hat, grabbed my magnifying glass then lit my pipe and uttered “elementary” for no apparent reason and proceeded with my investigation of this “Buddhism”.

                     

From my research I learned the following:

 

• The religion was founded by some Korean guy named Moon (Buddhists often refer to themselves as “Moonies”).

 

• Originally the Buddhists were from Indianapolis but then moved their headquarters to California which turned out to be a bad decision. They weren’t accepted there and were constantly harassed by police and politicians who wanted to crack down on them for their communist views. Consequently, they relocated the whole operation to Guyana.

 

• While in Guyana, they were called Home by their deity, “The Buddha”, a smiling fat man made of chocolate who sits Indian style for all eternity. They mixed up some grape juice with cyanide then drank it and went off to Buddhaland.
  
  

The writings that Moon and his followers left behind are the foundation for modern-day Buddhism and describe the many rituals a Buddhist is supposed to follow. As it turns out, Richard Gere had been practicing something called metta bhavana which involves inserting a cardboard tube into the anus then placing a rodent into the tube. One’s hand is then placed over the end of the tube. The rodent, in a desperate search for air, begins frantically burrowing into the anus and, in doing so, stimulates the Buddhist “sacred spot” (i.e., the prostate) thus bringing about an orgasmic state known as nirvana.  In addition to the autoerotic pleasure provided, this act is also supposed to prevent one from getting reborn as a bug or, worse yet, a gerbil who meets his/her unfortunate end in someone’s colon.

 

Contrary to popular opinions on stimulation of the male anus, Buddhists maintain that this ritual “don’t make you queer or nuthin’, just spiritual.” While I certainly have an appreciation for spirituality of any kind, I tend to think this particular variety is not for me. Thus the next time those Buddhist recruiters come knocking at my door on a Sunday morning (you know the ones - white short sleeve dress shirts, black ties, always  trying to get you to read their “Watchtower” magazine) I’ll just have to pass on their offer of eternal salvation. I prefer that animals pass through my rectum on the way out only.

 

 

Rihanna and Chris Brown: The Value of Love & Forgiveness

 

I am a bit disturbed by the reports that Rihanna has decided to end her relationship with R&B superstar Chris Brown. Just a few weeks ago, she had not only forgiven the love of her life but was refusing to grant testimony to overly zealous D.A. Donald Etra. This is sad indeed and quite hypocritical of Rihanna who declares in the lyrics to her smash hit single “Umbrella”:

                                                

When the sun shines, we'll shine together
Told you I'll be here forever
Said I'll always be a friend
Took an oath I'm ‘a stick it out till the end

 

It is most disappointing that Ms. Fentry has decided to void her oath. I was initially quite proud that she was one of the few celebrities out there espousing Christian values instead of defecating on them like Lady GaGa or that guy who sings “You’re Beautiful”. There was much Biblical foundation for her initial decision to forgive Brown (Matthew 18:21-22; Luke 6:37; Mark 11:25), a fact I fear will be obscured to young Christian girls in light of Rihanna’s Indian giving.

 

I guess that it is times like this when parents just have to be parents and talk to their children about these issues. In doing so, it is vital that you stress to your daughters that the way their boyfriends make them feel is absolutely irreplaceable and nobody else will ever make them feel the same. Others may come close but it will never ever be as good. That of course assumes that they are lucky enough to even find someone else, mediocre as they may be. As we all know, there are scores of women who have died old and alone never again having experienced love of any kind. That my friends is surely worse than any beating one would have to endure.

 

To those who want to start throwing around statistics allegedly correlating domestic abuse and murder, I would like to point out that your poster-child Nicole Brown-Simpson might still be alive today if she had forgiven her husband instead of selfishly divorcing him over “irreconcilable differences”.

I pray that Rihanna will reconsider her decision and forgive so that she too may be forgiven.

HA HAH!

You  bastard! My sweet daddy died the same way! How dare you make fun of this!

I HATE HEART DEAF PEOPLE

 

It seems that my last blog posting caused quite a bit of controversy. I received many angry comments, all from persons who fail to grasp the concept of satire. While I have little tolerance for the ignorant or those who refuse to adopt a sense of humor, I was quite troubled when my feedback log indicated a number of visitors were coming from deaf oriented blogs and message boards where my essay was being posted as an example of hate speech. For example:

 ____________________________

TO ALL DEAFIES THIS IS GOING TO MAKE YOU SOOOO MAD

Posted On 03/29/2009 07:19:00 by SalsaQueen

A very good friend of mine sent this to me, and was shocked at the content:

This person really must HATE deaf people !!!!!!!!

PS I did not write this some one named  skanlyn..wrote it

( http://skanlyn.xanga.com/697149927/children-of-a-lesser-god/ )

____________________________

Now if I were a less empathetic sort of chap, I might just dismiss the “SalsaQueen” as a dummy. Fortunately I am one empathetic bastard and so I am compelled to give the fair Queen the benefit of the doubt and assume that she is merely unfamiliar with what satire is and how it works. And so I will explain. Basically, satire is a humorous attack on some human vice (e.g., racism, sexism, anti-Semitism, etc.) through irony and exaggeration. In carrying this out, the satirist will often make such outrageous statements that they cannot possibly be taken seriously (except by idiots) in order to point out the foolishness of the vice which he or she is attacking. For more complete information, I direct you to the Wikipedia entry. I then urge you to re-read my blog entry. If you are still offended, then I can only conclude you are a dummy and so I will pray that the Lord cures you of your dummyness.

 

Thank you for your support.