Vote Republican, and maybe you’ll see some boobs.

29 08 2008

Now, before we get started here, let me make one thing clear: I am not a McCain supporter. I won’t be voting for him in November, and personally agree with very little he actually says. I also happen to believe that John McCain is our next President. Why? Because the American people are a slow bunch, and drastic change makes them nervous.

That being said,


Ladies and gentlemen, I give Sarah Palin, our next Vice President. Aside from being governor of Alaska, as well as being just as cute as a button, Palin is also blessed with two of the best homegrown political weapons I have ever seen.

She is also, sadly, one of those kinds of chicks. Everything fun there is about life, she hates. Maybe you could loosen her up with a couple Bacardis, but it wouldn’t be worth it. Just put Sarah Palin–and her magnificent qualifications–out of your mind.


I’m sorry, you’re going to have to run that one by me again.

11 06 2008

You know, as a smoker, I can say I’ve never really been bothered by those anti-smoking ads on television. Some of them are pretty funny, while others are honestly unsettling. Did you see the one with the thousand-plus people falling flat on their faces in the street around a tobacco company’s corporate headquarters? Holy shit. That one still bugs me even after having not seen it in a while. 

On the other hand, this new one is probably the stupidest thing I’ve ever seen put out in protest of anything. Even worse than some of those Iraq war protests–which are often frighteningly stupid–the one with the dancing animated emaciated babies takes the fucking cake. I get what the message is supposed to be, I think, but I can’t put that together with the whole anti-smoking theme and see anything that’s supposed to make sense.

Usually, the moral is “smoking is bad and will kill you”, which is fine with me. I know smoking will kill me. I know that. I’ve seen the facts and actual evidence. But this exciting new twist in the commercials, this “anyone related to smoking is evil and wants to kill you and your animated babies” is a bit too much.

Not only that, but someone said recently that the commercial had racist elements. Apparently the stork is supposed to be a caricature of a lazy black man, one who agrees that smaller babies are a good thing, and the guy most obviously against smoking is the nice white kid playing a Country & Western tune. Something about a subtle “don’t be like the lazy niggers” is supposed to be the underlying message, and since the whole commercial is offensive to black people, they’re less likely to be given the message is bad. Which obviously means that White America wants Black America to die from smoking.

Okay. Right.

Put into an enjoyably simple bullet list, whoever scripted this message wants to convince you that: 

  • Big Tobacco is really our version of the Great Satan
  • black people are lazy
  • black people support cigarette companies’ decision to harm your baby
  • black people kill white babies
  • black people are the Great Satan
  • “don’t be like the lazy niggers”

So… everybody get all that? Yeah. 

Oh Christ, here come the symbols…

3 06 2008

Now that Hillary Clinton is more or less a dead duck, we’re left with Senators Obama and McCain duking it out for the top spot. This is where the symbols come in. Now, I’m not trying to sound like some nutjob TV psychic. What I mean is that the Obama/McCain clash is symbolic of the classic Black Man’s Struggle in America. Because of this, and because he’s sort of black, look for Barack Obama’s camp to play up the underdog aspect. God knows America loves an underdog.

Sadly, I don’t see it working for Obama this go-round. He’s too polished, too professional, to be able to play off a decent woe-is-me card and not look like a total buffoon. No one will feel sorry for him, but then again, no will care either way. In a gang rape, the victim doesn’t prefer one dick to another.

I’m no politico, but I’d say wait for a big bomb to come from Obama’s people some time this Summer. Something involving McCain and his stance on religion, perhaps. It would be a boon to Obama’s Presidential hopes if he could somehow play the two-sided preacher fiasco as a natural consequence of politics. Then, he could come out in favor of a milder, more politically astute preacher, and seem like the Righteous Brother the people will surely vote for. He does this, but manages to make McCain’s same rejection of supportive religious figures look like ingratitude. After all, Reverend Wright was a lunatic anyone would be glad to get away from; Hagee and Parsley are just your average White Southr’n Preachuhs.

At any rate, there isn’t any good choice for us this year. Obama’s a professional politician, and McCain’s an old asshole. In a country full of them, the assholes will always reign supreme.  

More stupid searches that will lead you here!

1 06 2008
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The Eight-thousand-pound BM

17 05 2008

Believe it or not, but I just sat still for two-and-a-half hours while an old man shat all over me. With the exceptions of Ghost Rider and Spiderman 3, Iron Man was the cheesiest, corniest load of next-generation superhero crap ever dumped on America. Holy shit.


Don’t get me wrong—I like Robert Downey Jr. He’s a good actor who seems to have a taste for the edge work that I so enjoy (mostly destruction of property and abuse of prescription narcotics), but no man should be subjected to watching Stan Lee sweat through what had to be the jagged-peanut ass-ripper of a lifetime. Fuck you, you old cocksucker.


Let this be my last word on the subject, then: I will never see another Stan Lee movie ever ever again. I don’t care if Samuel L Jackson is in the damn thing. It isn’t worth it.

Rummaging in the attic of dirty politics

15 05 2008

Let it never be said that I am above cheering at the sight of a fistfight between a woman and a nervous black man. If there has ever been an uglier race for the presidency between two surer losers in our national history, I haven’t heard of it. Aaron Burr might disagree with me, once we’re both in whatever place is reserved for bad men who fully believe that what they’re doing is right, but until then I stand firm. Hillary and Obama are rats too stupid to jump ship, and too self-concerned to do anything more than chew the flesh from the other’s ears. 


Everyone who’s anyone knows that McCain is today’s first-stringer. Likewise, everyone knows how this next Presidency will turn out: McCain, the war hero, dying in office and allowing some half-retarded geek to take his place. And then? Christ, who knows? All-out war with our closest allies, underhanded dealings with shady foreign dignitaries… Jesus God. 


Anyway, shit on that craziness. The world is in such an ugly way right now that politics of any sort are beneath the concern of most thinking people. Florida is on fire, for reasons known only to people learned in those matters. Asia is being swept up in a storm of brown-yellow faces and ruined shanties. And the Almighty Dollar is looking more and more like the humble peso on the world markets. Canada and China are the next-in-lines for our current place of 2nd on the economical scale, while we backslide further into fat apathy.


Politics and weather be damned, I’m beginning to wonder if this oddball little town isn’t just what the doctor ordered for me. Being Summer, the collegiate crowds are thinned considerably, which is just as well, since I don’t get along well with sycophants and asswipes who still think that Kierkegaard is a source of valid philosophy. That’s a common symptom of people who are only just learning to think for themselves: they tend to grasp at whatever’s closest and most far-out. Which further explains why college campuses are breeding grounds for Leftist stupidity and date rape. Testosterone and politics are both ugly reasons for people to congregate, and usually result in the same sad end.


It’s a pleasant thing to know that whomever you meet on the street isn’t going to automatically turn you in to the police for being Out of Place. In this town, I blend in like brown on black. Nobody notices me, and that’s for the best. There is good beer to drink, pretty girls to see, and not a little LSD around, in the event you want a pick-me-up. It’s nice here. 

I Quit My Job Today: a Dramatization

8 05 2008

I’m standing at the urinal at work today, when the Big Boss comes walking through the door all in a huff.

“Thompson!” he yells, clearly meaning me, even though my name isn’t Thompson.

“Yes, boss?” I reply politely while trying whole-heartedly not to piss all over the floor.

“What the hell is all that–Jesus God!” he exclaims, pointing at my crotch. “What the Holy Mary is that thing? Did the Salvation Army have a closeout sale on artificial limbs?” 

“Well, yes they did, actually,” I answer sheepishly.

“Jesus man, put that thing away! I need to speak to you.”

“Okay boss,” I comply, turning to speak to him while pissing all over the floor. “What is it?”

Ack!”  he screams, jumping back. “You idiot, you’ve pissed all over the floor!”

“I see,” I say. I’m still not sure where he’s going with all of this.

“Anyway, I need to ask about what Little Boss told me earlier. Are you really quitting?”

“Why, yes sir, I–”

Before I can finish, he jumps on me and begins pounding me about the face and head with a hammer I did not notice him holding. As it punches neat little divets into my face, I can see with my good eye that it says “The Defector Defeater” along its handle. “Defector”… That’s me.

Later on, once the beating has ceased, he’s walking me back to my station, where I will sit, politely silent, until and only until he says that I can go. Along the way, I slyly pick up a long sharp piece of steel laying on the floor.

“Alright Johnson, you’ll stand right here until, and only until, I say you can go. Is that clear?”

“Yes b–”

“Goddamn it! You’ll be quiet when I’m talking!” Several quick blows from The Defeater remind me who’s in charge. “Davis, I’ve been pretty lenient on you so far, but if you don’t shape up, I’m taking you to see Big Big Boss.”

I nod, blood dripping from pretty much every square centimeter of my face, and wait for him to come to the point.

“And the point of this little exercise, Mabutu, has been–ACK!”

He finds it somewhat difficult to speak with ten inches of steel driven upward through his soft pallet.

“Yes, boss?” I ask quietly.

He doesn’t answer, only meekly swings the Defector Defeater at my face. I deftly snatch it from his hand and drive another piece of sharp metal through his face, just for good measure.

Later on, as I’m signing my letter of resignation, I pause to reflect on how poorly the day has gone. Big Boss didn’t have to die, but he forced my hand. Further, I didn’t have to urinate all over his bleeding face while he lay gasping on the floor, but again with the hand-forcing. The stapled eyelids may have been my fault entirely.

Just as I walk out the door on the last day of my employment, a tall blonde secretary runs up and exposes her enormous breasts to me in a gesture of friendship. I’m not buying it.

“You tell Big Big Boss that I’m not falling for his tricks anymore!” I tell her quietly as I beat her about the face and breasts with my artificial arm. “You tell him!”

The last thing I see as I drive away from the building is Big Big Boss stepping out of his blonde ladysuit, shaking his fists at me and swearing: “I’ll get you, Thompson!”