sammyray

The Alabama Death Penalty

2007-03-10T23:05:00.000-08:00

Gasoline

2007-03-04T09:42:00.000-08:00

This video was made by one of the more talented artists in St. Louis. His name is Ryan Frank. This thing is disturbing and weird and pretty fuckin' funny. Check it out:

Here is the movie he made that caused me to take notice of the guy's talents in the first place. It's an awesome little film called "The Tumor and Me." It won raves at the St. Louis Film Festival, which is not quite Sundance, but bigger than anything in, say, Wyoming. Check it out:

If you have a second, you really should check out Ryan's myspace page. It's filled with awesome art created by the man himself. Check it out here!

Cameron's Jesus a Titanic Fraud

2007-02-24T22:23:00.000-08:00

(Originally published on The Rec )

Strap yourselves in, kids. It looks like we're in for the first huge firestorm of the year.

James Cameron, who recently announced his new science fiction film "Avatar" will arrive in theaters in May of 2009, has suddenly decided to jeopardize the film with a publicity stunt of titanic proportions.

He claims to have found the body of Jesus.

Time Magazine is running a story that describes what Cameron plans to show the world at a Monday press conference: the coffins of Jesus, his mother Mary, and Mary Magdelene.

Wooooo, boy. How long before one of the God-fearin' Christians puts a bullet of Love in his head?

A 90-minute documentary will air on several stations around the world, including the Discovery Channel, which will lay out the evidence that not only was Jesus not resurrected from his grave, but that he also sired a son with Mary Magdelene. Here is an excerpt from that report about the discovery:

Let's go back 27 years, when Israeli construction workers were gouging out the foundations for a new building in the industrial park in the Talpiyot, a Jerusalem suburb. of Jerusalem. The earth gave way, revealing a 2,000 year old cave with 10 stone caskets. Archologists were summoned, and the stone caskets carted away for examination. It took 20 years for experts to decipher the names on the ten tombs. They were: Jesua, son of Joseph, Mary, Mary, Mathew, Jofa and Judah, son of Jesua.

This is going to cause a huge controversy, the likes of which we have not seen in some time. Cameron would be better off getting into the director's chair and trying to keep his ego-fueled mouth shut. Something like this will get you killed in the red states, and probably in the blue, too.

Meanwhile, no word from Mel Gibson on his thoughts about this discovery. No doubt he is sharpening the points on his mace even as we speak.

HIV Does Not Cause AIDS

2007-02-20T12:51:00.000-08:00

Alright ... it saddened me that many of you chose not to watch that video about the hideous, behind-the-scenes dealings of the American government. But hopefully you will read this ...

An amazing trial is going on currently in Australia over whether HIV is the cause of AIDS. This lawsuit, initiated by the Perth group, a conglomeration of scientists who question the HIV=AIDS hypothesis. Called to the stand in the last week is the fucktard who started this mess back in 1984, Dr. Robert Gallo.

I am going to give you the entire email I received, which details the trial:

HIV on Trial in Australia:Court Weighs Evidence for Claims of Isolation, Transmission and Testing

A motion for appeal in a criminal hearing in Adelaide, Australia has become thefocus of international attention as fundamental claims by orthodox AIDSresearchers -- including the infamous Dr Robert Gallo -- come under vigorouscross-examination by an attorney demanding scientific evidence that the virusexists. Top AIDS industry spokespersons from around the world have appeared inperson or by satellite in Adelaide to defend the HIV hypothesis against chargesby a local team of scientific and medical experts known as "The Perth Group"(http://www.ThePerthGroup.com <http://www.ThePerthGroup.com> ) who asserts thattwo decades of AIDS research have failed to produce a purified isolate of HIV,validation of the accuracy so-called HIV tests, or proof that HIV is transmittedthrough bodily fluids.

Below are two news articles about the legal proceedings. Other information aboutthe trial and actual transcripts of testimony can be found at http://aras.ab.ca<http://aras.ab.ca> /index.php

For this week's testimony by alleged HIV discoverer Dr Robert Gallo, go directly to http://aras.ab.ca/articles/legal/Gallo-Transcript.pdf

Michael Geiger, a close observer of the events in Adelaide, reports being"stunned and amazed" by Gallo's statements to the court. Geiger says, "It'sdifficult to tell if Gallo was defending HIV or if his testimony is a publicadmission of guilt."

Geiger urges transcript readers to note:

- Page 1294 where Gallo agrees that he found evidence of HIV in only 40% of theAIDS patients in his original study, and that 40% is not enough to prove HIV isthe cause of AIDS:

Attorney to Gallo: "You had 48 out of 119, or 40%?

Gallo: "I agree"

Attorney: "Do you agree that the isolation of HIV from only 40% of patients isnot proof that HIV causes AIDS?"

Gallo: "I would say of course, in and of itself, 40% isolation of a new virus, Iwould not say is the cause."

- Page 1"00 where Gallo admits to finding low percentages of HIV positivity inpeople with AIDS symptoms:

Attorney: "For adults with KS, 30%; for adultswith AIDS opportunistic infections47%. Do you accept your figures?"

Gallo: "I accept the figures."

- Page 1317 where Gallo acknowledges finding no HIV in KS lesions or in T cells,and testimony on page 1318 in which Gallo admits that "viral load" tests cannotbe used to prove infection with a virus.

The language in news articles covering the Adelaide trial speaks loudly andclearly of media prejudice in AIDS reporting. In the first of the two pieces that follow, medical and scientific experts challenging the notion that HIV has been isolated according to proper, scientific standards are branded "anorganized group of HIV deniers" and lack official titles such as MD, while thosebeing called by the court to produce evidence are referred to as "experts" withrepeated references to their professional credentials.

The obvious bent of Australian coverage is at least one step up from the USmedia response: Not a single story on the uproar from down under has appeared in American news.

TELL EVERYONE!!!!!

America the Inscrutable - Part 2

2007-02-14T14:50:00.000-08:00

Wooooooo, boy. This makes me quite uncomfortable.

Time to leave the country, methinks.

Norbit's On Top ... And Bottom

2007-02-12T09:19:00.000-08:00

(This article was originally published at www.therecshow.com)

“Norbit,” the latest “comedy” featuring Eddie Murphy’s schizophrenic, make-up aided talents, managed to consume $33 million dollars over the weekend. This means that roughly four million people used their movie choice to declare their complete and utter stupidity.

Of course, nobody watching the trends in film doubted that “Norbit” would hit big. Despite horrendous reviews, a 9% approval rating on RottenTomatoes.com, and curiously unfunny trailers, this film would succeed.

The burning question - WHY do films like this succeed? - leads one to an examination of the racial differences still lingering in this country. In addition to “Norbit,” we have had two “Big Momma’s House” movies, a succession of “Madea” incarnations, and countless other variations on the guy dressed up like a loud, fat black woman. Additionally, the “Scary Movie” films and all of their variants (the latest, “Epic Movie,” is out right now) have a strong ethnic background. Invariably, all of these films concentrate on grotesque, over-the-top caricatures, fart noises, bowel movements, tits and ass, and kicks to the groin.

These films are primarily black-oriented, made by black entertainers and supported by primarily black audiences. Why?

A racist might have his own and very wrong answer to that question. But are these films symptomatic of a system of education that has for years failed black culture? Surely, stupid movies have been made by white people - Jerry Lewis instantly springs to mind - but even those films have some point to make, or exhibit some sense of structure or intelligence. Films like “Norbit” exist solely on the premise that an obese, loud-mouthed, domineering black woman is inherently funny. By extention, then, that same fat black chick ripping a wet fart must be gut-clenchingly hilarious. And then, of course, you want to die laughing when it happens 200 more times.

Before I am called out as a racist, I would like to point out that many of these films I mention here contain some of the worst kinds of racist stereotyping; ask an Oriental person if they love watching Eddie Murphy do a “ching-ching-chong” rendition of a Chinese man in his new movie. Occasionally these films also play on black stereotypes, which is the same kind of hypocritical pass as black people calling each other “nigger.” No, changing it to “nigga” doesn’t make it better.

There must be some flashpoint in American culture that makes black people in this country create and flock to the dumbest, crudest, most humiliating forms of entertainment. Rap music is either pointlessly, ceaselessly violent or graphically sexual. Black-oriented movies are either brutal or a succession of fart jokes.

Whenever I see these films in theaters, I wonder about the dumbing down of culture, the dumbing down of our children; white kids too, but primarily the black kids. More and more I agree with Bill Cosby, who told black kids everywhere that if they want something in life, they need to educate themselves and carry themselves as responsible, respectable members of society. Cosby’s message, which is completely true, has unfortunately been lost amidst the farts of a fat black chick.

How sad.

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The Website

2007-02-09T09:53:00.000-08:00

Alright, kiddies ... the bones in my right hand are nearly healed, and the website I mentioned in my last post (fuck, a WEEK ago ... I have been a bad, bad blogger) is finished and has successfully endured several days of testing.

It can be found right HERE.

"The Rec" was a radio show put together by myself and two friends of mine - Chris and Eric -back in 2002. At that time the show focused solely on music, and was designed as a show that would encompass all forms of music. During the show's run, we played rock, pop, country, classical, TV and movies themes, experimental, and everything in between.

The show was on the internet at the dawn of podcasting, and it was being shopped to various local radio stations here in St. Louis when we broke up over an on-air fight between Chris and Eric.

We didn't speak to each other for a year.

Then, a local documentarian was putting together a film about the internet's role in the democratization of media, and he wanted to put our show into the movie. So we grudgingly came back together for a series of interviews, which led to a filmed live show, which has led to the reformation of the show.

And now this.

The internet definitely DOES NOT need another media site, but this one will definitely have a different attitude. We don't have audio/video casting up and running just yet due to scheduling problems, but that will be very soon. In the meantime, the site will start running features in all phases of entertainment.

I mainly tell you guys this because I told you I was trying to build a website - my first one ever - and I am kinda happy that I managed to do it. The whole process took a lot out of me, since I don't know what the fuck I am doing.

Anyway, have a looksee, and let me know what you think, or if there are any improvements to be made to the site.

As for this blog, I will now return to it full force. Even though I will be writing many articles for the new site, much of what goes through my mind won't fit that site's format, so it'll go here :) I apologize for abandoning you guys so much of the last month.

Thanks in advance for the feedback!!

Oh, and I guess I will need to turn on filters, since the medical supply guys are spamming me. Does that actually WORK?? Who clicks on that shit???

Filthy-Ass, Racist White Chick

2007-02-01T19:29:00.000-08:00

Rumors of my demise are premature. I broke my hand, and I have also been swamped with the creation of a website. It's been a little crazy.

However, I wanted to share my love of Sarah Silverman. Damn this chick is funny. This is from her new show on Comedy Central...

YAY!!!

Dirty Ebay

2007-01-21T17:21:00.000-08:00

The above picture of this table was posted on Ebay. Yet, despite the beautiful arrangement, the person posting it is not a woman, but a man.

How can we tell?

Answer coming in two days.

The Light Of Reason

2007-01-20T12:31:00.000-08:00

HIV does not cause AIDS. Watch this:

Go to Alive and Well for more information.

Trolls

2007-01-13T22:56:00.000-08:00

I write because I have an actual love of the practice. I have a degree in English, much to my father's dismay, because I love the language. Writing for me takes many forms; I write scripts, I have a couple of novels on the backburner (who doesn't?), and I sometimes write poetry (again, who doesn't?). Blogging has, for me, been a nice diversion; a way to write compact mini-essays about the world around me. It's like a diary, except in expanded form.

I also enjoy reading and commenting on the blogs of others. Commenting becomes an extension of the piece; sometimes details are fleshed out, and other times a brand new topic arises from the comments of others. I view it as part of my responsibility to make sure that the voices of others are heard by me, to encourage them to continue to write so that they can have the same enjoyment I receive.

However, the thing that confuses me are those pathetic, worm-like infantessimal pricks out there whose sole contribution is to jump onto blogs and make ridiculous and usually inflammatory comments. They usually do not have a blog of their own - they wouldn't want to expose themselves to retaliation - and it is quite doubtful that they have any meaningful and unique thoughts of their own anyway.

Do these people have nothing better to do in their miserable lives than spend a Saturday night cowering anonymously on the internet like a shriveled, impotent cock and disparaging the work of others? What pathetic and insecure mentality needs such sad gratification?

I am very grateful to have met many of you; I am constantly surprised at the genius I see in many posts and comments. But to the trolls out there, crying desperately for attention, I recommend that you find a therapist, a girlfriend/boyfriend, a friend, or a gun.

Life's too damn short for the likes of you.

Ugh

2007-01-11T10:34:00.000-08:00

Is this really true? CNN reports that George Bush (a.k.a. Satan the Devil) intends to send 21,000 more troops into Iraq.

He has a remarkable power of denial, does he not? It might even be admirable, if he wasn't the personification of evil on Earth.

Let's see... every country on the planet wants the United States to pull out of Iraq ... a huge percentage of Americans want the United States to pull out of Iraq ... Congress wants the United States to pull out of Iraq.

So the answer seems obvious to everyone, except to the dumbest human being who is able to breathe on his own. You know, the idiot who (somehow) happens to be the leader of the most powerful nation on Earth?

I am shocked, not only by the blatant disregard Bush has for the will of the people for whom he works, but also by the fact that nobody, American or foreign, hasn't blown the head off of this fucking shitstick. I mean, someone shot the Pope just for blessing people, and Hinkley shot Ronald Reagan simply because he liked Jodie Foster. You would think that someone like Bush, someone so thoroughly evil and corrupt, would have attracted a few people armed with a gun or nuclear warhead.

According to the article, those 21.000 will be deployed next week. Let the carnage begin.

The Blessing of "Children" - A Review

2007-01-07T23:18:00.000-08:00

This might end up as the shortest movie review ever, and certainly the shortest anything to ever come from a billowing windbag like myself.

Some things need no words. In short, “Children of Men” is brilliant.

The film, a devastating look into the near-future collapse and extinction of the human race, is seared onto the screen with unflinching bravura by director Alfonso Cuaron. Endless adjectives could feebly attempt to describe his techniques in this film, and fail utterly; suffice it to say that a better directing job has not been seen in theaters in years, if not decades. Two sequences in particular will be required study by film students from now on. Absolutely stunning.

Briefly, the film presents a glimpse into a future in which women are infertile, and the human race nears extinction. Society collapses. Then, a girl named Kee is found pregnant, and it becomes the duty of an office worker named Theodore (Clive Owen) to ensure her safe passage through the war-torn land and into the hands of doctors who can save her child, and humanity.

The performances are completely real. Owen shines as a man numbed by the world around him. Julianne Moore, as Theodore’s ex-wife, has a small but grounded turn. And Michael Caine nearly steals the film in the role of Thoedore’s best friend, a pot-smoking philosopher.

The world Cuaron creates is totally submersive; you are surrounded on all sides by decay, grime, hatred, and shocking violence. The special effects integrate perfectly into the hand-held shots, and some of the long, long takes in this film are so incredible in both their immediacy and technical complexity that I can scarcely believe that he pulled it off. As simply a technical exercise, “Children of Men” is a landmark achievement.

Without a doubt, “Children of Men” is the best film I have seen in several years. A remarkable, towering cinematic experience.

To The Hilton

2007-01-05T17:09:00.000-08:00

For the latest movie news, including my recent feature about "Godzilla," go to Obsessed With Film!

Lately I have found myself wandering over to Perez Hilton to gawk at the tawdry, unseemly gossip, rumor, and innuendo that oozes gloriously through every pinkly-glowing pore on the site. Actually, in all honesty, I go there every single day, and no amount of bathing or counseling can make the shame peel away.

Perez Hilton is one of the true success stories in the blogging world; his site averages nearly four million hits A DAY. He built this massive promotional and money-making machine over the course of one year while sitting in a coffee shop because he couldn't afford internet in his apartment. The VERY openly gay and pudgy Perez, through snarky antics and tireless work, made himself such a success that his Frankenberry face showed up as host of MTV's New Year's Eve telecast. Amazing.

I drew all over that picture of Perez because that is what he's famous for: drawing cum and/or cocaine in the mouths and nostrils of celebrities, especially those in the closet, like Wentworth Miller. Take this, for example:
While I do find much humor in what the guy does, the public outing of celebrities is unacceptable. As a gay man himself, Hilton should know better than to publicly harass and out famous people who are obviously not comfortable with melding their sexuality and their professional lives.

Hilton has made a good living out of trashing our celebrity trash, and I have become one of the addicted masses. Like heroin or McDonald's, Perez Hilton is a habit, and one that I will probably shamefully crave until the day it kills me.

I hate myself.

King of the Dipshits

2007-01-03T06:04:00.000-08:00

The following article can also be found on the best movie website on the internets, Obsessed With Film. Check it out!!

I must be some sort of idiot; I never cared much for Stephen King.

Not as a person, mind you - I’m sure he’s nice, even though he’s got that creepy, “guess what I’ve got buried behind the shed” vibe to him. But as a writer, he leaves much to be desired.

Yeah, I realize the guy’s made more money than several countries put together, and his novels have razed enough forests to put them just behind cars as the most dangerous threat to the environment. That doesn’t mean that he should clear a space on a shelf for any major literary awards; he has made a lucrative career out of pandering to the lowest denominations of readers, and then selling his repetitive, hack-stained plots to Hollywood.

The reason for my rant on Stephen King arises from the top 10 movies of the year he posted on Entertainment Weekly. There, at number 6, is “The Illusionist.” I wasn’t too kind to the Edward Norton magician drama in my review. But that’s not the problem. The thing that spins my canteloupe is how King states that he was “compelled … back into the theater at once to see how (he) had been tricked.”

Huh????

Folks, “The Illusionist” contains a “twist” so absolutely cliched and obvious that the film could have starred Lillian Gish and Buster Keaton, silent without subtitles, and it could have been deciphered. By a fetus.

Why this shocks me is the real mystery. The entire catalogue of King novels can be broken down into two basic formulas:

(Writer) + (lives in Massacheusetts) + (attack by non-living object) = BLOCKBUSTER

- or -

(Writer or writer as kid) + (strange power) + (a past experience) = BLOCKBUSTER

King cranks out about 20 of these babies every year to keep the ol’ factories a-hummin’. Perhaps the guy is so immersed in his slop-tossin’ schlockfests that he rarely sees movies, which might explain how he missed the blatant, simple-minded machinations of “The Illusionist.” Maybe he fell asleep, missing the vital clues which underlined the single and only “twist” of the film. Or maybe he had a disastrously-timed mini-stroke as a result of the crash a few years ago, rendering him unable to grasp simple logic for the running time of the film.

All good possibilities. Me? I simply think he’s just as dumb as his readers.

Baghdad Burning

2007-01-02T22:56:00.000-08:00

My friend ryk over at Abandon Mythology has a pointed blog entry about the inconvenient "situation" in Iraq.

Click here to read the whole story

He directs us to a blog written by a woman living in Baghdad and sees the atrocities firsthand. She could probably use encouragement, so go to Baghdad Burning and give her some! Just don't tell Bush about her blog ... he'd probably love to launch a missile at her computer, just for the hell of it.

Don't forget to become Obsessed With Film!

Sorry 'Bout That

2006-12-31T09:17:00.000-08:00

Hey everybody!! Sorry about the week off ... it's been a little crazy. I can't wait to catch up on your blog and write really nasty things in response :)

I love movie websites. They're usually run by geeks who love movies as much as I do, and they are usually the true barometer of audience reaction to a film. So often I find myself nodding in agreement with their criticisms of a film, much more so than Roger Ebert's fat ass.

Well, now I am part of the movie machinery. I have been accepted as a feature writer for my very favorite movie website, www.obsessedwithfilm.com

If you love movies at all, this website, the only thing to come out of Britain since Elton John's wedding night, is chock full of great stories and personal insights. I recommend it highly.

Click here to become Obsessed With Film!

And dammit, tell all of your friends to go there, too!!

The Donald

2006-12-22T04:50:00.000-08:00

Donald Trump is a digusting, slimy weasel. He would slice a live puppy open with a nail file and rip its heart out with his teeth if he thought it would make him ten bucks. But I gotta tell ya, he sure is funny when he's pissed.

Here he is, ripping on Rosie O'Donnell:

I agree with Trump.

Harry Potter and ?

2006-12-21T20:48:00.000-08:00

Well, in just a few short months, the very last Harry Potter book will be upon us. J.K. Rowling is a fucking genius - this woman was writing the first book in LONG HAND on yellow legal pads at the laundromat - and now she is the Oprah of publishing. The profits from this last book will allow her to buy her own half of the planet. My hope: she buys America and fires Bush.

Here is a video clip, which shows how to unlock the website. The end of it reveals the very last book's secret title.

Whaddaya think?

Add Boiling Water

2006-12-20T07:26:00.000-08:00

Tampopo, a video performance band from France, has a video for a bizarre industrial dance song called "Add Boiling Water."

In an age when music videos have degenerated from a potential art form to pointless, non-entertaining trash, this video will rock you to the core.

There is no way to embed this perfect thing in Blogger, so go here and be amazed.

Fountain of Youth

2006-12-16T15:18:00.000-08:00

Medical advances combined with increased income and MTV has spawned a whole generation of fitness and beauty obsessives. This, however, takes the cake:

All you guys out there writing letters to your cocks: what is your cock telling you after seeing THAT???

Drop Another Bomb

2006-12-14T08:34:00.000-08:00

Sorry about disappearing for a couple of days. Things have been a little crazy.

Speaking of crazy ... nothing on earth is weirder than Japanese television. The constant, goofy music, the stupid looks, the cheesy graphic effects, and the sheer banality of the subject matter combine into a stew of stupidity that the rational mind cannot comprehend.

Turn off your mind and watch this:

Imagine all the Profit

2006-12-09T19:07:00.000-08:00

On December 8, 1980, John Lennon was shot and killed by Mark David Chapman while entering his apartment with his wife, Yoko Ono.

Chapman was not a Beatles fan.

Yoko Ono survives. And profits.

Kill Christmas

2006-12-06T11:41:00.000-08:00

Christmas might be the silliest, tackiest, and least spiritual "holyday" on the calendar. It makes Arbor Day look like an epiphany of enlightenment.

EXHIBIT A : CHRISTMAS SONGS

Sleigh bells do not make great musical instruments. They have little musical value; they cannot play melodic notes, and they cannot keep rhythmic time. Somehow, though, they find their way into every single song at Christmas.

Which would be fine, if the songs didn't suck dead Jesus balls.

Unfortunately, Christmas songs exist to tell us the two great lies of the holiday season: (1) Christmas is a time when people love each other unselfishly, and (2) Christmas is a time of true joy and peace and happiness.

Wrong.

Let's see some of the worst offenders of Christmas music:

Paul McCartney and Wings - "Simply Having a Wonderful Christmastime"

Well, that gets my vote for one of the worst keyboard parts in music history, edged out slightly by Timmy T's hideous "One More Try." I love the brain-dead lyrics, repeated ad nauseum in case you missed it the first million times. "Ding Dong Ding Dong Ding Dong Ding Dong." This guy was a fucking BEATLE???? Why on earth was John Lennon shot and this guy allowed to live????

Newsong - "Christmas Shoes"

Folks, it just doesn't get any more schmaltzy than that. I needed three insulin injections just to POST that, and I deeply apologize to any diabetics who were caught unaware when they played it. HORRIBLE. The lyrics don't fit in time with the music, the anonymous lead singer singing "soulfully," and, of course, the teeth-rotting lyrics. I would only wish to see them perform this song live so that I could vomit directly into that singer's face. Oh, and kid - those fucking shoes are UGLY. When she meets Jesus, he's going to send her to fucking HELL. Sweet dreams, kid.

Band Aid - "Do They Know It's Christmas Time?"

Ah, yes ... multimillionaire rock stars singing about starvation and disease. My nomination for most awkward-sounding lyric in a Christmas song: "Here's to them, underneath that burning sun!" I think Boy George comes off the best out of the singers represented here - at least he injects a little soul into it, unlike Sting, who looks like he'd rather lick Stuart Copeland's sweaty taint. Of course, nobody seems to give a shit that a large portion of Africa is not Christian, and couldn't care less if it was Christmas or Arbor Day. In fact, they'd probably prefer Arbor Day...the gift that keeps on giving - no, not George Michael in a public restroom - but rather a TREE. It'll provide fruit and/or shade from that damn burning sun.

Dishonorable Mention:
John Denver - "Please Daddy (Don't Get Drunk on Christmas)" - Yes, this is an actual song, sung by the bespectacled idiot who, years later, got drunk and crashed his plane directly into the ground. Nice going, dipshit.

Alvin and the Chipmunks - "Christmas Christmas Time is Here" - Bad idea from the sixties. Three high-pitched chipmunks sing songs while being berated by a human. The chipmunks here sound like ZOMBIE chipmunks. FESTIVE!!!!

John Lennon and Yoko Ono - "Happy Christmas (War Is Over)" - Nothing says holiday cheer like a lecture on war and peace, sung by an unwashed Beatle and (apparently) some sort of pterodactyl being disemboweled. Nothing will make egg nog rush out of your esophagus faster than Yoko's version of Christmas. She must have had an amazing pussy to have been able to blind Lennon so completely.

So ... any good Christmas songs out there? Well, I like these:

Jose Feliciano - "Feliz Navidad" - Damn this song is CATCHY. I have no idea what half the lyrics mean, but who cares. It has a great melody. Best of all, it's not about the so-called Christmas spirit - it's just basically one big message of well-wishing. I can handle that.

Madonna - "Santa Baby" - The song is completely slutty, and is basically a huge shopping list of material goods - which, of course, perfectly captures the true meaning of Christmas. This song is both Crassmaterialism and Christmasturbation. Love it.

And finally, the very best of them all, with brilliant video accompaniment:

Burl Ives - "Holly Jolly Christmas"

Christmas is so utterly phony. We need to whip and nail Christmas like the Romans did to that one guy...
Stop hurting Jesus! Stop celebrating Christmas!!

Turtleneck

2006-12-05T14:47:00.000-08:00

A bizarre comment by Woozie in the comments section of yesterday's blog entry in which he compared his uncircumcised cock to the peanut in the picture set off a tangent about the merits of uncircumcised dick.

First, let me just thank Woozie for the above picture of his dick as an example. He is quite well hung for a sixteen year old - NICE JOB, WOOZ!!!

Um, can I get in trouble for that??

ANYWAY, uncircumcised cock is NOT attractive, as if anything cock-oriented can be called attractive. I think circumcision is the better way to go for the following reasons:

(1) A circumcised dick is CLEANER. Uncircumcised dicks have folds of skin that can trap bacteria and other, even less pleasant things. No problems like that for the circumcised among us.

(2) A circumcised dick is EASIER. No, not sexually, ya pervs. Peeing is a breeze with a circumcised cock - just whip it out and let 'er fly. Uncircumcised dicks must be rolled back in order to uncover the peehole. DUMB.

(3) A circumcised dick is PRETTIER. Again, not that any of it can actually be referred to as PRETTY, but ... let's face it: the HEAD of a guy's dick is probably the best looking and most attractive feature on it. You know, with its helmety brim and curved, Frank Lloyd Wright-esque tip on it. It's almost a work of art - edible art, ladies and some gentlemen. WHY HIDE IT??

As for Pixie's comment that circumcision was instituted and cultivated in the West - WRONG. The Bible clearly shows that around 1500 B.C. the JEWS practiced circumcision - it was LAW (some claim from God, if you're into that sort of thing...). It spread from there into Europe, and then came to the West via religious dogma.

And I am damn glad it did - see, something good can come from religion after all!!

Now, for all you fellas that have uncircumcised dicks, I am not trying to offend you. When our junk gets hard, it's basically all the same ... then it only comes down to how far you shoot. Maybe we can talk about that some other time ...

By the way, that isn't really Woozie's cock. It's some Indian guy's dick, so maybe it belongs to Convict. But since it's uncircumcised, let's hope not.

Not Worth Peanuts?

2006-12-04T15:12:00.000-08:00

When Jimmy Carter goes into the cold, hard ground, how will his epitaph read in the history books?

Granted, I have never been a fan of his Presidency. The man melted faster than microwaved butter in the face of the slightest adversity. Every crisis of his term met with the same glazed, empty gaze and the same stammering responses. However, at least he wasn't Gerald Fucking Ford.

Regardless of how ineffectually Carter governed the country, does he really deserve what happened to him on C-Span?

Watch:

A bigot? A racist? An anti-Semite?? Give me a break.

Side note: All you Jewish people out there, get off your soap box. Not everyone is an anti-Semite! I am sooooo sick of hearing that term. Mel Gibson was called an anti-Semite for quoting the fucking Bible, for Gods' sake!! The Holocaust happened (well, not to Mel...) sixty years ago - get over it. All of your whining makes me want to fire up a gas chamber. Okay, that WAS anti-Semitic.

Anyway, do you think these horrible accusations really apply to Carter? Does he deserve this?

Weekend Movie

2006-12-01T21:44:00.000-08:00

Not much to say tonight ... still kinda pissed off about that whole "destroying Iraq and our legitimacy by creating a civil war through brazen stupidity" thing from Wednesday.

Watch this as a diversion; George Bush would love it if you did. It's called "The Passenger." It was made by a guy who calls himself The Receptionist. He actually works as a receptionist in a Los Angeles management firm, and he makes these little movie while sitting at his desk answering calls.

And I get yelled at by my boss if I talk to my co-workers for five minutes.

Anyway, pretty amazing little short.

America the Inscrutable

2006-11-29T17:57:00.001-08:00

I am done with America. I must get out of here; morality calls for a coup or abandonment.

Watch this:

Fuck you, George W. Bush. And your daddy, too.

I apologize to non-American persons on the planet for this ongoing atrocity. I did not vote for this dipshit, or his hideous regime. Frankly, I wish he would get violently ass raped by an angry mob of VD-infected serial murderers during the State of the Union address on live national television. And then stabbed until he's dead.

To all of you "Americans" who proudly followed the herd and voted this fucktard into office, I hope you're at the top of the next tower they fly into, and that you stay alive long enough to burn on your way down to the ground.

Unbelievable.

The New Seven Wonders

2006-11-27T16:13:00.000-08:00

Above is a picture of the pyramids of Giza, the last remaining of the Seven Wonders of the (Ancient) World. Still pretty breathtaking, if you ask me.

Now a search is underway for the NEXT Seven Wonders of the World. Presumably Sterculian Rhetoric's thesaurus just missed the cut.

Here are the nominees (pictured are ones I think deserve consideration):

(1) Coliseum, Italy - Sure, half of it has fallen in. This damn thing held 50,000 people!!!!

(2) Taj Mahal, India - Gee, it's WHITE. Next.

(3) Timbuktu, Mali - Yawn.

(4) Great Wall, China - Can be seen from SPACE. Instant entry on this list.

(5) Pyramid of Chichen Itza, Mexico - Maybe. It might be number seven...I can't decide. I mean, it's in MEXICO.

(6) Kiyomizu Temple, Japan - No paper castles can make the list. The waterfalls are cool, though.

(7) Angkor, Cambodia - It's almost a SWAMP, for God's sake. When these people learn to read and write, then we'll make THAT a seventh wonder.

(8) Eiffel Tower, France - The world's prettiest artificial phallus.

(9) Neuschwanstein Castle, Germany - Nominate Auschwitz before THIS. It inspired Sleeping Beauty Castle in Disneyworld. Nuff said.

(10) Sydney Opera House, Australia- It looks like some sort of bug. Interesting architecture, but a SEVEN WONDER? The only amazing thing about the place is the fact that anybody goes there and listens to opera.

(11) Hagia Sophia, Turkey - It sounds more like a Scottish dish than a Seven Wonder. It's just like the Taj Mahal. Nominate THAT instead of this.

(12) Machu Picchu, Peru - I thought this was a board game. This might make it because it stands into the clouds at 8000 feet above sea level.

(13) Stonehenge, Britain - The world's first Lego set. What were they thinking?

(14) Petra, Jordan - Cool church built right into a mountain. You've seen it in dozens of movies masquerading as an alien building.

(15) Alhambra, Spain - An overrated villa.

(16) Christ the Redeemer, Brazil - Statue as comment on global religious fascism. Pretty amazing, though.

(17) Acropolis, Greece - Iconic.

(18) Easter Island, Chile - Everybody likes a giant dose of head.

(19) Statue of Liberty, USA - Probably the best known symbol in the world. I really like America's decision to incorporate burning twin buildings behind it, to really emphasize freedom.I am surprised that the St. Louis Arch was not among the nominees due to its unique and complicated design. Maybe I'm just prejudiced. I just think it's telling that most of the wonders nominated are hundreds or thousands of years old already. We think we have such a progressive society, but in reality we haven't accomplished too much more (architecturally) than our ancestors.

What do you think? What would be your choices for Seven Wonders of the World?

P.S. Please do not say "my cock," or in the case of Scorpio, "my cunt." You probably do not have the most impressive genitalia for your household, let alone gender or planet.

God Bless Our Troops

2006-11-25T15:23:00.000-08:00

We Americans are the good guys. Just remember that.

We went over to Iraq and deposed Saddam Hussein, freeing the Iraqi people from the cruel conditions of his reign. Then we installed a democracy, one modeled after our own beacon of sweet, sweet freedom right here in the good ol' U.S. of A. We have spent BILLIONS of dollars, hundreds of lives, and the patience of the human race to make this all-consuming goal a reality.

And yet the world hates us:

I wonder why...taunting kids with water when they are lacking the basic necessities of life - because of us - should instill love and admiration, should it not?

One sad someday this country will learn the hard way.

Discothechno

2006-11-24T23:12:00.000-08:00

Say what you want about Madonna - like a hardy cockroach, she continues to thrive. She may very well be the Patient Zero of the current wasting disease of music that I have been bitching about recently, but who cares. She has more intelligence in her pubis than Fergie has in one well-defined leg, and more than Lindsay Lohan's family tree dating back to the landing at Plymouth Rock.

Here is a clip from Madonna's "Confessions" world tour in support of her disco album "Confessions on a Dance Floor." Notice the brilliant riff from "Disco Inferno" she incorporates into her song "Music," accompanied by a dance routine that not only mimics "Saturday Night Fever," but also the original "Airplane" spoof of that film.

Sure, she has been rudely relegated to the scrap pile. How unfortunate. Madonna still has something to say, even if it's something as vapid as : "Let's boogie."

Let's indeed.

Fountains of Pretension

2006-11-23T22:44:00.000-08:00

I have two friends, an older couple, who lost their son in a car accident when he was 18 years old. I never knew him personally. However, I did come to know him through the experiences of my friends. Whenever I would visit, they would pull out scrapbooks of their son's childish drawings, or an essay he wrote, or a letter he composed while on vacation. Their memories, still fresh for them, they related to me in an effort to help me understand THEIR LOSS. And while I learned about the kid through them, his memory and his life do not impact me emotionally. I UNDERSTAND their grieving, and out of my love for them I support them, but I cannot ever relate to their son and his life in any way other than the abstract.

Such is the ultimate undoing of "The Fountain," the newest creation of film festival favorite Darren Aronofsky. The film, primarily concerning a scientist named Thomas Creo (Hugh Jackman) and his attempts to cure his wife Izzy's (Rachel Weitz) inoperable brain tumor, leaps through three separate stories set in radically different time periods. Besides the present day Thomas and his frantic race against his wife's death, we see a 15th century conquistador named Tomas (Jackman again) searching for the Tree of Life, as well as a bald astronaut named Tom (Jackman yet again) floating through space to rendezvous with a nebula in a far away galaxy.

Aronofsky has Big Ideas he wishes to present to us, replete with fancy editing and camera tricks to EMPHASIZE the importance of his message. Unfortunately Aronofsky, obviously overcome with infatuation for this message, falls victim to the same trap as my friends: these ideas appeal to Aronofsky in his mind, but in trying to relate those ideas to a paying audience, he presents images and words as proof of these ideas without making us care one way or another.

Early press compared the film to "2001," and stylistically and tonally there are tremendous similarities. However, "2001" tackled scientific ideas of evolution, invention, destruction, and rebirth, so its cold, calculated tone underscores the message. "The Fountain," however, tackles loss, death, and love - topics that need to be FELT, not pondered over - and so the cold calculation of the execution severely undermines the story. Jackman and Weitz strike pretty, "important" poses as doctor and patient, but in reality this is nothing more than eighties movie of the week stuff. Yes, we have it all: the gasping pauses and the tears whenever anyone says "die" around the wife; the somehow unblemished, radiant, and wise dying cancer patient; the distraught, powerless husband angrily throwing things and then collapsing into a crying fit on the floor; the wife slipping away silently just as the cure for her condition is found. Turgid, turgid stuff. Even Lifetime doesn't make them like this anymore.

Without anything in the film to emotionally connect with as an audience, we are left to ponder the symbolism and the Big Ideas. Certainly Aronofsky has worked out a complex diagram for his Ideas. Unfortunately, the basic premise of the movie - death leads to rebirth, leading to eternal life - isn't really as smart or as complex as Aronofsky believes. The movie itself attests to its own self-importance, with its glacial pace and funereal, somber tone; it wouldn't have been any more obvious if, during the movie, Aronofsky himself appeared onscreen and said, "Pay attention. This is really important."

While Aronofsky, during the editing phase, should have realized how ponderous and pretentious this high school thesis/film seemed, his direction is quite interesting. The film's strong point comes from the cinematography by Matthew Libatique; there may not be a more beautiful looking film in 2006.

Ultimately, "The Fountain" provides lots of eye candy and little else. By creating a film without real characters and situations, and loading it with pretentious Big Ideas, the water in Aronofsky's "The Fountain" proves to be shallow and cold, indeed.

Butchers of Music - Part I

2006-11-22T08:01:00.000-08:00

Read the companion piece to this blog entry here.

I swear to you that music continues to sink into an impenetrable morass of stupidity and incompetence. I almost dread the next song on the radio; my brain cells huddle together like a herd of elk after sniffing the scent of lions on the breeze.

I cannot take this lobotomized assault on an art form that actually inspired changes in the political and social landscapes just a few short years ago.

The latest criminal: FERGIE

The former "singer" for Black Eyed Peas has apparently decided to conduct tests to see how many CD's her breast implants can sell to masturbatory boys and cheerleaders. If only she would have let her breast implants write the songs and perform them, then she might not have made this dubious list.

Try, if you can, to stomach this "song," which happens to be the musical equivalent of ASS:

For those of you who were unable to fathom the mind-bending, life-altering, cosmologically-important lyrics contained in the "chorus," I reprint them here with kind permission:

"How come every time you come around my London, London Bridge wanna go down? Like London, London, London - wanna go down like - London, London, London."

Ah, yes. Thank you, Fergie, for continuing the pedigree of songwriting craft handed down to you and you alone from the greats of yesteryear. I have no doubt that somewhere Maya Angelou is wrapping up her poet laureate award and sending it to you, her head hung in shame. Your brilliant words, timeless and untouchable, humiliate the efforts of all who have come before you. John Lennon and Kurt Cobain are probably glad they're dead, and therefore spared the agony of trying to top you.

One question - what the fuck does any of that shit MEAN?? And why, oh why, do you speak these lyrics in a "song" on the radio which contains no MUSIC?? Drum patterns are NOT MUSIC!! Figure it out, you dumb bitch!!
In order to to really set my stomach on edge, here is Fergie's latest shit-covered spear of a song, which she is currently thrusting lustily into the gut of music:

Please note that the chorus of this song consists entirely of a black man spelling the word "delicious." Fascinating.

Oh yeah, and also note that this song also contains NO MUSIC. Drum patterns are NOT MUSIC.

Ugh. Patsy Cline flies into a mountain and dies. Mama Cass gags on a ham sandwich. Hendrix and Morrison overdose. Even goddamn Elvis gained 600 pounds and dropped dead on the shitter. And yet, Fergie lives on and on.

Time to load a gun.

Nigger

2006-11-20T21:27:00.000-08:00

Well, that pesky "n-word" made a spectacular, vomitorious appearance on this blog over the weekend during a nice little discussion about O.J. Simpson and his dumb-ass nigger jury. I'd like to thank Webpirate for losing his head inside of an oversized Klan hood. Woozie helped him find it, and then convincingly punted it into the endzone. Fun stuff!

Race relations obviously continue to struggle along. Not only did it get ugly here, but over the weekend Michael Richards - Kramer on "Seinfeld" - went into a tailspin onstage, abandoning his comedy act to hurl hateful and occasionally bizarre racist slurs at two black men who heckled him. Of course, thanks to the digital age, the entire debacle was recorded for our enjoyment:
Woooooo ... nice meltdown.

Of course, we do not know exactly what the hecklers initially said to set Richards off. The hecklers can be heard calling Richards a "cracker-ass motherfucker," a racial term for which they will never need to apologize. Regardless of what they said to initiate the outburst, however, Richards was obviously wrong to use a public forum in such an ugly way.

We have a long way to go.

Juice Fasting

2006-11-17T07:10:00.000-08:00

Shortly before midnight on June 12, 1994, ex-football player O.J. Simpson crept into the yard of his ex-wife, Nicole Brown Simpson, and murdered her and her male companion, Ron Goldman. Here is the crime scene photo of Nicole, a black bar covering her almost completely severed neck:
Of course, that was not the verdict handed down by the predominantly black jury in the sensational, dramatic trial that engulfed the nation over a year later. Make no mistake - this was a trial about racism as much as it was about murder. Notice the reactions of people as the verdict is read: white people - shock. Black people - jubilation.

Also notice Matt Lauer, in his youthful pre-"Today" job as a local anchorman.

Now, O.J. Simpson has a book coming out entitled "If I Did It, Here's How It Happened," which is being touted as Simpson's "confession" of the crimes. And so the media circus begins again...

Some of you might be too young to know much - if anything - about this case. I watched it unfold live on national television on Friday June 17, 1994. My friends and I were watching a Cardinals game when suddenly the news broke in to show a white Ford Bronco driving down a highway in Los Angeles, followed by a battalion of police cars. Inside the Bronco was driver Al Cowlings, a long-time OJ friend, and OJ himself, holed up in the back with a gun, $8,000 in cash, and a disguise - surely the tactics of an innocent man. At this point, the murders were primarily a local case in Los Angeles, and not much had been made in the media about O.J.'s possible involvement, so we were taken by surprise when this happened. From that moment on, we were hooked.

The "Trial of the Century" ensued, and anyone not familiar with the particulars of this trial should spend some time examining it. I recommend www.crimelibrary.com for extensive information about this and other notorious and sensational crimes throughout history.

The trial stands as a masterwork of chess-like structure and deception. Two long-standing rules were upheld in this trial:

(1) Never overestimate the intelligence of the jury. The trial hinged on painstaking DNA testing and hair samples, all of which pointed directly to O.J. Simpson. Lead prosecuting attorney Marcia Clark, tense and mannish with her tightly-curled hair, tried gamely to tiptoe the jury through this heavy evidence. In the end, it only confused the jury, whose eyes glazed over faster than a Krispy Kreme donut.

(2) When in doubt, focus on hate. Lead defense attorney Johnnie Cochran, faced with almost insurmountable evidence that the smirking black man sitting next to him was a multiple murderer, played the only card guaranteed to sway a jury comprised mostly of black people in Los Angeles: RACE. And that card WORKED. Unfortunately all of those dumb niggers - oh yes, they are because THEY were the ones that felt it was about race in the first place - not only let O.J Simpson go free of these crimes, but they also supported him afterwards.

And wouldn't ya know? All of those dumb niggers are WRONG.

Now O.J. is thumbing his nose not only at the families of the Browns and the Goldmans, who lost their loved ones, but also at all of the dumb niggers who supported him through the trial and afterwards. Now he publishes a book, guaranteed to earn him millions of unearned dollars, in which he confesses to brutally murdering those two beautiful, flawed young people.

Johnnie Cochran, orchestrator of this racial fiasco back in 1994/1995, is thankfully dead. However, many of the idiotic jurors from that trial still walk the earth, hopefully with their heads hanging lower than Nicole's the night of her murder. They should all be strung up from the nearest tree, like in dem good ol' days.

If anyone in the Brown or Goldman families had any balls whatsoever, they would have put that murderer Simpson in the cold, hard ground by now, sparing us from this shocking book. Perhaps now that he has 'fessed up to the crime, someone will execute him, Juice-style.

Good riddance!

Burning Bush

2006-11-15T15:38:00.000-08:00

I cannot imagine being George Bush. How does he go around every day, trying to appear conscious and alert, while every single person on Earth despises him??

Bush-bashing has nearly become an Olympic sport. If that were the case, then the editor of this video should win a silver, if not a gold...

"And tonight I have a message for the people of Iraq: Go home and die."

Motherfucking BRILLIANT!!!!!

Suffering More "Fitz"

2006-11-13T19:28:00.000-08:00

If you want to know what the hell this entire extravaganza is all about, CLICK HERE for more information and the title sequence.

We cut together two trailers using our animatic material. We just wanted to see what a couple of trailers might look like for a project this bizarre and unwieldy.

TRAILER #1

We wanted to create a teaser trailer for "Fitz" in order to play with some of the timing. We spoofed the famous teaser trailer for "Star Wars Episode I: The Phantom Menace" because it made us laugh. Why else?

Here it is:

TRAILER #2

We then created a second, longer trailer with actual situations and dialogue from the film. The trailer focuses on Crotchrot, the disgusting, mutated blob discharged from the pussy of a checker named Carrie during an ill-timed quief. The government steps in, and Fitz, Big Don, and Stumpy are called in to clean up the mess.

Here it is:

Yeah, pretty tasteless...but what exactly did you expect from me? A cute children's television show?

Oh, I did one of those also...I'll save that for another post.

Tee hee hee...

Things I Loved About My Childhood - Part I

2006-11-12T21:59:00.000-08:00

They simply do not make cool children's television anymore.

Every Saturday morning I awoke around 6 a.m., made a bowl of cereal, and scampered downstairs to watch television until noon. It was the only block of time I ever devoted to television; the rest of my time I played outside. But those six hours of television...ahhh...nothing like it.

Back then, kids actually had television made from equal parts of imagination and heavy drug use. It resulted in some bizarre television.

Let's see... you had a boy with a magic flute who ends up on Living Island, protected by a giant dragon/policeman and pursued relentlessly by an overly made-up disco bitch named Witchiepoo...

I am, of course, referring to "H.R. Pufnstuf." Just look at that picture and tell me that you don't immediately think DRUGS.

And then there was the show about a boy who befriends a piece of seaweed and takes it home to live with him in his treehouse...

This one, of course, was called "Sigmund and the Sea Monsters."

But the spaciest show of all might be "Land of the Lost." Sure, it had totally cheeseball production values, horrid acting, and crappy sets; that's what made it SO DAMN GREAT. The show had the scariest villains ever for children's television: the evil, reptilian Sleestak...

The show revolved around - well, let's just play the damn theme song...

Ahhh...those wonderful yesterdays when children's television existed to ENTERTAIN kids, not (A) try to teach them boring life lessons or Spanish, or (B) try to sell them a fucking toy. If these shows did anything , it caused kids to use their imaginations and exercised their ability to fantasize and create wondrous new worlds and open up exciting possibilities.

Somebody needs to make shows like these again. Hmmmm... looks like another project!!

American Revolution - Part II

2006-11-08T21:42:00.000-08:00

Liberals are dancing in the streets of America today, shouting in ecstasy over their meager yet decisive victory in Tuesday's election against the Republican axis of evil.

I just don't get it.

How quickly people forget the ineptitude of Democratically-controlled governments. Bill Clinton? Intelligent, to be sure, but unwilling to take the bold steps and morally...well, haven't the jokes been made already? Think, people!! Has there ever been a look on a man's face that more closely resembled a question mark than the one Jimmy Carter sported during his Presidency? Can you say RECESSION? Can you say TERRORISM? Both of these wondrous terms fit nicely on the heads of the last two Democratically-controlled White Houses.

Frankly, these criticisms can apply equally to Republican governments. And that, my friends, is my point. NEITHER PARTY is the answer!!

Anyone with a keen eye and a manageable intellect can see the immobility of the current system of government in the United States. The two party system chokes the promise of America with squabbling and agenda. No longer can we have an Abraham Lincoln in the White House, gamely attempting to unify a fractured country with heartfelt logic and a strong moral backbone. If Lincoln existed today, more ink would spill over his sleeping arrangements with men rather than his Gettysburg Address. And, more importantly, Lincoln would be unable to get anything productive done in this environment, where his actions must appease his party's fortunes in the next election, rather than make decisions to benefit his people: the common citizens.

America has become an ugly place where people turn a blind eye to the suffering of others, yet expect their own suffering to gain national attention. A place where actual issues are swept aside for the sensational and the trivial. A place where liars and thieves and backstabbing leeches make profits on the grinding corpses of the common man. A place where freedom has a dollar amount attached to it. A place where those that govern serve not the people, but are served and grow fat off of the people. It is a cold, fractious, hollow place.

The wholesale corruption within all three branches of government, which were originally designed to check and balance one another, continues to shock. The stunning election fraud in 2000. The absolute lies forged in order to invade Iraq. Clinton pardoning everyone except me before he left office. Enron. Whitewater. Iran-Contra. The JFK assassination. In other countries, such behavior by a group of elected officials would be met with a coup d etat. Not here in America. Instead, we have partisan bickering and media sniping, followed by a puppet commission to assess the situation and pardon everyone. The sole benefit of such machinations is to preserve the power of America's leadership, Republican or Democrat. The power left the hands of the People a long, long time ago. Instead, they need to have a majority vote in order to give themselves a raise in minimum wage to a whopping $6.50 an hour! I wonder what the representatives of "the People" make an hour, and I wonder if they need to jump through a bunch of hoops to get a raise in their hourly wage. Hmmmm...

The Declaration of Independence and the Constitution are two of the greatest documents ever written about governmental theory, penned by thoughtful men who wanted to craft something unique and - gasp - noble. Unfortunately, these men also saw that such a government, so promising on paper, might eventually not function properly "for the People." Notice this dire warning, written into the Declaration of Independence in 1776 and much more relevant today:

"We hold these truths to be self-evident, that all men are created equal, that they are endowed by their Creator with certain unalienable Rights, that among these are Life, Liberty and the pursuit of Happiness. Â That to secure these rights, Governments are instituted among Men, deriving their just powers from the consent of the governed, Â That whenever any Form of Government becomes destructive of these ends, it is the Right of the People to alter or to abolish it, and to institute new Government, laying its foundation on such principles and organizing its powers in such form, as to them shall seem most likely to effect their Safety and Happiness. Prudence, indeed, will dictate that Governments long established should not be changed for light and transient causes; and accordingly all
experience hath shewn that mankind are more disposed to suffer, while evils are sufferable than to right themselves by abolishing the forms to which they are accustomed. But when a long train of abuses and usurpations, pursuing invariably the same Object evinces a design to reduce them under absolute Despotism, it is their right, it is their duty, to throw off such
Government, and to provide new Guards for their future security."

The time has come when Americans need to face a sobering reality: the government no longer works for them; instead, it works them over. Their votes, each individual one of insignificant size, have altogether become irrelevant in the face of electoral college frauds and the policies of those elected to lead who steadfastly refuse to heed what the People have commanded in those votes.

In 1776, men of courage broke away from the bonds of a corrupt and greedy form of government that had enslaved them. For many of those men, it took more than courage - it took their very lives.

The articles that founded this country themselves cry out for revolution under these circumstances. Who today will be the ones to take up a stand against tyranny?

We need another American Revolution.

Rubber Johnny

2006-11-08T14:18:00.000-08:00

In 2005, one of the more disturbing videos of recent times exploded out of the mind of Chris Cunningham, a visionary director of music videos. It's called "Rubber Johnny."

Here is the official description:

"Johnny is a hyperactive, shape-shifting mutant child, kept locked away in a basement. With only his feverish imagination and his terrified dog for company, he finds ways to amuse himself in the dark."

Um, yeah. Here's the clip:

Yikes.

"Fitz" Title Sequence

2006-11-06T18:08:00.000-08:00

I have continued my practice of attempting 2,594 projects at the same time, and accomplishing none of them.

One of the projects near to my heart is "Fitz." I completed the screenplay with one of my partners, Chris Daniel, in 2005. We searched fruitlessly for animation companies to tackle the animation for us. The lowest estimate came from a Flash animation facility, which gave us a bid of around $100,000 for limited animation and little lip synch. Others estimated the costs to be in the several hundred thousand dollars. Yes, I know it's relatively cheap, but none of the companies offered what we really thought the project needed.

So we decided to do the damn thing ourselves.

Well, sort of. Our solution involved creating rougher animatics of scenes, utilizing my own brand of haphazard, slapdash Flash animation, in order to get a sense of timing and style to the movie. While I can certainly tackle graphic arts and handle character design fairly well, I DO NOT have the patience for full-fledged animation (see above). Still, I think it turned out okay.

The story involves three retards named Fitz, Stumpy, and Big Don. Yes, they are actually retarded. They live in a retard orphanage named "Churchill's Downs." The caretaker, Churchill, farms out his retards to local businesses in order to collect their paychecks, and the businesses, in turn, receive tax credits. The three retards get into a series of misadventures, desperately attempting to grasp the meanings of some of life's more disturbing oddities, such as quiefs, condoms, and retard sex. Despite all of the obstacles thrown in their way, the three (lovable, mostly) retards manage to overcome all odds and become unlikely heroes.

Suffice it to say that "Fitz" is not "Saturday matinee with the kids" material. It's a hard R-rated movie, filled to the brim with sex, foul language, and non-PC ideals.

Here is the rough cut of the title sequence to "Fitz."

Ugh ... I need a new project, or several million to finish this one.

Got Lymphoma?

2006-11-05T22:06:00.000-08:00

About eight months ago I stopped drinking cow's milk in favor of rice milk. This was triggered by a report linking the Monsanto-produced bovine growth hormone to a 300% rise in lymphatic cancers since 1995, the year they began injecting cows with this hormone.

Of course, rice milk tastes somewhat similar to skim milk, but it is not nearly as good to someone like me who regularly consumed GALLONS of milk per week. Gradually I adjusted to the taste, but I never liked the astronomical cost. A quart (32 oz.) of rice milk costs $2.49 here in St. Louis, as opposed to $2.60 for a gallon (128 oz.) of skim milk.

Last week I was feeling budget conscious, so I bought a gallon of cow's milk. And wouldn't you know it, as soon as I began drinking it, I got sick and the lymph nodes in my neck became swollen and painful. At first, I just thought I was sick (and perhaps I was). But after considering it, I decided to stop drinking the milk and go back to rice milk.

Wanna guess what happened?? Immediately, my lymph nodes felt better and I started recovering.

This reminds me of all the secret genetic testing the damn government did on innocent people in past decades, only to cause them harm in later life.

GET OUT OF MY CEREAL, GEORGE W. BUSH!!!

A Valuable Girl

2006-11-02T18:15:00.000-08:00

No words. Just watch:

Not that I could give her a run for her money, but where oh where is this girl???

I love the reactions of the two girls seated on either side of her. They clap respectfully, but deep down they envy her. CATFIGHT!!

Greatest Female Vocalists - Number ONE

2006-10-29T20:55:00.000-08:00

And here we are, at the pinnacle of Sammyray's Greatest Female Vocalists of all time list! Exciting, ain't it??

Here are the first four on my list:
Number FIVE: Sinead O'Connor
Number FOUR: Anne Wilson
Number THREE: Tina Turner
Number TWO: Etta James

Those are all wonderful singers - I think - but my number one is the complete package.

Number ONE:
Annie Lennox

No doubt many of you will vehemently disagree with this choice, and many others will mumble "Who the fuck is THAT?" Shame on all of you.

Annie Lennox is the female voice of the most successful duo in Europe, Eurythmics. After the breakup of Eurythmics in 1991, Annie went on to a wildly successful solo career before reteaming with bandmate Dave Stewart in the early part of the millennium for two more albums as Eurythmics. She remains perhaps the greatest pure singer of her generation, as well as an iconic visual artist.

Annie might not have the purest voice or the greatest range, but her versatility and warmth overcome any shortcomings. A truly great female vocalist is one that brings out the emotion of a song. Annie does that effortlessly, and in addition, she can do this with any style of song. From hard edged rock songs, pure pop, classical arrangements (for which she won an Oscar for "Into the West" from the Lord of the Rings), among others, Annie's voice is a singular, hypnotic instrument. Like no other female vocalist, Annie is capable of projecting feminine warmth and masculine chills within heartbeats of each other.

Here she is in Eurythmics' signature tune, "Sweet Dreams (are made of this)." Brilliant video, by the way...

Note her chilly vocals there. Now listen to her take a 180 degree turn in "Would I Lie To You?" By the way, those fat black chicks aren't singing the punchy backup vocals there - Annie sang every part.

Now, listen to total warmth, live, singing "Miracle of Love" - pay attention to her beautiful closing of the song:

And here she is last year, singing her solo smash "Why" in support of African relief. Not only does she show off her tremendous vocal presence, but also her rarely credited instrumental talents.

Awesome, awesome, awesome!!! I remember hearing and seeing her so many years ago, and it changed everything for me. Love ya, Annie!

There ya go. Sound off on my choices, if you can!!

Greatest Female Vocalists - Number TWO

2006-10-29T17:05:00.000-08:00

Once again, I am counting down my five favorite female singers of all time. We all love lists, don't we??

Here we are so far:

Number FIVE: Sinead O'Connor
Number FOUR: Anne Wilson
Number THREE: Tina Turner

Have you guessed my number ONE yet? Not a chance in hell.

Number TWO:
Etta James

Sure, she's damn ugly, but when the woman opens her mouth, a four octave masterpiece emerges with creamy smoothness. Etta might have the best vocal control of any singer ever - it's effortless and mesmerizing. Etta epitomizes soul, blues, pop, and rock in one stunning package.

Here she sings "Something Got a Hold Of Me" with such raw intensity and soul that Janis Joplin would piss her panties if she ever had any on. Too bad about that eye makeup, though...

Her signature tune is "At Last," which has probably graced every single Nora Ephron chick-flick ever made. This is a recent live version - the video sucks, but her voice makes up for it. Notice how her voice has deepened into a sexy, powerful instrument over the decades...

And just for comparison, here is Christina Aguilera singing the same song, except with about a million vocal ticks and tricks thrown in for not-so-good measure. Etta shows that true female vocalists do not need to rely on histrionics - you want to hit the right notes, but the main job of the vocalist is to essay the EMOTION of the song, not try to impress people with vocal gyrations. Thank you Mariah Carey for ruining a whole generation of talented female singers like Christina.

As Christina would say, we arrrrreeee onlyyyyyyy one oh oh oh oh yeaahhhh aaaaawwwaaaaayyyyy fffrrrrroooooooooommmmmoooooohhyyeahahh number one oooooh yyeeeaaaahhhhh!!!!

Figured it out yet?

Greatest Female Vocalists - Number THREE

2006-10-28T21:17:00.000-07:00

And the hits just keep on comin'.

We are counting down my picks for Greatest Female Vocalists.

Number FIVE: Sinead O'Connor
Number FOUR: Anne Wilson

Before going onto Number THREE, I must get this one out of the way:

Number THREE (point) FIVE:
Whitney Houston

Damn you, Whitney! You just had to get all cracked up with that talentless junkie pimp Bobby Brown, and RUINED your damn self.

The fact is that Whitney probably has the best technical voice on this or any other list. Listen to this:

Unfortunately, Whitney's overall poor and limited song output leaves her off of this list proper. WHAT A WASTE!!!!

Now, onto the real list:

Number THREE:

Tina Turner

Tina's voice - my God. An unstoppable force of raw sexual power. Her voice is so nuanced and flexible that she basically defined four decades of American music.

Here she is with one of her first original songs, "Nutbush City Limits." Joy and sexual energy just radiates effortlessly out of her in this live performance:

Here is what I consider her best vocal performance, absolutely nailing Phil Spector's wall of sound classic "River Deep, Mountain High."
And finally, here is Tina during her eighties comeback, reworking "Proud Mary" by Creedence Clearwater Revival into a triumphant firestorm:

Man, I don't care who you are - you must want to fuck Tina Turner!!! I can only imagine that sex with her would be like intercourse with a cougar, or a bear, or some other highly dangerous animal/natural event.

WHEW!!! Damn, she does it for me!!! Ike, you're a dumbshit!

Well, we are just two away from number ONE. Figured it out yet?

Greatest Female Vocalists - Number Four

2006-10-28T20:13:00.000-07:00

As you know, I am counting down my top five female vocalists of all time. Have you figured out my number ONE yet??

Number FIVE was Sinead O'Connor. You can check out that entry here.

Number FOUR:
Anne Wilson

Popularly known as the fat chick from Heart, Anne Wilson's voice is hair-raising and sexy. Blessed with a five octave range, she can rage over the fierce guitar rock of her early years with Heart, or cascade over smooth instrumentals and acoustic arrangements as she has chosen to do in later years. She represents a slew of female vocalists with powerful voices and limited artistic range - Patsy Cline, Pat Benatar, Celine Dion - simply because I love the POWER of her voice the best.

Here is Anne Wilson flying effortlessly over the gravelly guitars of "Barracuda" :

"Alone" might be her most famous vocal performance. At once haunting and steely, capped by an agonizing scream in the final minute, she perfectly captures the song's utter sadness. Here she is singing that song twenty years after she recorded it, this time in a duet with Carrie Underwood. Notice how well Carrie does next to her. And yet, the effect is like a tornado destroying a village in the middle of a hurricane.

While I freely admit that Anne Wilson's voice is not as versatile as some of the others on this list (versatility is a trait I love), her voice is still one of the great instruments of modern music.

Have you figured out number ONE yet??

Hangover

2006-10-28T13:24:00.000-07:00

Hangovers are caused by dehydration - Alcohol is a diuretic, i.e. a drug that increases urination and flushes fluids from the body.

Then I am the fucking Sahara desert.

This is what I feel like right now:

I think we can all agree that ain't good.

Sammyray must rest now. The number four female vocalist comes tomorrow.

I love you.

WE WIN!!!!!!!!

2006-10-28T00:51:00.000-07:00

One quick update - the St. Louis Cardinals are the World Series Champions.

You may remember when I wrote about the Cardinals in October. Well I'll be damned ... the trials ended up making the victory even sweeter.

It is 3 in the morning and I am home from a couple of hours of literally drunkenly running through the streets of downtown St. Louis, hugging and high-fiving random strangers. My voice is completely gone. I desperately need to go to sleep. Someday, I promise I will.

It is a madhouse here, as Charlton Heston might have said if he was the guy in the gorilla suit in the SUV that I hugged more than once. Of course, Heston would have shot me. Thankfully, he is near death and not able to hurt me like beer has over the last few weeks.

Let me reiterate: The Cardinals, possibly the worst team EVER in a World Series, won the goddamn thing. David Eckstein, the tiniest ballplayer in major league history (he stands around 5'7" and weighs approximately 82 pounds) won the Series MVP. Which means, for you and me, that the little and insignificant runt can win anything they want if they only set their mind to accomplish it. And if that doesn't inspire you, then you're a dumbshit who will never accomplish anything in life.

And if that hurt you, then go watch the Cardinals and their amazing victory again. You'll feel better, I promise.

Time to rest, with a smile on my face. I love you.

Greatest Voice Ever Contest - Number Five

2006-10-27T11:25:00.000-07:00

My love of female vocalists knows no bounds whatsoever. Unfortunately, the days of the great female vocalists is over, replaced with Lindsay Lohan, Hillary Duff, and Paris Fucking Hilton (her actual middle name, if there is a God in heaven). Is it even really necessary to name them? They are not even worth the effort to draw a breath to name them.

So, in light of this crisis, I want to try and go over my top five favorite female voices. Those who know me well already can guess my number one - but let's make a game of it.

Guess my number one as I ascend my list. The winner receives...um...fame??

Number FIVE:

Sinead O'Connor

Say what you will about her buzz cut, her politics, her publicity-baiting antics ... if you strip it all down to voice and vision, this woman must occupy one of the top spots. Suffice it to say that I doubt if anyone ever sounded like this. Her voice has the rare ability to project warmth and softness at one moment, and then rise into a full-flight rage in the next.

Her most famous song is "Nothing Compares 2 U", which is obviously penned by Prince (the 2 U gives it away....the man loves to act like a sixteen year old girl). Her version made Prince sulk away in defeat - she absolutely nails the anguish in the lyrics Prince wrote but could barely understand. Here it is:

However, her best song is a song named "Troy," which she wrote for an ex-lover. It is unrelenting, tender, and scathing. She sings it as if she was an exposed nerve-ending, and the effect is brilliant. And to show she has some actual chops, here is the live version:

Okay ... that's number five. Who would be on YOUR list? What do you think of Sinead? Hit me with your best shot, bitches!

Fuccon You

2006-10-26T08:04:00.000-07:00

"The Fuccons" is a Japanese television show. That should give you pause right there, for as you know, the Japanese are responsible for some of the greatest atrocities in mankind's history.

Like this...

...and this...

(Yeah, they are responsible. America just made it PRETTIER...I mean, look at that picture!! Awesome!!)

However, few things can prepare you for the overwhelming WEIRDNESS of "The Fuccons." It features a "family" of Americans who relocate to Japan. The family is made up of mannequins.

Here is the trailer:

I suppose this is meant to be some sort of sarcastic dissection of American life. This, coming from a culture that still dresses like Elvis Presley and plays golf INSIDE high rise office buildings.

This is how the show actually plays out during one of its "episodes" :

Whatever. In America, this show wouldn't survive five minutes on the air unless Bam Margera ran up, grabbed one of the mannequins, and stuck it in his mother's bed (HAHAHAHAHA ... the HILARITY!!!!). Or maybe one of them might do a really bad George Bush impression. Oh, wait...we already have that mannequin show in the U.S. You supply the rest of that joke.

Anyway, the Japs (as they prefer to be called) deserve the Sammyray salute:

Go fuck yourselves, Japan! Stay out of my mind!

The Spatula Chronicles - Part Two

2006-10-25T09:40:00.000-07:00

I won't recap what "The Spatula Chronicles" is all about. You can read about that here.

This is the second episode I wrote. Try to detect the faint scent of sarcasm between the lines. This story almost ruined my friendship with Steve and his wife. The villain, you see, is Lynn's morbidly obese mother.

Too close to home? You decide:

------------The Spatula Chronicles--------------

Episode 83: Song of the Fat Lady

Beams of morning sunlight sliced through the clouds like the freshly-hewn knives of fifteen exclusive cutlery sets marked down to 40% off. It set Lynn’s heart racing like it was coupon day.

The sunlight was welcome, for the trek across Ethiopia had proven more treacherous than Lynn had initially anticipated. Heavy rains punctuated long hot days and frigid desert nights. Fortunately Lynn had thought to pack a gross of Sterno for warmth, which she kept balanced in the basket on her head when she moved camp. Still, even well prepared travelers suffer in the desert, a harsh mistress who saps the mind with her illusionary games. Lynn herself lost a day in her quest due to these wondrous mirages on the desert floor, when she gamely tried to haggle with a pack of hyenas for several hours over the price of a palm tree that suddenly evaporated before her eyes. However, the hyenas made off with her supplies before she realized the imaginary credit card reader wasn’t accepting Visa. The desert can be cruel, indeed.

Lynn tensed with agony. Her ankle, twisted during her fall into the Chasm of Sorrow, Regret, and Shame, bent uncomfortably in the makeshift brace Lynn created out of two golf clubs, electrical tape, three issues of Newsweek, and two hundred feet of twine from her backpack. No matter how well she wrapped and re-wrapped the ankle, the constant abuse from the journey bent the tender joint further out of place.

Lynn gingerly placed her belongings on the ground in a circle around her, grouping items in alphabetical order using their officially trademarked names. She then sat in the sand and rested. As she sat under the rising sun, her hand cupped a small vial wound tightly around her neck. She lifted it, inspecting the milky fluid half-filling the greenish container. “Just a drop,” said the Seer of Thailand, ”and whatever information you seek will be yours as if you were born with it.” Lynn imagined the great power she could wield with this elixir. A drop could provide her with all the answers to any community college class in which she chose to enroll. She could finally unlock the greater mysteries of the universe, as well as discover the true mark-up percentage of any product, in any mall, anywhere.

But one mystery remained unsolved. Like a lost child, its memory cried out to her, longing to be in her protective care once more. Lynn remembered the delicate curve of the flexible plastic blade, the finely-crafted finger grips on the ash white acrylic handle, and the long, semi-rigid neck curving erotically toward the tip. Lynn recalled how she found it sitting alone under the “Bargains” sign at Marshall’s, the last of its kind. There was no back up. She had no replacement. That spatula, perhaps the most important technological achievement of the twentieth century, meant everything to Lynn, her kitchen, and the fabric of space and time. Everything depended on this mission to retrieve it, and Lynn felt the pressure.

After several hours Lynn came upon a small, deserted village. Between the straw huts snaked muddy streets lined with the dead and dying. From the bones jutting through their chicken-like skin, Lynn deduced that the people in this small village were starving to death. A gaunt, rail-thin dog limped up and nuzzled against Lynn’s leg. She reached down and stroked the shivering animal, and fur fell from it in clumps. Lynn reached into her pocket and pulled out several sticks of beef jerky and fed it to the dog. As Lynn fed the dog, a young man, painfully thin, approached.

“Excuse me, but I have had nothing to eat in weeks. Gorgo of the great cave up there,“ he said, pointing to the large cave at the top of a nearby hill, “she has eaten everything, leaving us with nothing but dirt and urine. Can you help me like you have helped my dog?” asked the boy hopefully.

Lynn stood up and looked at the boy disdainfully. “This dog cannot go to college and get a good job to make the money it needs to buy food, but you can. You’re obviously too lazy to go to school to better yourself, or else you wouldn’t starve to death.”

The boy gazed back, confused. “Excuse me,” he stuttered, “but what is college? I don’t know what that means.”

“See?” retorted Lynn, “See what a lack of education will get you? Nothing!” Lynn tapped the dog lovingly on the head and went on her way. Behind her, the boy dropped face first into the dirt, dead.

However, something the boy said echoed in Lynn’s ears. GORGO! The half Chinese, half Puerto Rican Siamese Twins of Siberia had warned Lynn about Gorgo, the ferocious eating machine whose colon produced keys to every lock. Lynn knew that the final and necessary piece of the puzzle was somewhere underneath Gorgo, and to retrieve it Lynn would brave the most perilous dangers of this or any quest. Gorgo had devastated this town, reducing its people and way of life to waste products. Now Gorgo sat squarely between Lynn and her spatula. Nothing could stop the confrontation now.

After a short climb, Lynn found her way to the top of the small mount over looking the remains of the village. The large mouth of the cave beckoned like a hungry, moss-covered esophagus, and stale, putrid air billowed from deep inside like a belch. Lynn reached into her back pack and pulled out a police glow stick which she received from a donation to the fireman’s fund. The sickly green light danced across the jagged surface. Lynn mustered up her courage and entered the cave.

A small path wound down in sharp declines, the trickling water bouncing over the sharp rocks. Sounds of air mixed with a deep, labored breathing sent chills down Lynn’s spine. She held the glow stick out in front of her like a protection, a protection against the unseen and the imaginary. Then, ahead in the cave, lit dimly by a long-burning fire, she saw the creature which had eaten an entire continent to ruin.

Lynn entered the cavern, face frozen in shock. Gorgo turned her head slightly, her beady eyes simmering in the flickering campfire. Although some wild estimates place Gorgo’s weight in tons, such guesses are easily dismissed until you see her in person. Large dollops of fat spilled over one another, from her hair line all the way down to her big toe. Her tangled blond hair, greasy and unkempt, wove sticky webs over her eyes, which were sunken in her blubbery face. Around the monster lay ripped bags of trash, the refuse of dinners offered by the villagers when they once had food to give.

“What do you want?” screeched Gorgo in her high, unpleasant trill.

Lynn tried to appear unfazed. “I need a key in your possession. This key will unlock the mystery of my stolen spatula. Please tell me where it is,” Lynn replied.

Gorgo laughed wickedly, coughing and wheezing intermittently. “Tend to me, and I will help you,” demanded Gorgo. From under Gorgo’s gigantic sack of blubber, two badly wounded legs emerged. Lynn got down and inspected the bleeding sores. The skin had rotted away from the edges, and puss dripped liberally from the openings. Gorgo coughed, adding, “It will teach you humility.”

Lynn pulled out several boxes of Bi Rite gauze and antibiotic cream, and cleaned the wounds tenderly despite the pungent odor of decay in the air around the infections. Gorgo grunted with every application, wheezing and moaning as Lynn tightly wrapped the sores with fresh bandages.

Lynn stood up to inspect her handiwork. “There, I have tended your wounds with humility. Now tell me where I can find the key,” demanded Lynn.

Gorgo reached down and grabbed a long stick with claws on the end of it. She began to scratch the wounds with the clawed stick until the bandages came undone and the wounds began to bleed profusely. “You first learn humility, and then you learn the futility of humility,” chuckled Gorgo, impressed with her own wisdom.

“There must be something you want,” offered Lynn.

Gorgo considered. “Food. I need something to fill me up.”

Lynn took out the vial. Inside, the sickly white fluid swirled invitingly. “Here I have something that will fill you up forever. You will never want again.”
Gorgo stared at the vial greedily. “Give it to me!” Gorgo screamed. Lynn climbed up onto Gorgo and opened the vial. Gorgo stuck out her sore-covered tongue, and Lynn dropped one tiny droplet into the monster’s mouth. Lynn climbed back down.

“Now where is that key?” asked Lynn.

“Underneath me,” answered Gorgo honestly.

Lynn looked incredulous. “How am I supposed to get it out from under you?”

“Lift me up!” Gorgo replied sternly.

Lynn unpacked her 200 yard nylon rope. After lacing it beneath Gorgo’s short, fat legs and around two stalactites behind her, Lynn was able to fashion a simple pulley. With a mighty yank, the nylon rope pulled Gorgo’s legs upwards, flipping the creature on her back, where she cried and flailed her arms helplessly.

Lynn crawled across the floor where Gorgo once sat. There, in the dried piles of fecal matter and moist hay, Lynn saw something gleaming silver. She reached into the dung and pulled out a key, thick and heavy, which looked as if it fit a high security deadbolt with a pinless tumbler. Exactly what she had come so far to retrieve!

Gorgo twisted in agony on her back. “You told me I’d never get hungry again, but I’m hungry already!”

“What I gave you was truth serum, of which I never drank a drop. So I lied to you!” yelled Lynn triumphantly.

Lynn burst from the cave mouth, the key heavy like a trophy in her hands. Gorgo’s echoing screams descended down the slope with Lynn as she headed into the west.

Next Week:

Episode 84: Duplicitous Dangerous Doppelgangers

Good Sports

2006-10-23T20:22:00.000-07:00

I know you all hate my rambling about baseball, if only because YOUR team didn't make the World Series like mine did. HAHA, ya losers!

However, I DO want to touch on the subject of sportsmanship. I must say that this baseball postseason has been littered with poor sportsmanlike conduct on all sides.

First batter up: Albert Pujols. In game 1 of the National League Championship Series, Tom Glavine of the New York Mets threw a brilliant shutout against the St. Louis Cardinals. When asked about Glavine's performance, Pujols (who went 0-3 with a strikeout and a costly baserunning blunder) said this:

"He wasn’t good. He wasn’t good at all,” Pujols said of Glavine, who threw seven innings of four-hit ball for the victory. “I think we hit the ball hard, we didn’t get some breaks. “I say he wasn’t good at all. We just didn’t get some opportunities and that’s it. . . (Glavine did the) same thing that he always does. Throw a changeup, fastball and that was it. I just think we should’ve done a better job than we did."

Lovely. You get your ass handed to you by Glavine, a man in his forties with nearly 300 wins, and all you can do is mock his performance? Since when is that sportsmanlike conduct? Since Roid Rage?

Second batter up: Scott Rolen. Scott Rolen, the St. Louis third baseman, had a batting average since June that nearly slipped into imaginary numbers. Every flailing swing at a high fastball with runners in scoring position sent Cardinal fans everywhere screaming for their shrinks.

So Tony LaRussa, the manager, did what you or I would do without thinking: he benched Rolen during one of the playoff games. I mean, Rolen's excrement that day had a better shot at driving in a run than he did.

Of course, this didn't sit too well with Mr. EgoTrip (that's Rolen, if you're unsure). Rolen whined to the media about being benched. He sulked in the dugout, forlornly gazing onto the field like Bambi looking for his mother's blown-out face. He avoided TALKING to LaRussa FOR OVER A WEEK. Which is, if you're keeping score, what a BITCH does when she doesn't get an engagement ring the first time she cried for one.

Note to Rolen: You're a big, muscular ox with a (presumably) large cock and millions of dollars in the bank. Act like a fucking MAN.

Third batter up: Kenny Rogers. In the second game of the World Series, pitcher Kenny Rogers of the Detroit Tigers begins twirling a masterpiece against the St. Louis Cardinals in sub-Antarctic conditions. Suddenly, during the first inning, the cameras zoom in on this:

Obviously, Rogers smeared pine tar on his pitching hand. While pine tar helps a pitcher keep a grip on the ball, it also helps to deaden the spin of the ball in flight, causing it to flutter like a knuckleball. Such an effect would be highly desirable for a pitcher. Unfortunately, it's ILLEGAL.

Rogers managed to wriggle out of the situation by claiming it was simply dirt, and he promptly marched into the dugout and washed off the offending material. Which then not only makes him a CHEAT. It makes him a LYING CHEAT.

My point in all of this isn't to talk baseball AGAIN. It's to point out the continued failure of millionaire sports figures to play by the simple rules of their childish sports, and act like men while doing it.

Boys, grow the fuck up. PLAY BALL!!!

Mend a Broken Heart

2006-10-22T21:47:00.000-07:00

Have you ever been in love and had your heart broken? Sure you have, you dumb loser.

Go help my buddy Steve mend his broken heart with your words of "wisdom."

His Vietnamese girlfriend of two years broke up with him, and he's havin' a hard time. Geez, I wish I hadn't been so mean when I said this about Steve and his girlfriend a while back.

That's why I need your help. I'm obviously not good at being comforting.

Show him some love, everybody!!

Unbelievable

2006-10-20T10:23:00.000-07:00

I cannot stress enough how unbelievable this win is for the Cardinals.

In the sixth inning, score tied 1-1 in a tense battle, it looked like the Mets had fate on their side when this play occurred, possibly one of the greatest outfield plays in the long history of the game:

Then, Yadier Molina, the light-hitting catcher, smoked a two run homer in the top of the ninth inning. The Cards are up 3-1, and headed into the bottom of the ninth.

There, the Mets produce two singles and a walk, creating this:

Bottom of the ninth. Two outs. Bases loaded. One of the best power hitters in baseball - Carlos Beltran - at the plate. A rookie - Adam Wainwright - on the mound for the Cardinals. No balls. Two strikes. A frenzied throng of 56,000 New Yorkers howling. Shea Stadium swaying in the fervor.

And this happens:

Today, New Yorkers are literally crying.

But in St. Louis, jubilation and utter shock.

Four more for a team that deserves nothing but scorn. Somehow, it happened.

No, folks, you are wrong. Baseball is not boring.

Against All Odds

2006-10-20T02:40:00.000-07:00

Yeah, the Cardinals are going to the World Series.

Nail-biting tension ... a 1-1 tied score through eight stomach-turning innings ... Yadier Molina's surprise 2-run homer in the ninth ... a bases-loaded jam in the bottom of the ninth, saved only by some brilliant pitching.

This is baseball.

For you Mets fans, all I can say is this:

SUCK IT.

All of us in St. Louis are tired of your nasty, bandwagon, crybaby attitudes. We will gladly go milk cows or whatever you think we do here in exchange for you fucking yourselves violently with the nearest blunt object.

I am sooo worn out that I cannot believe we have another seven game series to endure. I need to sober up.

GO CARDS!!!!!!

The Spatula Chronicles

2006-10-18T10:12:00.000-07:00

Well, I am consumed with the Cardinals' seemingly inexplicable ride to the World Series, and I apologize for abandoning you. Here's a little thing I wrote some time back, which I share with you to pass the time until my mind sobers up literally and figuratively.

My friend Steve has this wife named Lynn. Lynn is a sick individual. She is compulsive and anal about everything. She is a pack rat, and a fanatical collector of junk. She compulsively shops every day, buying items in bulk that she doesn't need (like buying TEN tents, or THREE Fisher-Price dinettes, simply because they were on sale), and then storing these items in their basement, or in one of the three tractor trailers that Steve owns.

One day I borrowed their van. Six months later, Lynn came to me and accused me of stealing a SPATULA out of the van that day. Every time I saw the woman after that, she would ask me about the spatula. She likes to refer to me as "fag," and I guess in her mind, fags like to steal cookware. I don't understand her illness. Steve had no answers. Despite my insistence that I didn't need to steal a plastic spatula because I have a decent job, Lynn would not give up.

And so "The Spatula Chronicles" was born.

Here is the "first" episode (I work like Lucas - backwards):

----------The Spatula Chronicles-------------

Episode 26: Danger at Denali Heights

Lynn turned the clues over in her mind ceaselessly. She hadn’t missed a thing.

Cookware and utensils had disappeared over the years. Despite the reasoning of her family, Lynn knew that they didn’t simply vanish into thin air. No, this type of evil could only come from a criminal mastermind, a dark and angry heart so devious that they had eliminated all traces of their crimes. As pie pans, forks, and other everyday household items vanished, Lynn took note carefully. Of course their absence would keep her awake at night, but the final theft drove her over the edge. Something had to be done about it.

Lynn climbed the steep mountain road leading to a Nepali village nestled high in the mountains named Denali Heights. The chilly winds whipped up through the canyon below, blowing Lynn’s hair over her focused eyes. She trudged relentlessly up the rocky slope until she could see the small town lit up by firelight in the darkening dusk.

Villagers eyed her suspiciously as she wandered down the dirt path in the center of town. Small children, naked and starving, leaned tiredly against the thatched wicker huts, their bones exposed under a thin veil of dark brown flesh. Lynn wondered how they were able to get that thin, and made a promise to herself to discover their dieting secret as soon as she finished her quest. She had no time now, for every precious minute that ticked away kept her from resolving this mysterious evil.

She came to a small hut at the end of town, tucked in under several large trees. Light from the roaring fire inside flickered between the wooden posts of the poorly insulated hovel. Lynn drew a deep breath. “I am so close to finding the answer to this horrible crime,” she muttered to herself under her breath. It had indeed been quite a journey to this point. After scouring the internet, she found the cheapest airfare and charged it to her husband’s Visa account. Then she rented a large tractor trailer and loaded all of the supplies she would need for the journey, including several tents, an antique sewing machine, and three Fisher-Price dinette sets. Most of these she was forced to leave behind at the airport after several hours of arguing with the airport authorities, who insisted that the airplane would never lift off of the ground with so many items onboard. That only made the trip more difficult, and more dangerous.

Lynn pushed the small wooden door open, and the harsh breeze rushed through the hut, rustling the copper lanterns hanging from the ceiling.

“Close the door,” hissed a gruff voice from behind the counter. Lynn’s eyes met his. The man lifted himself painfully from his chair. His thin, greasy hair hung limply over his small dark slits for eyes. He adjusted his ratty clothing over his shoulders as he eyed Lynn suspiciously. She gathered her strength.

“I have come for my answer,” Lynn said cautiously. The man coughed, then smiled crookedly back at her.

“Did you bring the amulet?” he retorted. Lynn smiled back, the plastic retainer over her straight white teeth glinting in the light. She reached into her front pocket and pulled out the amulet. She placed it on the wooden desk in front of the man.

“Ah, the amulet! The most powerful medallion on earth, and it’s all mine!” The man grasped the amulet with his dirty, calloused hands.

Lynn smiled knowingly. Little did the man know how she had found that amulet at a discount store in Bankok, sitting in a bin of amulets priced at 15 for a dollar. Of course, the bin was guarded by enchanted spiders, each one deadlier than the next. Fortunately Lynn had thought to pack the extra can of hardwood floor stain in her backpack. She sprinkled the stain on the enchanted spiders, and the fumes from it caused them to roll over and go to sleep. She then carefully took the spiders and returned them to their native environment. After they were safe and unharmed, she returned to the discount store and bought the entire bin of amulets on her husband’s credit card.

The man lovingly caressed the discounted amulet. Lynn turned deadly serious.

“You have your amulet, now tell me. Where is my spatula?”

The man coiled behind the counter. He took the amulet and placed it in the hands of the stone god behind him. He then raised his hands to the god, and chanted.

“Give me my answer!” Lynn shouted impatiently.

The man turned to her. “I see a faggot.”

Lynn gasped. She knew it all along. “Tell me more,” she insisted.

“He lives high atop a building, surrounded by pink. There you will find your spatula.”

Lynn whipped around angrily. Her breaths, short and shallow, timed perfectly to her pulsing heartbeat. Her eyes darted about, formulating a plan. Her thoughts were interrupted by the man’s raspy voice.

“Of course, he will not simply give it to you if you ask him for it,” the man began.

Lynn squinted at him. “I need that spatula back. What do I need to do?”

“Go to the Seer of Thailand. He will provide you with a serum to force anyone to tell you anything, even where to find your missing spatula,” hissed the man.

Lynn turned to leave. “Thank you so much for being honest with me. I wish my family was as helpful as you have been to me.”

As she left, the man coughed and screamed out behind her, “Beware the dangers of Thailand!”

Lynn trudged on into the windy night, her quest one step closer to completion.

Next Week, Episode 27: Peril at Opossum Pass!

The Uriniversal Question

2006-10-16T19:10:00.000-07:00

For all of you "people" who keep saying that baseball is BORING, I give you this:

CHESS. The game one can play from a BATHROOM.

Yes, the charismatic, darkly handsome Vladimir Kramnik has been accused of cheating in his dramatic, edge-of-your-seat championship round with Veselin Topalov (is there a chess player on planet Earth with a last name that has fewer than 15 syllables? No? How about one that does not contain every single letter in the alphabet?).

His crime? Taking about 50 bathroom breaks to allegedly consult a chess computer.

http://www.sptimes.ru/index.php?action_id=2&story_id=19031

To normal, average human beings, such a story might be met with a shrug, or perhaps a resigned "who gives a shit." But to the above-average (i.e. everyone who loves chess), such a controversy would rival even the greatest questions of our day. Historical ruminations such as "Is there a God?" or "Why am I here?" pale in significance before the all-consuming question of whether Kramnik played Playstation 2 while he took a shit. To believers, not only does this controversy threaten to destroy Europe, Asia, and civilization as a whole, but it may also signal doomsday and unravel the very fabric of space and time.

Unfortunately, no comment on this seething controversy has come from the greatest mind of this or any generation, a man whose thoughts are so profound that God himself disintegrated at his birth: Gary Kasparov. No doubt he was too busy sucking his mother's tit.

Baseball is boring? Gimme a break.

No Words

2006-10-14T20:19:00.000-07:00

I will be away from my blog for a few days due to baseball fever.

St. Louis is a fucking madhouse. Our beloved Cardinals have taken a 2-1 series lead over the hated, favored New York Mets and their ass-licking media hounds. I look forward to the day very soon (probably game 6 in New York) when the Cardinals will rob the east coast of their masturbatory World Series phenoms and the Cardinals face the Tigers in a REAL championship round based on TALENT and not PAYROLL.

For more on this stunning turn of events, visit www.espn.com and listen to the outcry of sports reporters everywhere. Dumbasses.

Meanwhile St. Louis, already known as the beer capital of the world, has opened its beer taps for what appears to be a weekend of legendary drunkenness. And I am right in the fucking middle of it.

I just hope my liver doesn't fall out before it's over.

Habeas Corpse

2006-10-12T16:08:00.000-07:00

Nestled snugly between the start of new episodes of "American Idol" and the Foley (or is it Folly?) sex scandal, George W. Bush took some of your rights away.

From Wikipedia: Habeas corpus, Latin for "you [should] have the body", is the name of a legal instrument or writ by means of which detainees can seek release from unlawful imprisonment.

Basically, this important foundation of the American Constitution prevents anyone, including the government itself, from imprisoning you and torturing you without due process of law. And yet it was tossed aside like a teaspoonful of rotten tuna salad.

Imagine a democratic government without it. Or, just read "1984."

Here's an interesting discussion of the topic:

Fun stuff, folks. See you all in the concentration camps - I mean, Freedom Camps!

Haunted Roads

2006-10-10T22:46:00.000-07:00

I rarely find myself blown away by a book. Whenever I read one, the snobby English major in me always sits back, arches one doubtful eyebrow, and says, "Impress me, bitch."

However, I have met my match. Cormac McCarthy's "The Road" might be one of the few instant classics of the modern age. Absolutely haunting, desolate, and unflinching, this novel takes you to the other side of a world utterly destroyed in a nuclear cataclysm. The story is simple. A man and a boy travel down a road in order to find a southern sea before they die in a bombed-out nuclear wasteland. Read on:

"When it was light enough to use the binoculars he glassed the valley below. Everything paling away into the murk. The soft ash blowing in loose swirls over the blacktop. He studied what he could see. The segments of the road down there among the dead trees. Looking for anything of color. Any movement. A trace of standing smoke. He lowered the glasses and pulled down the cotton mask from his face and wiped his nose on the back of his wrist and then glassed the country again. Then he just sat there holding the binoculars and watching the ashen daylight congeal over the land. He knew only that the child was his warrant. He said: If he is not the word of God God never spoke."

This is searing prose poetry of the highest caliber. No movie could ever depict the emptiness and despair McCarthy conjurs in this novel. Go get it. RIGHT NOW.

Departed From Sense

2006-10-07T18:48:00.000-07:00

Directors like Martin Scorsese, a stylistic genius, should rarely be given more than a dirty street, a few nasty cuss words, and buckets of blood with which to make their films. Living more on adrenaline rushes and atmosphere than art, Scorsese remains one of the premier sculptors of visual dynamic and mounting tension. Unfortunately his ambitions to tell larger, complex stories often interfere with his greatest strengths, muting his colorful canvases. Such is the case with his newest film, "The Departed."

The mechanism behind the plot, lifted entirely from a Hong Kong action film entitled "Infernal Affairs," is fairly straightforward: a Boston crime boss named Costello (Jack Nicholson) plants a mole named Sullivan (Matt Damon) inside police headquarters just as the chief of police (Martin Sheen) is planting a mole by the name of Costigan (Leonardo DiCaprio) inside the crime syndicate. Eventually the two moles learn of the existence of their counterpart, and then the clock ticks down as they race to uncover each other.

The plot, already heavily loaded with nefarious schemes and double-crossing agents, becomes a tangled mess during the first hour as various characters scream and punch each other without any tangible reference to reason. The fault for this lies entirely with Scorsese. Despite the film's 146 minute running time, precious little screen time is devoted to fleshing out most of the characters that come and go throughout the film. Instead, we are slammed and shuttled quickly through a multitude of set-pieces, some of which pay off nicely with crackling intensity. However, the failure of Scorsese to ground the film's characters and serpentine plot with emotional or rational resonance throughout destroys the climax, which ends with a stunning triple jolt that left my audience laughing. Surely the reaction would have been shock and horror in those final, brilliant minutes had Scorsese built a more solid foundation with his characters earlier in the picture.

A large, wonderful cast tries to breathe life into the cardboard cutouts assigned to them by screenwriter William Monahan, some succeeding more than others. As the policeman sent in to infiltrate the mob, DiCaprio unleashes previously unseen violence and nervous energy. DiCaprio, for perhaps the first time in his career, actually seems like a legitimate threat to those who might cross him, swiftly pouncing on victims with vicious, brutal beatings. The only false note in this charismatic performance occurs during an interrogation by Nicholson's Costello: as Costello continues to ask if Costigen is the mole, DiCaprio plays Costigen so nervously that it would be obvious to anyone at all, let alone a ruthless mob boss, that Costigen was the traitor. Matt Damon, as DiCaprio's counterpart, plays Sullivan with a snake's charm, his toothy, leering smile slicing wickedly under his beady eyes. The performance is at once commanding and subtle. Supporting performances by Sheen, Mark Wahlberg, and Alec Baldwin shine, adding a much-needed jolt of humor and humanity.

Unfortunately, the one performance Scorsese should have reigned in is allowed to overthrow the entire film; Nicholson's portrayal of Costello is grotesque and ludicrous. Entering the picture in the opening seconds, liberally spouting off about "niggers" and "faggots" and asking underaged girls about their periods, Costello is established as a slimy, dominating villain. After that shadowy entrance, Nicholson allows the wheels to fly off of his performance: his eyes roll in their sockets, he bares his teeth and imitates a rat, he sings crazy versions of Irish folk songs, and even eats a fly in one ridiculous moment. At the conclusion, Nicholson does a nearly note-for-note re-enactment of the conclusion to his "Batman" performance; in fact, so closely does the performance resemble his Joker that one would not be far off to wonder if Scorsese was paying homage to Tim Burton's comic book classic.

Despite these problems, the ultimate blame lies with Scorsese. When confronted with a script with so many machinations and unlikely coincidences, a director must adequately sort out the information and present it in a way that makes sense. No amount of style, over-acting, or bloodletting can distract an audience for very long. While "The Departed" is a welcomed relief from Scorsese's recent run of overblown, Oscar-baiting vanity projects, it lacks the simple narrative thrust of the director's best work. No amount of Nicholson can disguise that.

Who's the Jackass?

2006-10-05T23:44:00.000-07:00

I jumped on the bandwagon and went to see "Jackass:Number Two" at the local trough/movie theater. I will need years of psychotherapy to remove the images/sounds/guilt from my mind.

My hatred of Bam Margera knows no bounds. Here, at least, the film satisfied my desire for revenge against this petulant, idiotic chimp. Johnny Knoxville and Steve-O, their satanic disregard for the sanctity of life truly unbridled, reduced Bam to tears on a few occasions. Unfortunately his untimely yet wholly deserved death did not climax the film.

I refuse to go into much about he film. We all know what comes out of every orifice in our bodies, and we watch it for ninety minutes while people throw up or nearly pass out from performing with the aforementioned bodily functions. Not much of a surprise at all for anyone remotely familiar with the "work" of the amateur stuntmen on "Jackass."

I will add only this: Knoxville has risen in respectability in my eyes due to this movie. The man is a bankable star in Hollywood these days, but as this movie shows, he is the first in line for some truly amazing and dangerous stunts and gags. Despite his rising star, Knoxville showed himself to be self-deprecating (not defecating), witty, and lacking the vanity of most big celebrities.

If only Bam could understand that.

That Sinking Feeling

2006-10-02T19:41:00.000-07:00

Indulge me for a second. Links are there for a reason.

Baseball fans in St. Louis have often been called "The Best Fans in Baseball" tm. We completely fill our stadium in downtown St. Louis with red at every home game. We cheer and scream and flail wildly in the stands for our Cardinals, and even politely applaud the opposition when they manage something spectacular or noteworthy. We do not throw batteries at soft, squishy human beings (like the lovely fans in Philly), we do not urinate randomly onto the ground from our seats (like those "classy" Yankees fans), and we definitely do not stare vacantly into space and munch on bean sprouts and alfalfa burgers like the dipshits on the West Coast. The networks can train their cameras and their attention on the east and west coast teams all they want; true, living baseball tradition can only be found in the Midwest, and its beating heart lies in St. Louis.

Yet something happened here in the past year in the heart of baseball. The owners of the St. Louis Cardinals, headed primarily by one Bill DeWitt, Jr., begged for several years for public funding of a beautiful new ballpark to replace the graceful but aging Busch Stadium II. We gave them what they wanted, and a new Busch Stadium rose from the ashes of the old like a very expensive phoenix. Everyone gasped on Opening Day; the enormous, black-steeled lightposts erupting from the red brick walls, opening up to a grand vista of the Arch in the skyline beyond, tastefully and symbolically placed in center field. It was, by all accounts, an efficient masterpiece. The team's slogan: "Welcome to Baseball Heaven." Indeed, it promised a glorious future:

One problem: The team fucking sucks.

Instead of trying to hire actual baseball players to play on this brand new baseball diamond (did I mention how expensive it was??), Mr. DeWitt (net worth: 2.4 billion dollars) decided to field a team made up primarily of cast offs from other teams. Losing teams. Additionally, DeWitt felt that the price of one beer should equal one mortgage payment, and one pure beef hot dog should cost the same amount as a family of four eating at French World in Disneyworld. Hot dogs with cockroach parts save you a dollar. In other words, Mr. DeWitt's net worth is steadily going in the opposite direction of mine, all by mining the affections of the "Greatest Fans in Baseball." tm

Of course, the Cardinals do have one ringer to make the entire financial rape worthwhile:

The name Albert Pujols will someday be spoken in the same short breath with the game's greatest players. He is a monster. His cock is bigger than most ballplayers' bats. Every time an opposing pitcher tries to intentionally walk him, the ball is drawn back into the strike zone on the force of Albert's gravitational pull. The man is HUGE. And this year he carried 23 other players into the playoffs.

The problem is this: I cannot root for this team. It endured two eight game losing streaks, and a seven game losing streak that almost caused what ESPN constantly referred to as "the worst collapse in baseball history." This team, made up of aging, broken-down castoffs and idiotic rookies, managed to orbit around Pujols' enormous Latino cock long enough to stumble backwards into the playoffs. Ordinarily, such a rag-tag bunch of misfits would inspire fans to rally behind them and cheer them as a lovable underdog.

Not the "Greatest Fans in Baseball." tm We hate this embarrassment of a team. As the season wore on, we lustily booed every appearance of Jason Isringhausen as if he had ass raped a three year old boy on the mound. Every flail of Juan Encarnacion's bat, every Jim Edmonds strikeout, every five run first by Jason Marquis met with bitter hostility. We began to call them names, like Yadiot and Donkeyhead, LaLoser and So-what-if-I-can't-hit-major-league-pitching-I'll-play-anyway Taguchi. Our lust for even an average baseball team knew no bounds; we would swallow day old Pujols ejaculate to keep from losing a lead in the seventh inning. Many of us would do that anyway.

And yet, here we are, a day away from the playoffs. This team doesn't even deserve to play women's softball, and now they are about to stumble like Keystone Cops in front of a national audience and all of the baseball pundits (i.e. fucktards) on ESPN. I tell you now, I will be thoroughly embarrassed if this team does anything more than forfeit five minutes before game time. If they continue to try, it only means more dollars in DeWitt's vast vaults, and more ulcers and sweaty nightmares for "The Greatest Fans in Baseball." tm

Fuck that. I am going out and buying some cheap, cheap batteries, or maybe a high-powered rifle.

Let the games begin! Go Yankees!!!

Poor Taste

2006-10-02T19:36:00.000-07:00

Yeah, I know the last post was a little nasty. I usually go to the farthest extreme to prove a point. For example, in order to prove I could fly, I jumped from a roof and landed on my head.

Suddenly it all makes sense, eh?

Lesbians and the Straight Male

2006-10-01T08:22:00.000-07:00

A straight male friend of mine tried to convince me that any guy that does not care for lesbian porn must be gay. Using pure logic, I laid out a perfect argument that lesbianism is GAY SEX. His big, heterosexual penis could not accept that lesbians were doing the same thing that gay men were doing, simply minus the cocks and the mess.

According to my friend, if I don't like lesbian porn, I am a gay male. Hmmmmm. So if a dog humps your leg, does that make it human? Of course not. Human sexuality is far too complex to place it in boxes.

To all of you "real, heterosexual men" out there, I present this:

Use your imaginations. YouTube pulled my video, dammit.

Enjoy your heterosexual nightmares, bitches!!

The Plastic Kingdom

2006-09-29T17:49:00.000-07:00

Recently I spoke with a friend who extolled the virtues of Disneyworld. Such praise would be like you or I praising our rapist because he had such a beautiful dick.

I went to Disneyworld in 1996. Granted, I was not five years old when I accompanied a group of friends that summer, but I expected more for my gas-guzzling trek down there, the $42,000 I spent on a park pass, the $1,500 meals, and the $12.95 I forked over to use the goddamn bathroom. To put it simply, I expected to be entertained.

The very first thing one notices when entering Disneyworld is how the place is Satanically cut off from the rest of reality. Literally, we spent 14 hours driving there through torrential downpours, only to see it suddenly stop as we pulled through the gates of Disney. The sky parted, the sun burst from the clouds, and little bluebirds flitted about whistling songs. I knew we were in trouble.

I literally RAN to the theme parks with my friends, eager to feast upon this gigantic park filled with exciting rides and wondrous shows. After all, had I not spent nearly three years' worth of wages for the experience? To my dismay, however, the rides at Disneyworld lack a key quality needed for any kind of excitement: discernible motion. Every ride at Disney consists of the Idiot - in this case, me - sitting in a car/boat. Said car/boat moves very slowly through a trough of water or on rails past scenes of animatronic robots singing songs. Or simply waving. After approximately 20 rides, I began plotting animatronic murder.

A few days passed, every one more disappointing than the last. Rides billed as "a white water adventure" turned out to be a boat slipping past creepy robots waving from behind "trees," all shouting in pre-recorded unison, "Welcome to Holland!" I began to hallucinate. I lost track of reality, and I started to question everything; a bench that appeared to be real wood proved to be plastic. If I saw an animal, I looked for wires protruding out of its ass. I wanted rain and mosquitos to verify the reality I vaguely remembered prior to arriving. Instead, humans in giant Disney character costumes kept touching and grabbing me, every one of them with a credit card reader in their hands.

Finally, we reached Epcot. I remembered Epcot primarily for the giant, silver, geodesic sphere in the center of the place. As a child, I always imagined the wonders that might be contained within that beautiful orb. What could be inside? Aliens? Candy? My childish imagination never let go of its dreams about it. So imagine my excitement as I stood in line at the Sphere, about to enter this holy place. My fears returned as I was placed into another little car. Slowly, the car ascended into the Sphere. Robots acted out various scenes in the advancement of telecommunications. I thought to myself, "Why on earth are we learning about telecommunications HERE??" At the end I found out: As our car came to a stop, we were faced with an unambiguous message in bright red neon: "AT+T". A fucking commercial! The beautiful, silver Sphere of Disney is a fucking commercial!

I stumbled into the light of the Disney-made day, and vowed to never return.

Ever since this rape occurred to me, friends have insisted that I was too old to enjoy the place. Perhaps. However, a place that presents itself as a Paradise can only be one to those who are wealthy and privileged. The entire park is a money funnel, designed to siphon huge amounts of cash from the wallets of the most cash-strapped families: young families. Or rather, young white, middle-class families.

I think the idea of a trash-free, clean fantasy world is a beautiful one. Just give me some fun with a theme park. I like some bang for my buck, as you all know.

Thanks Disney!

Repetition Makes It True

2006-09-28T00:30:00.000-07:00

I know it seems like I have been focusing on more political stuff lately. I just ... well, I just find it hard to believe my eyes and ears every day when I watch world events. Can this really be happening all around us?

Surgery is being performed on the minds of people all over the world. The surgeon is the current administration. The scalpel is fear. The surgical technique is repetition, which cuts through layers of belief and moral safeguards until the mind is fully exposed and ready to be altered.

I found this incredibly hard to watch:

We are being pummeled into submission by the repetition of words.
We are being pummeled into submission by the repetition of words.
We are being pummeled into submission by the repetition of words.

Accomodate What?

2006-09-27T13:21:00.000-07:00

What is this little gizmo, you ask? Why, it's "The Accomodator!"

Truly, I think we can officially say that there is no sex toy left to invent.

The trip to the porno shop to purchase this must be an excruciating one. A long time ago, a guy could break out in a cold sweat trying to buy condoms, or perhaps a leather strap. Try dropping this sucker on the counter without fainting, shaking uncontrollably, or running full-speed out the front door. Thank goodness for the internet. No longer do we need dark sunglasses and a trenchcoat to get an "Accomodator." We can sit in our undies and order it unashamedly, and then imagine having a dick for a chin as we beat off into our hand. At least that's what I did when I ordered mine.

Frankly, though, I have no idea how this thing even works. Let's imagine you're a guy (some need more imagination than others), and you want to lovingly and tenderly eat your wife's slit (puke). I guess that contraption goes in her ass??? And believe me, you do not want to fuck her pussy from behind with this thing strapped to your face; you're liable to get a snout-full of stink.

The only reasonable use for this grotesque product might come on Halloween, when you go to an adult Halloween party dressed as a dildohead. Just please do not wear it around the neighborhood searching for candy. Otherwise, the only people you will scare are the police, and they have bigger and harder sticks than the dick on your face with which to beat you.

See y'all on Halloween! Damn, my accomodator's gettin' hard just thinkin' about it!

When Left Might Be Right

2006-09-27T09:38:00.000-07:00

In the wake of the Clinton finger-pointing episode, chattering heads from both sides of the debate have weighed in with their opinions, their combined weight measuring approximately .0005 ounces.

One opinion comes from Ken Olbermann, who has spent the past few years eagerly gutting George Bush like a freshly-caught 10 pound bass. The thing I appreciate about Olbermann, aside from his perfect coif and stern demeanor, is that he actually FEELS something. He does not simply mouth the party line. He truly believes what he says, and does so with a literateness and passion sorely lacking in almost every politician and journalist today.

Listen to this perfectly constructed rant:

Olbermann might not be right, but I hope he is. The world needs more people like him willing to stand up for truth and justice with such unflinching courage and intelligence.

Kick to the Hind(sight)

2006-09-25T18:33:00.002-07:00

Another lovely episode in American politics excreted explosively over the weekend, as former President Bill Clinton visited the hive of scum and villainy, Fox News, to promote his new Clinton Climate Initiative (i.e. vote for my wife in 2008).

No, they didn't have an impromptu makeout session.

Host Chris Wallace, shifting uncomfortably on top of the mind control device Rupert Murdoch inserted in his anus earlier in the evening, tap danced around the Initiative in order to slither into the following "reader question":

"Why didn't you do more to connect the dots and go after Osama Bin Laden (during your Presidency)?"

Clinton had the look of someone who had just been caught with his pants down in the Oval Office. Again.

Here is the classy, Gojira-like battle that ensued, in all of its partisan-screeching glory:

Feel the love?

Sure, hindsight certainly sees with clearer accuracy than, say, a red-eyed, pot smoking Rhodes scholar at three in the morning. The Republican machinery wishes to grind Clinton's legacy into a fine powdery dust, invoking the catastrophe of 9/11 in order to castrate Clinton for not seeing the unforseeable.

Clinton sadly, even remorsefully, tells the truth in one instance: "I tried, and I failed."

The Rush Limbaugh crowd of guffawing, 300-pound dittoheads will no doubt be playing that soundbite for years to come, reminding themselves of the utter incompetence of the Democrats while lauding the overbearing, master-race sensibilities of the Republicans. However, it's hard to remember the last time a politician admitted his major mistake in such stark, unflinching terms.

One thing we do need to remember, though: we ALL failed on September 11, 2001. Democrats and Republicans.

Sure, the Democratic White House in the nineties literally had Osama Bin Laden in their gunsights, but it was a different world then. It simply was not part of the game plan of the United States to start assassinating key political/ religious figures. That is why George H.W. Bush (oooh, a Republican, even!) didn't assassinate Saddam Hussein at the end of Desert Storm.

Republicans forget that for the first eight months of Bush's first term his administration officiated from a ranch in Texas. Bush did a little fishing and tree chopping, walked along dusty roads with his dog, and occasionally shot animals/people/air. The dire warnings left behind concerning bin Laden did not stifle Bush's vacation plans in any way.

The point is not to belittle Bush; genetics have already done the job in far more efficient fashion. Nor is it to harp on the failings of Clinton, who is a man far more intelligent than Bush, and also more of a liar.

We all have regrets in our life, moments when we wish we could see all the facts of the inrushing future and make a better choice than we did. Clinton probably did not act with the authority his office demanded of him in the nineties. Bush certainly did not heed critical warnings in the months prior to 9/11, with the attacks looming unknowingly over us all.

We look back, and we see their failings. BOTH men. BOTH parties.

Casting blame in hindsight is not 20/20. It is 0/0. Nobody wins, nobody cooperates, and everyone loses.

The Movie Questionnaire

2006-09-24T23:31:00.000-07:00

This is for my boy at The Communist Tome

I love movies. They are magic when they work. Unfortunately, fucktards run the movie business, resulting in terrible remakes and sequels of worthless, unspeakable shit.

And yet, here we are, making lists of our favorites. The Hollywood shitheads thank you and I for our money. Well, let's just say they like our money.

Here are my answers to The Movie Questionnaire:

1. The last movie you saw in a theater, and current-release movie you still want to see:

See my review in the previous post. "The Illusionist" was the last movie I saw in a theater, which was last night. Please don't make me relive it.

As far as current releases, I guess I have a curiosity factor regarding "Jackass 2," even though those that know me know I would probably despise it (see my post on Viva La Bam if you have any doubts entitled "Lowest Common Denominator"). This has been a long, quality-free summer at the theaters.

2. The last movie you rented/purchased for home viewing:

Recently I ended up at WalMart and purchased "Starship Troopers" for $5.00. This is a guilty pleasure for me, I am ashamed to say. What's not to like? There are dead bodies piled up everywhere, various bodily fluids spurting endlessly, and perfectly-formed tits and ass around every corner. Paul Verhoeven, the director of brilliant satires such as "Robocop," as well as smutty trash like "Showgirls," knows how to push all the right buttons. Plus, it has a warning about fascism, which seemed far-fetched in 1997, but seems timely here in 2006. PERFECT!

3. A movie that made you laugh out loud:

It's hard to make me laugh out loud, so only a few movies really stand out. When I was a kid, "Parlor, Bedroom and Bath" starring Buster Keaton made me laugh uncontrollably. In more recent times, "Kingpin" might be the winner. Bill Murray's performance as Big Ernie McKracken is Oscar-worthy, and in my mind one of the greatest comedic performances of all time. The movie has one of the best-edited comedic sequences I have ever seen, involving Woody Harrelson and his disgusting landlady, that will never leave your mind once you have seen it. The movie also contains the best kick to the crotch in motion picture history...not sure if that is award-worthy, but it deserves some praise. Any movie with the line, "Half the dresses you own you need two hairdos to wear" can't be all that bad.

4. A movie that made you cry:

I will name two, at the risk of sounding like a pussy:

"Edward Scissorhands" makes me cry every time I see it. There are few films that are so beautiful and sweet-natured. Danny Elfman's perfect score is so haunting and magical that I sometimes mist up just from the first few bars of it. This is Burton at his very peak of his powers...too bad a shit cake like "Planet of the Fucking Apes" follows this on his resume.

"Remains of the Day" might be the perfect unrequited love story. Anthony Hopkins and Emma Thompson are perfect as English servants unable to express their true feelings for one another. The scene in Hopkins' bedroom between the two is utterly fantastic, expressed soley through their eyes and whispers, and cannot ever be forgotten. The ending of this movie feels completely true, which is rare for a love story, and is heartbreaking. If you haven't seen it, do so NOW! It is slowly paced, but it rewards at the end.

5. A movie that was a darling of the critics, but you didn't think lived up to the hype:

I disagree with "The Phantom Menace" because it hardly qualifies as a darling of the critics.

I rarely agree with critics, and even some recent films haven't lived up to their hype ("The Illusionist" and "Little Miss Sunshine" among them) ...but of recent times, I must say I was extremely disappointed with Peter Jackson's "King Kong." Critics were ejaculating all over themselves to hurl superlatives at Jackson's follow-up to the "Rings" trilogy, but face the facts: "King Kong" was a marvelous technical achievement, but everything else, from script to performance to direction, was completely off. It's ludicrous to show a group of humans surviving a brontosaurus stampede UNHARMED...it's completely retarded to show Ann on top of the Empire State Building in the dead of winter IN A NEGLIGEE, and it's unreasonable to expect audiences to sit through three hours of contrived dialogue and situations that do not pay off.

6. A movie that you thought was better than the critics:

"Mommie Dearest." I own this one for a reason. This movie was DESTROYED by critics when it was released, but they were wrong. Faye Dunaway is BRILLIANT as Joan Crawford, regardless of how close she came to portraying the actual woman. Taken as fiction, this movie has possibly two or three of the best camp moments in film history. You will never, ever look at wire hangers the same way again. "Don't fuck with me, fellas!!!" is a line delivered with enough fire to level small towns. Not to be missed in any way. Quite literally, the scene in Christina's bedroom (pictured above) is one of my all-time favorite scenes, perfectly acted and edited. It is ferocious, glossy, terrifying, and hilarious. WATCH IT NOW!

7. Favorite animated movie:

While the South Park movie remains one of the best moments in animated film history simply for being ground-breaking, I must go with either "Toy Story 2," "The Incredibles," or perhaps "Bambi." What can be said about "Toy Story 2" except that it surpasses a brilliant original? "The Incredibles" made me audibly ask why studios cannot make movies like that in live action - brilliant characters and a final 45 minutes of action that leaves you breathless. "Bambi" might be the most striking and beautiful of the hand-drawn Disney films. Try not to cry when Bambi's mother dies. I dare you.

8. Favorite Disney Villain:

Michael Eisner.

9. Favorite movie musical:

Musicals suck for the most part, except for "Victor/Victoria." The screenplay is fun and full of quotable lines. The songs are catchy and fun. The setting is different. IT HAS JULIE ANDREWS FOR GOD'S SAKE! Her voice can pierce the coldest heart, and it certainly shines here. Add to that wonderful supporting performances from James Garner, Leslie Ann Warren, and Robert Preston (an Academy Award Winner here), and you have a perfect slapstick/musical comedy that will have you singing for a long time. Though not as well as Julie.

10. Favorite movies of all-time (up to five):

I hate these lists.

Okay, I'm over it. Here's my shot:

5. Alien/Aliens - perfect monster, perfect heroine, perfect script, perfect director.

4. Touch of Evil - Welles' lost masterpiece. Farther ahead than Kane.

3. Raiders of the Lost Ark - Has 3 of the best action sequences ever. Best performance by Harrison Ford. Possibly Spielberg's best direction.

2. Empire Strikes Back - Defines blockbuster excellence on all fronts. Watch the asteroid chase in a movie theater and try to be unmoved. Easily John Williams' best score EVER.

1. Citizen Kane - The critics are correct. This movie was made only ten years after sound was INVENTED for film. It is still ahead of its time. I still cannot believe the brilliant, insightful script and the note-perfect performance by a 25 year old Welles in astounding make-up. The gold standard, easily.

honorable mention -

"Nosferatu" by Murnau and "The Cabinet of Dr. Caligari" by Robert Weine. Silent films are hard to be completely overwhelmed by, but these two are brilliant. There has never been a scarier humanoid monster in film than Count Orlock of "Nosferatu," and there has never been better art direction in film than "Caligari." Both are light-years ahead of their contemporaries.

That is my list. Hope it helps.

"The Illusionist" - a review

2006-09-24T11:51:00.000-07:00

A nineteenth century world of creaky wooden floors, flickering lantern lights, rough cobblestone streets, and misty, dusk-dampened forests should provide the perfect backdrop for a story of magic and mystery. As a work of cinematography, the new film from the producers of "Crash" entitled "The Illusionist" certainly captures the spooky poetry of a society teetering on the line between the magical and the scientific. Unfortunately most of the other disciplines behind this lushly photographed movie fall far short of transporting.

The film, directed by "Interview With The Assassin" writer/director Neil Burger, recounts the early life and rise to prominence of a powerful illusionist named Eisenheim (Edward Norton), who may or may not actually have truly awesome powers. After an early teenage romance with an aristocratic young girl named Sophie (Jessica Beil) ends abruptly, Eisenheim travels the world, eventually arriving in Vienna and rising to fame for his amazing feats of magic. This brings him to the attention of police inspector Uhl (Paul Giamatti), a born-poor man with illusions of grandeur serving the crown prince Leopold (Rufus Sewell), a pompous serpent who expects total loyalty. Leopold attends one of Eisenheim's performances with his wife, who happens to be Eisenheim's long lost love, Sophie. You can see where this is going.

The direction by Burger hovers around adequate, with some framed tracking shots specifically repeated without any hint of reason. While several of the sequences highlighting Eisenheim's magic act achieve a sort of breathlessness, the overuse of CGI in these sequences calls attention to their phoniness. Someday it might be possible to have a CGI sequence that doesn't require the camera spinning around the effect in order to show off its 3D quality, but as "The Illusionist" shows, that time has not yet arrived. In other technical qualities, the film maintains a level consistent with the stunning, tableau-esque cinematography, although one sequence reveals a stone bridge with an obviously painted-on fascade that proves to be a distracting, unfortunate choice.

As for the performances, Giamatti, as the disillusioned police inspector, gives the film its only truly memorable character. Uhl, a man disappointed with life and fascinated by magic, is an easily identifiable person. Giamatti's eyes speak wonders as he watches Eisenheim. The rest of the cast peforms the material adequately, with perhaps the biggest disappointment coming from Norton. Norton has the ability to channel tremendous energy in his work, as we have seen in such films as "American History X" and "The Fight Club." Here, Norton reduces his natural forces to glowering stares, coasting primarily on his effortless charisma. While that certainly adds mystery to Eisenheim, it fails to elicit much else in audiences.

The true failing of the film is in the story and screenplay. "The Illusionist" is based loosely on a short story of the same name by Steven Milhouser. As translated for the screen by Burger, the film becomes a long string of cliches, wrapping around a central mystery that will surprise nobody except M. Night Shyamalan. One line spoken by Eisenheim to Sophie after their reunion caused my audience to groan audibly and shift uncomfortably in their seats. Additionally, the magic performed by Eisenheim is truly fantastic and completely impossible unless he is actually a supernatural person - yet the film never addresses this power or the illusion used to create it. The central question of whether Eisenheim's tricks were real or invented is left unanswered, leaving the audience unsatisfied. The ending, obvious from the halfway point in the film, hinges upon contrivances shown a million times in better movies, except with even more implausiblities.

"The Illusionist" has the right idea: a movie about magic set in a world of firelight and shadows. However, when making a movie intended to transport audiences with feats of magic, it is always wise to not show the strings behind the illusion.

New World Disorder

2006-09-22T19:49:00.000-07:00

The above image well pictures the feelings of most Americans about their country: patriotism, unfaltering strength, and unwavering commitment. Even in a traumatic post-9/11 America, subtle doubts surrender to a quiet optimism and hope for a stable and successful future for their nation.

This is how the rest of the world views America:

Such a scenario, a bizarre and grotesque caricature to Americans, might be instead a strategy of U.S. foreign policy in the coming years. Led by insidious and shadowy groups of individuals in the government, the United States has begun the trek into an heretofore unknown and unthinkable concept: total world domination.

One such group leading the charge is The Project For A New American Century. Founded in 1997, PNAC has called for "an increase in U.S. military spending," as well as "strengthening ties with U.S. allies and challenging regimes hostile to U.S. values and beliefs." Operating under the belief that "American leadership is good for both America and the world," PNAC states categorically and unashamedly in its charter the following edict:

As the 20th century draws to a close, the United States stands as the world's pre-eminent power. Having led the West to victory in the Cold War, America faces an opportunity and a challenge: Does the United States have the vision to build upon the achievements of past decades? Does the United States have the resolve to shape a new century favorable to American principles and interests?

From its inception, PNAC routinely badgered the Clinton administration to take a course of action to topple Saddam Hussein's "regime," which they considered to be a threat to both oil interests and national security. Once George Bush was elected/seized control, many PNAC members found their way into governmental offices, such as Jeb Bush and Donald Rumsfeld. These card-carrying PNAC members now control key positions within the United States government, and their influence is growing.

Few Americans ever hear about PNAC in their news reports, but they see its influence in the dangerous world events escalating on the nightly news. PNAC's unrelenting and unwavering commitment to globalizing American life through diplomacy or force has taken her military forces into hostile quagmires of guerrilla and outright warfare. The Iraq war, once called on by PNAC, was force-fed into the throats of the United Nations, and then foisted upon the peoples of the world without factual basis and provocation. Now Iran and other Middle Eastern countries regularly arise in the news as the next targets of a so-called "war on terror."

So dangerous and complex is this underground network of PNAC, that some within the country blame this group for the attacks of September 11, 2001. Even this monumental event, planned or not, fits into the dogma of PNAC and her members:

"Further, the process of transformation, even if it brings revolutionary change, is likely to be a long one, absent some catastrophic and catalyzing event like a new Pearl Harbor."
-PNAC, "Rebuilding America's Defenses" - September, 2000

While national security and continued prosperity are legitimate concerns for any administration, the unabashed seizing of world control and policing it can only bring ostracism, and even worse, outright violence against the United States. And while American military forces might be the strongest in the world, it can ill afford to battle the entire world for supremacy. Heading down this course can only lead to ruin.

For more on the plans and aspirations of PNAC, please read:
http://www.newamericancentury.org/

What Lies Beneath

2006-09-21T17:44:00.000-07:00

Anyone with a brain and a nanobyte of sense looks at the human race and sees vast, untapped potential. So many possibilities, and such tragic waste. Yet, as science continues to examine quantum physics, the possibilities become mind-bogglingly endless, and the waste becomes unforgivable because the answer was inside of us the entire time.

Quantum physics, in its bare-bones definition, examines and predicts the behavior of energy and matter. What does this have to do with us? We, of course, are merely bundles of energy that are compressed into matter. This is especially true of the human brain, a startlingly complex network where matter and energy mingle harmoniously.

Previous physical sciences taught us that particles of matter acted independently of each other, yet similarly with each other under similar circumstances. For instance, a penny dropped from the World Trade Center (sign of the cross) would fall at the same rate as any other penny dropped under the same set of circumstances (weight, wind speed, etc.).

Quantum physics, however, shows that those pennys can act in relation to one another, even from great distances away. Additionally, the act of observing and measuring the fall of the penny changes the outcome.

Watch this short clip from "What The Bleep Do We Know," which explains this phenomena:

If particles, or pennies, can be affected by each other in this way, then they are connected to each other. And if they are connected to each other, then other, more complex systems of matter and energy are connected also.

Which means that the energies generated by our brains do not simply flicker inside of our skulls like a cheap light from WalMart. They affect the energies of the thoughts of other people, and the interactions of others around us, and they with us.

Ooh, mind control. Cool.

It's not really like that, but the possibilities are there. A good friend of mine named (Paul) told me this story, which I will condense for you, the dear readership (names have been changed to protect the hypnotized): (Paul) was watching television one afternoon when he saw a guy hosting a talk show. Paul (who enjoys philandering with boys as much as girls) thought the guy was attractive, and thought to himself, "I want to meet that guy someday." Later that evening, Paul went to a bar. At the bar, the bartender recommended that Paul go to a strip club later on. Paul agreed. While at the strip club, the host of the talk show stepped onto a stage. Paul locked eyes with the talk show host. The talk show host came over to Paul and started talking with him. Eventually, the talk show host asked Paul to accompany him to his apartment, where they had sex. In one day, Paul made his wish come true!

Many would instantly equate this with "luck" or "coincidence." However, quantum physics reasons that our minds can influence energies across great distances.

Not only might it explain this bizarre story, but it might serve to explain a host of strange, inexplicable occurrences in the world. Think about 9/11 for a moment. It was a horrific attack, meticulously planned for several years in advance. Did the world reveal the attack in advance (besides the obvious stuff that the Bush administration chose to ignore)? YES:

The band Dream Theater planned to release a triple live album entitled "Live Scenes from New York" on September 11, 2001 . Its album cover art was the skyline of New York in flames.
The band Coup released an album in the months prior to 9/11 with the World Trade Center on its cover exploding in half.
In the summer of 2001, a pilot was filmed entitled "The Lone Gunmen," in which commercial airliners are hijacked by terrorists and flown into the World Trade Towers.
In June of 2001, an album was released in Europe by Eyeon entitled "Tele Trieste" had a cover featuring the World Trade Center and two planes flying into it:

A band entitled I am The World Trade Center released an album in July of 2001. The eleventh track on the album is entitled "September."
An Egyptian picture calendar had for the month of September a crashing passenger plane with Manhattan as the backdrop.
On September 9, 2001, a Brooklyn freshman was staring out of his classroom window at lower Manhattan. When his teacher, Antionette DiLorenzo, asked him what he was staring at, he told the class that the following week the World Trade Center would no longer be there.
The lottery numbers for New York on September 11, 2002 were 9-1-1

Are all of these mere coincidences, or are they events generated by the quantum effects of tremendous, earth-shaking psychic energy? Quantum physics demonstrates that such phenomena are not only possible, but that they are probable.

No longer the old standby of mystic, new-age philosophy garbage, quantum physics offer humanity the opportunity to realize tremendous, unlimited potential. This ability, this eventuality, was even hinted at long ago in ancient philosophies and religions of the world. Note this curious quote from "God" in the Old Testament of the Bible:

"Look! They are one people and there is one language for them all, and this is what they may have in mind to do. Why, now there is nothing that they may have in mind that will be unattainable for them."
- Genesis 11:6

Perhaps it's time we opened our minds - literally - and turn possibilities into probabilities. Just a thought.

Lowest Common Denominator

2006-09-20T09:33:00.000-07:00

About two years ago, I threw my television into a dumpster.

My primary reason for doing this stemmed from the loss of time spent in front of it. The secondary reason for doing this, closely related to the first, had to do with the fact that everything on television is a SHIT CAKE.

After two years of blissful, television-free living, I happened to watch it recently when I dropped in on my parents. Like most people, they have multiple televisions in various rooms of the house. They have DISH network, DVD players, VCR's, and even a handy-dandy video tape rewinding machine. At any given moment, they are ready to be entertained in a variety of formats.

Unfortunately, very little on television constitutes entertainment. At the risk of sounding elitist, television is absolutely worthless for the mind. "Reality" television has taken over - replacing carefully scripted dramas, or even well-acted fluff comedies (I never thought I would see the day when one might long for the subtleties of "Three's Company"). Nowadays, a television show consists of a cameraman pointing his lens in the direction of any talentless moron. The lowest point in television history has to be this show right here:

This television show is entitled "Viva La Bam," starring a giddy, psychotic man-child named Bam Margera, his idiotic friends, and his unfortunate, ineffective family. The show consists of Bam slapping his father, pushing his mother onto beds, humiliating his semi-retarded uncle, and destroying things. EVERY FUCKING WEEK.

Some reality shows have some sort of reward at the end of them, some nugget of worthiness that justifies its existence. "American Idol," despite destroying American music and celebrity, at least provides the audience the opportunity to have a hand in the ruination of their own culture. "The Real World," perhaps the first reality show, began its life as a show that encouraged the tolerance of the differences in others...before it degenerated into a "let's get naked, jump in a hot tub, fuck each other, and become STARS" celebrity-hungry mentality. And "Survivor" at least poses some interesting questions about survival and working together to overcome adversity when it isn't parading naked fags on a beach.

But what do shows such as "Viva La Bam" or "Jackass" do for anyone other than Bam Margera's ego or pocketbook? What do these shows tell us about the moronic fucktards watching it? Bam Margera should never have made two cents in the entertainment industry. He apparently has nothing to offer the human race other than farting noises, slapping people, and getting naked. Oh yeah, and like bacteria, Bam Margera also converts food products into waste matter. And oxygen into carbon dioxide. FASCINATING! And yet, Bam Margera is richer than you and I put together.

No wonder people from other countries want to fly planes into our buildings and kill us. They simply want to do to us what we would do for a loved one in a vegetative state - put us out of our misery.

My friend Scott had an idea for a reality show several years ago, and if the current state of television is any indication, this idea will be showing on your television screens very soon. Scott thought we should clear out the prisons and put the prisoners on an island, much like "Survivor." Then, the convicts would fight each other for survival. The winner (i.e. survivor) could live freely on the island. The whole thing would be televised for our "enjoyment," the proceeds from the show going to educate and improve the infrastructure of the country.

I have one small request. Put Bam Margera on the island for crimes against the intelligence of humanity. That spoiled pussy would be dead in five minutes, and I could turn off my television and live in peace.

Die, Bam Margera!!!!!!

Fuck Vonage

2006-09-18T19:13:00.000-07:00

Damn phone companies. I swear they are trying to put me in the cold, hard ground.

For the last four years I have been an unhappy customer of Cingular Wireless. How could I ever be happy? My "plan" with Cingular, quoted to me at $79.99 a month, has never cost me less than $130.00. EVER. I have 1350 anytime minutes, free nights and weekends, and 200 text messages included in this plan. What apparently is not included in this plan is the sixty dollar cell phone usage donation, which they call "taxes" and "local usage fees." Basically, the "plan" is designed to destroy me.

The plan was succeeding, so I decided to cancel my cell phone subscription and move to a land-line courtesy of Vonage. Everything seemed perfect during my initial conversation with a pleasant young lady. The plan would cost $19.99, and that includes free answering, free caller ID, and free long distance. All they would need, she said, was up to twenty days to transfer my 314-397-2878 cell phone number to Vonage.

That was on August 3, 2006.

Today (September 18, 2006 - 15 days after my 30 day money back guarantee expired) I spent three long hours screaming at people in various chains of command at Vonage. The reason for my, um, displeasure arose from the fact that they never transferred my number, which today was suspended by Cingular due to non-payment. You see, since Vonage never transferred my number as they promised, Cingular kept me as an (unhappy) customer and continued my cell phone service. Which means, if I want a phone, I need to pay another $130.00 to Cingular to restart my service.

So I explained, first calmly and then at hurricane strength, that Vonage owed Cingular $130.00 because they didn't hold up their end of our agreement. Due to their utter incompetence, I went into another billing cycle and became liable for that payment. I tried to use every avenue of rational thought, including blind-rage obscenities, to explain to everyone there that I would never have owed that money if they had performed their job correctly.

They, of course, disagreed. While they admit that they did absolutely nothing correct, they can do nothing more than offer me a $10.00 credit on my account with them. The $130.00?? Well, I bet you can guess the person they suggested should pay that amount (HINT: not them).

The good people at Vonage can french kiss my ass. I would rather use carrier pidgeons, bird shit and all, before I would ever use their unprofessional service. The idiot college dropouts that obviously run their "phone company" out of their parents' basement should not earn one damn dime for their shocking incompetence.

This is the 21st century, Vonage! There are too many options out there to be so terrible at your job!

So if any of you need me, send up a smoke signal.

P.S. Go fuck yourself, Vonage!!!!!!!

A Child Shall Lead Us

2006-09-17T21:04:00.000-07:00

People seem to have interesting ideas of friendship. Most of these ideas are wrong.

The most often recited definition of friendship is "a person who is always there when you need them." No, that's the Red Cross, or if you believe their ads, State Farm insurance (it's a lie - don't fall for it). The people who believe that are the ones that you never hear from until five minutes before they need you to help them move something.

Remember when we were kids? Friendship meant everything to us, yet we never had to say a word about its importance.

Even during high school, with raging hormones and our own private hell of metamorphosis distracting us, friendship retained its power and strength. Friends were not conveniences then; we didn't look at our friends like they were grants from an unknown institution that we could withdraw from endlessly. Friends were EVERYTHING.

What changes, then, as we grow older? Certainly starting careers and families changes the basic structure in our lives. We lose time and energy. We become distracted.

But it seems so odd to me that as we grow into adults, most of us lose interest in being a true friend. And I don't mean HAVING true friends; I think we all want a true friend in our lives, due to their obvious benefits. I mean BEING a true friend. It takes work. It has risk. However, the benefits to others and to ourselves far outweigh the potential struggle involved.

Imagine a farmer with a fertile field and a bag of seed. It's ridiculous to think that he should stay inside with his family and not cultivate the field that stretches before him! How long will that field continue to yield an abundance? Answer: Not long. As Charles Caleb Colton once said, "True friendship is like sound health; the value of it is seldom known until it is lost." Foolish is the one who grows into adulthood and loses this valuable resource!

"Each friend represents a world in us, a world possibly not born until they arrive, and it is only by this meeting that a new world is born."

- Anais Nin

How strange that we forget the value of true friendship just as life is teaching us differently.

Frog in a Pot (or, How I Stopped Worrying and Learned to Love the War on Terror)

2006-09-16T19:40:00.000-07:00

These are exciting times in the United States. Here's an update:

We armed Afghanistan and the Middle East in the Seventies and Eighties to control the oil and fight the U.S.S.R. We lie to everyone about it.
The U.S.S.R. crumbles, leaving a triumphant America as the world's sole nuclear and gastrointestinal threat.
The United States polices the world, starting with a total military strike against Iraq when it tries to control Kuwaiti oil. The Iraqis, terrified by around-the-clock CNN coverage, shit in their burkas.
Arabs, resentful over United States interference in the region and its constant backing of Israel, try to bomb the World Trade Center in 1993. They succeed, sort of - they fill the basement with smoke.
After a series of attacks against various U.S. targets, including the U.S.S. Cole in 2000, Al Qaeda commandeers four commercial airliners and slams them into three commercial/ political targets in the United States. George Bush reads "My Pet Goat" to preschoolers.
George Bush declares a war on terror.
The Patriot Act gives the President the ability to do whatever he wants, including wire taps, random arrests, and body cavity searches without a warrant or reason.
George Bush drops bombs on empty deserts in Afghanistan.
George Bush attacks and conquers Iraq. It takes 45 minutes.
Iraq erupts into a civil war. George Bush calls it "democracy."
George Bush taps the phones of everyone in the U.S. From this, intelligence gathers countless transcripts of phone sex calls, which are then labeled "Confidential" for "National Security Reasons."
George Bush decides he wants to have the power to torture people.

Um, what was that last thing? TORTURE PEOPLE? Can this really happen in the United States of America? Check it out:

Here's my question: Didn't we invade and destroy Iraq because they had a cruel dictator that tortured and killed people, including his own citizens?

What exactly is the difference between Saddam Hussein and George Bush? Facial hair?

The baby steps toward fascism in this country have recently become ardent strides, and that terrifies me. What once seemed so inconceivable in the United States in the late forties when George Orwell wrote "1984" is quickly becoming a stunning reality. Ask yourself: how exactly does a democracy become a fascist state?

As always, I think of one example: the Star Wars prequels.

There are many, many things wrong with the Star Wars prequels. One could spill endless ink on the Jar Jars, the sub-retard romance, and Yoda jumping around like a frog and screaming like a deranged Fozzie Bear. But George Lucas (aka The Jowl) got one thing right: democracies give way to fascism through the threat of terror.

Palpatine was a politician in the truest sense: he was a manipulative little jack off. Slowly, he implanted lies about the threat the Jedi posed for democracy. He enforced stricter laws on the governing of the people, all the while using war as the justification. And then, before anyone understood what was happening, he turned into this:

Suddenly law and justice went out the window with Samuel L. Jackson's hand.

How terrifying that there might be a day quite soon when we will look back with regret at our inaction and ambivalence.

It reminds me of the story of the frog in a pot of water. There the frog sits, happy and content. Slowly, the burner beneath the pot of water is turned up. The water temperature rises, although invisibly to the frog; being cold-blooded, his body temperature rises with the temperature around him. Soon, the temperature of the water becomes so hot that the frog boils to death without even realizing it.

If that water had become hot instantly, the frog's natural reaction would have been to jump out of the pot and into safety. But because the temperature change was gradual, he never noticed anything at all until it was too late.

Feel that? The temperature is rising, and the emperor is changing clothes for dinner.

Why I Am Going To Hell

2006-09-15T10:02:00.000-07:00

As usual, I just cannot let something go.

Two days ago I posted a cute little music video featuring a retar - I mean, mentally-handicapped girl - learning about having her period. The music video was culled from an instructional video made in the seventies.

Here is that instructional video in its entirety. You know you need to watch this:

Goddamn!!! They had some terrific drugs in the seventies!!! Everyone, say it with me: "Blood from inside my body comes outside my body through an opening between my legs."

Some people have expressed their revulsion over videos like this, and the fact that I share such things so eagerly, even viciously. "Why," they ask, knowing the answer before they speak the question, "do you have to put stuff like this in your blog when you know God will punish you?"

He won't punish me. He's obviously too busy punishing innocent children. With Down's Syndrome.

Truthfully, the funniest things are sometimes the least appropriate. We laugh at someone blowing snot out of their nose when they sneeze. We laugh when an old guy farts in a supermarket. And then shits his pants. We laugh when people fall down flights of stairs, or when a guy gets hit in the balls. These events all suck for the person to whom it is happening. But it is hilarious for us.

Occasionally, hilarity comes from the unfortunate circumstance of others. That cute little girl in the above video wants to know about periods, dammit, and due to her "condition," she will not stop talking about it to EVERYONE. The only way to shut her up is to pull your panties down several times and show her the bloody pad. And then have her do it, too. The funny comes from her retardation, coupled with the uncomfortable, mesmerizing shots of a grown woman ripping a bloody pad out of her panties. Sorry, but it's true.

However, is this exploitative? Did the director of this instructional video intend to exploit the condition of the little girl? I doubt it. But if he wasn't uncontrollably laughing offscreen, then he has no sense of humor. And if you're not laughing, then neither do you.

Cases do arise, however, when I think the line should be drawn. Take, for instance, this video here:

http://youtube.com/watch?v=yFc-U0Am_rU

This is Crispin Glover's "film" entitled "What is it?" It has no literal storyline, and consists primarily of retards in makeup having sex, killing snails, Shirley Temple in a Nazi uniform, and more retard sex.

Do I think that Glover crossed the line between funny and exploitative? Absolutely. He purposely cast his film with retards knowing that the curiosity factor alone would sell tickets. He knew that people would flock to see a snuff film filled with retards masturbating, naked women crawling on crippled men, snails burning alive, and more retards masturbating and/or having sex. Such forms of "entertainment" touch on our most disturbing tendencies to leer at the unfortunate. This film is nothing more than The Elephant Man roadshow, dressed up with modern advances in cinema.

Man, I cannot wait for the DVD!!

Taste of the Younger Kind

2006-09-14T19:04:00.000-07:00

Former teacher Debra LaFave appeared in the news again, parading herself in front of cameras for a series of interviews about her 2004 arrest. Her crime? Letting a 14 year old male student fuck her pussy.

Here is what Ms. LaFave looks like:

I keep telling myself that the boy was molested...sexually assaulted...but let's face the cold, hard fact: THIS KID IS A FUCKING STUD!!!

Understandably, the mother has a different take on the situation.

The sad truth of the matter is that, despite tremendous achievements in women's rights both professionally and domestically, there remain certain intrinsic differences between boys and girls. Besides the obvious, obviously.

As a society, we look at a man having sex with a little girl as something abhorrent, evil, and worthy of scorn and unhealthy doses of ass raping in prison. But when a woman has sex with a boy...well, um, we don't think it is exactly a GOOD thing...but we also kinda want to high five the kid, too. Seriously - this kid will OWN his high school from his first day as a freshman. He will be carried through the front doors upon the backs of his peers like Jesus entering Jerusalem, while adoring girls throw palm branches and/or their own dripping pussies at his feet. This kid will be a GOD.

For the record, we do not condone what Ms. LaFavor - I mean, LaFave - did to him.

However, it's hard to really feel bad for him. This is every schoolboy's dream come true: to fuck the hot teacher.

I think Van Halen says it best:

For the record, I was the dorky kid in that video when I was in high school. Teachers were not interested in fucking me. Except Mr. Austin. And Mr. Fuchs.

As far as I am concerned, the real problem rests with the mother. Over and over again, Ms. LaFave would call the boy, go to the mall with the boy, go to parties with the boy. What the hell did the mother think was going on? Perhaps she should take her family to Neverland Ranch on their next vacation. NICE PARENTING, BITCH!

So the mother and Ms. LaFave need to give it all a rest. The kid blew his wad and loved it. Ms. LaFave got her rocks off in a public place and got away with it. The mother seems to be the only one who cannot accept the fact that she's a shitty parent for letting an older woman squirm into their family and ride her son's dick over and over again.

And as for the boy, right now, somewhere in the USA, he is staring at his cock and saying, "Oh yeah, baby. You rock." And then beating off into his pillowcase.

So am I, kid. So am I.

Barf

2006-09-13T15:20:00.000-07:00

This video contains some of my favorite things: retards, monkeys, and Moms with bloody maxi-pads.

ENJOY!

I am fairly certain that the pudgy, balding guy is the retard's Dad. I am also certain that he is molesting her.

This video has it ALL!

Thanks Rob Schrab for making this available in all of its unwholesome glory!!!

To 19 Highjackers

2006-09-12T00:21:00.000-07:00

Five years have passed since you vanished in thin air. You remain now, flying, only in nightmares, your last wish granted.

Everything you ever did with your life has been examined like puzzle pieces, in the desperate hope of understanding you. In the light of hindsight, you have been called everthing for which man invented words, in the struggle to express the vacuum of thought and logic.

Mainly, though, you are called cowards.

However, I know you are not cowards. You are brave.

I cannot know the years of patient planning. The time spent in a foreign land, living and breathing the evil around you that drove you to hate it. I cannot know the adrenaline you must have had coursing through you as you packed your knives and boxcutters and headed for the airport. I cannot imagine the fear as you stepped across that threshold onto your respective airliners. I cannot understand the excitement as you sprung into action against your fellow passengers so high in the air, how completely unaware they were of the grand plan that you were granted by your God to initiate. I cannot fathom how you felt to steer those huge planes amidst the screaming and confusion. I cannot ever comprehend your final thoughts as you dove headfirst into the towers and into history forever.

To say that such planning and action is cowardly is wrong. It is brave.

People in the United States often forget that some of the bloodiest battles ever fought on earth came as a directive from their God, from their Bible. In times past, from the battle against Communism to the Crusades and Inquisitions, men bravely stood up for the God of the Bible and committed horrific crimes they truly believed were right. This goes all the way back to the Israelites slaughtering the women and children of the Hitties and Amorites. It goes back to God slaughtering the firstborn of Egypt. It goes back to God commanding Abraham to slaughter his only son Isaac. The God of the Christian world commands bloodshed from his people, and if they disobey, then they too are slaughtered.

But who has the resolve to take up that sword today? Who has the ability to have a belief living so fully within themselves that they stand up and count themselves among those who will fulfill its grim prophecy? Those that commit to their beliefs, even at the sacrifice of their own lives, cannot be cowards. Like the policemen and firefighters that disappeared with you that day, fighting against what you wrought, you too are brave. You are, one and all, brave.

The cowards are those who come afterwards, making speeches and pounding war drums and then sending other people's children to their deaths to fight for the ideals they refuse to defend with their own blood. These cowards eagerly take up the title of leaders, replete with all of the inherent power and riches, yet refuse the sword and recoil before their own sacrifice.

I admire you for your courage. Courage such as yours, if demonstrated by everyone, could change this world for the better. If only you could have had noble ideals to match your bravery, how much more powerful and complete the improvement might have been in the world today. How sad, utterly and unforgettably sad that you chose the lesser, destructive path.

I pray that those young people of the world who watched what you did and praised you will remember your courage and emulate it as they grow older. I only hope that what your courage could not let you see will be their guide, and love, not hate, will steer their planes instead toward peace.

Goodbye

2006-09-10T21:50:00.000-07:00

A billion words have expressed the horror of this stunning event and its effect on a changing world.

I am left with this picture. One second later, and everything known and believed and hoped for disintegrated in a fireball near the top of 1 World Trade Center.

To those monolithic towers of global commerce, to those people inside about to give their lives tragically, to those policemen and firemen showing up for work on an impossibly sunny Tuesday, and to those all over the country who, like me, were just waking up and about to turn on their televisions and start their day, I say goodbye.

Goodbye and nevermore.

Implosion

2006-09-09T11:49:00.000-07:00

Implosion of a building involves the destruction of the inner supports of a building, causing it to fall in on itself in a controlled and precise manner. The best known example of this type of destruction occurred on September 11, 2001 at the World Trade Center.

Like an imploding building, countries and civilizations often implode, their inner supports weakened or destroyed until it collapses into itself. In the five years since 9/11, the American government has made many changes from within in the guise of national security and the "war on terror" (there should be a stamp for that phrase, it is used so often).

Are the changes structurally sound?

The threats of terrorism from outside our borders may not be the greatest danger we face.

Better than Shrek 2

2006-09-09T11:26:00.000-07:00

A buddy of mine sent this to me as a joke. As it turns out, this video is pretty cool. Cute animation, catchy song.

The ending lacks realism - fags don't find true love unless that's the name of the guy on the other side of the glory hole. (LOL sorry Alex!!)

I think even Pat Robertson would like that better than "Hoodwinked."

Sugar and Spice and Bukkake

2006-09-08T18:17:00.000-07:00

In Milwaukee, an eleven year old girl was "gang raped" by fifteen to twenty boys, including the 40 year old uncle of one of the boys.

http://www.channel3000.com/news
/9803171/detail.html
Apparently it was a rape only in the statuatory definition, since she wanted to service as many guys as she could.

I cannot believe I just wrote that about an ELEVEN YEAR OLD GIRL.

When I was eleven, I didn't even have pubic hair yet and I knew of sex only in the ABSTRACT. Gang bangs never crossed my deliriously happy little mind.

I guess I missed out on something. My parents failed me.

What a sick world.

The Day The Music Died

2006-09-08T15:25:00.000-07:00

I made the mistake of turning on my radio during a long drive, rather than listen to burned CD's of downloaded music (legally, of course!). What I discovered turned me into a grumpy old man.

The sonic abortion in question is "I'm Bossy" by the (formerly) impressive R&B singer Kelis. Granted, I am not exactly Beethoven - hell, I am not even Milli Vanilli - but I can discern MUSIC from SHIT. This "song," which basically consists of vibrating bass drums, a few random keyboard noises, and girls moaning, digs a new low for musical retardation. So inane, pointless, and pathetic is this newest inexplicable hit that even Missy Elliot, sitting in her Los Angeles house wearing 1,256 different colors in one outfit, exclaimed, "Damn, bitch! Dat's a hunk-a sheeeeeet!!!!" You go, girl.

And let me get one thing straight right now - I am not too old to like or understand popular music. I also love dance music, probably more than any self-respecting male should. I love fun music, serious music, and many varieties of music. But it comes down to that word - MUSIC - that truly becomes my problem; there is no music anymore!!!! I bet two years have passed since I last heard a hummable song, and that was performed by Kelly "If I Hadn't Won This Talent Show I Would Be Working At The Local Mall" Clarkson. Every song since then is tuneless trash.

And I blame black people for this. Yeah, that's right, BLACK PEOPLE. Or, more specifically, the influence of black culture on the music industry. Rap music has infiltrated every corner of the music industry and popular music in particular. Raps beats now dominate the dance wizards, and its fashions litter the malls.

Contrary to popular opinion, however, I do not believe rap music is the "music of the common people" as today's sociologists and commentators like to call it. FACE THE FACT: rap music was invented by black youths in inner cities who could not afford musical equipment and were too stupid/lazy to try and learn to play music or sing. So, instead of working hard to master the art of music composition and expression, they simply used beats and music from previously released vinyl records and they talked over the top of it. MUSICAL CAREER: NO TALENT REQUIRED.

Of course, all of this would meaning nothing if rap actually had anything to say. And, admittedly, some rappers have produced meaningful work. The musical landscape without Public Enemy, LL Cool J, Dr. Dre, Ice Cube, and Eminem would be bleaker for the loss. But the VAST majority of rappers have nothing to talk about other than imaginary stories of gunfire and hoes and gold teeth and big black asses. Oh, and money. Dey gots lots-a dat!!!

Which brings me to the current state of "music." Compare any song out of today's current crop of chart toppers to songs from previous decades, and you instantly see the difference. Take "SexyBack" by Justin Timberlake for example: starts off cool, has an interesting beat, and the distorted vocals get your attention. And then....? It goes on and on for four minutes, offering nothing at all but empty promises that we can "whip him if he misbehaves." Yeah, that sounds like a good fucking idea.

Compare that seemingly endless void of a song to any one-hit wonder from the eighties. How about "Come On Eileen" by Dexy's Midnight Runner? Great, bouncy beat. Cute guitar plucks. Fun violins. Super-catchy chorus. You hear the name of the song and you can sing the entire thing from memory. THAT is a SONG. It has actually MUSIC that provides a backdrop for a terrific melody and chorus. Of course, that song is an admitted classic, so perhaps it's not fair to poor Justin. Hell, I doubt if "SexyBack" can compete in the same ballpark with "Rock Me Amadeus," and that song is a shit cake.

Over and over again, the popular songs take the lazy, empty way out. Listen to Christina Aguilera's new song, "Ain't No Other Man." She has a powerful voice, and her performance alone sells this "song." However, I would guess from listening to it that no music was written at all for it. It is simply a collection of breakbeats, strung together with a couple of sampled horn hits. WORTHLESS! I wait anxiously for her next single, which might consist solely of samples of pianos tumbling down stairs.

Let's face it, when Paris Hilton has the catchiest melody on the radio, we have a problem.

But the lack of music and melody in popular music is only half of the problem. A random sampling reveals the emptiness of today's popular music. Listen to the amazingly profound thoughts on the minds of today's popular "artists":

"Damn, girl, you so fine"
"It's getting hot in here, so let's take off our clothes."
"I'm drinkin' dis gin and juice"
"I wanna get freaky"
"I got my mind on my money and my money on my mind"
"Let's fuck"

It certainly blows away any Lennon/McCartney composition. It makes Tony Basil look like Chrissy Hynde.

So thank you, Sugarhill Gang and all the other lazy fucking rappers who started this shit. I hope you're enjoying the money you made off of the music of others.

I think I will keep stealing music. They don't deserve a goddamn dime.

Incredible Lie of the Modern Age

2006-09-02T16:18:00.000-07:00

(The AIDS quilt - one square for every death)

As a race of living organisms, humans have great capacities for invention, creativity, and empathy. They have used all of these - well, perhaps not empathy so much - to build a vast empire of technological marvels and wondrous artistic achievements. Human civilization now stands as the dominant biological force in the known universe.

And they still can't seem to get their heads out of their asses.

Back in 1984, a scientist by the name of Gallo declared to the world that he had discovered a sexually-transmitted virus as the culprit behind a series of bizarre immune system failures in gay men and drug users. There were several things wrong with this announcement:

Gallo didn't follow standard scientific method and submit his study for peer review prior to making this announcement.

When Gallo's study was examined, it was uncovered that less than half of the subjects tested positive for Human Immunodeficiency Virus, or HIV. Fewer had any traces of the virus in their blood.

The day after the announcement stunned the world, Gallo conveniently filed a patent for an HIV test, which made him a very rich man in subsequent years. Coincidence?

On that day in 1984, Gallo effectively screamed "FIRE!" in a crowded movie theater (which is against the law, by the way) , and everyone ran in panic, and have continued to do so for over 25 years. Lost amid the fear are many disturbing problems with the HIV = AIDS equation, such as:

To this day, not one scientist has isolated a living, non-cultured specimen of the virus. This means that in over 20 million AIDS deaths worldwide, none have the virus in their bloodstream at the time of death. NONE.

HIV is correctly labeled a RETROVIRUS, not a virus in the typical understanding of the term. One main feature of the retrovirus category is that THE VIRUS DOES NOT KILL CELLS. This makes HIV an impossible culprit behind a total immune system failure.

In the 25 years of a supposed "pandemic," AIDS remains the killer of only homosexuals and drug users. Over 90% of all cases of AIDS still occur in homosexuals and drug users.

African AIDS differs greatly from European AIDS, the symptoms of which resemble many of the illnesses previously killing Africans and due solely to poor sanitation, lack of medicine, poor hygiene, malnutrition, and malaria. HIV tests are not usually administered to African patients; if they show certain signs, they are classified as AIDS deaths without diagnosis.

HIV tests are mind-boggingly inaccurate. They test for a protein BELIEVED to be embedded in the outer hull of HIV ANTIBODIES, not the virus itself - a protein found in over 50 other viral and bacterial infective agents. If you have had malaria, scarlet fever, chicken pox, and certain types of colds and flus, you could test positive on that test.

AIDS medications carry poison warnings on their labels. Poison kills living creatures, such as humans, for example. AZT, a failed cancer drug which is STILL being prescribed by doctors for people testing HIV-positive, has a skull and crossbones on the label and the admonition that this product "should not be injested or put in direct contact with the skin." These medications destroy the immune system, causing death - effectively AIDS by prescription!

Much of this information has leaked out over the years, but it continues to be suppressed. Why, you ask? Because AIDS organizations and laboratories earn MILLIONS of dollars a year in government aid, and pharmaceutical companies make BILLIONS of dollars a year selling a 35 pill a day regimen to millions of "AIDS patients" every year. It costs them SIX CENTS to make a pill; they sell it in the United States for $4.00 each, and then they charitably "give it away" to the African government for $1.00 a pill.

And that, my friends, is CRIMINAL!

I had been working on a documentary about HIV, but in the face of what would obviously be an expensive project, I stopped. I want so badly to make something that will ease the fear I see in the eyes of people who suffer under this cloud of uncertainty.

Here is the second trailer for this documentary, which I call "Do No Harm." It is a title which refers to the Hippocratic Oath, to which all doctors must subscribe...a doctor must first DO NO HARM to his patient. It is something that, in this case, they have failed to do.
Do No Harm

Ryan White should still be alive. So should many others who went to their grave ashamed, embarrassed, and ostracized.

We are not as advanced as a civilization as we imagine. Not by a long shot.

go to www.aliveandwell.org for more information.

Falling In Love

2006-08-30T20:03:00.000-07:00

I have been thinking a lot about falling in love lately. Maybe it's the weather. Maybe I need hormone injections. Maybe I need to fall in love.

And why not? Guys have emotional needs, too. Unfortunately guys must live by a set of societal rules known as the Macho Playbook, and on page one it states: "At no time may a male show himself vulnerable, physically or otherwise. This includes showing his asshole (mooning is acceptable), and any display that might betray some emotion other then gas, excitement, or arousal."

But not me - I am anti-macho.

So here's a little poem I wrote to deal with my love frustration.

True Love

I imagine,

Had the deer run on,
It may have survived.

Some freeze in the light;
Some leap.

This deer died,
Not from a strike,
But paralysis in the light,

A frozen blink of an eye
At the unknown

Speeding by.

Tasteless Tongue in Cheek

2006-08-27T21:19:00.000-07:00

My friend Steve has a Vietnamese girlfriend. If that isn't disgusting enough, her name is Nung, which sounds like a fungus that grows on a fat woman's pussy.

As a concerned friend, I warned Steve about the dangers of having a Vietnamese girlfriend. You can never tell when Nung might suffer a flashback, poop on a sharp stick, and stab Steve in the foot or abdomen, causing gangrene. Or, she might pop up out of a hamper or a pile of leaves and slit his throat. And, of course, there is the ever present danger that she might serve him poisoned alleycat.

And for this, Steve accused me of being a racist.

I, on the other hand, consider myself to be anti-racist. Only when we can make fun of our differences can we say that we are comfortable with them. Much like when black guys call each other "nigger" - oops, I mean NIGGA - I play with stereotypes because they are such jokes to begin with that referencing them becomes its own type of humor. To wit:

(this is from The Chappelle Show - a black guy with a sense of humor)

Every single day I have gay jokes hurled at me. Some are actually funny, some are feeble. My issue isn't whether or not the joke is TASTEFUL...all that matters is whether the joke is FUNNY. In fact, I probably make as many gay jokes about myself as others do. I simply do not take myself so seriously that I might be offended.

Others shouldn't take themselves so seriously, either. Do I think all black men have small trees for dicks? No, unless they've gone through puberty. Do I think all Japanese are intelligent? No, they build paper houses under a volcano. Do I actually believe Nung is right now sharpening a stick and working up an unhealthy shit in order to hurt Steve? Of course not. But it's fun to think that she MIGHT.

The facts show that St. Louis is one of the most racially divided cities in the USA. My high school ranked in the top five for violence in the state. The attitudes around me could either harden me to other races, religions, and orientations, or it could make me more openminded. I have chosen to shrug my shoulders and not take it so seriously.

Of course, it helps that I am a white suburban male. Thank God.

irmão onde mil da arte

2006-08-27T18:44:00.000-07:00

I have never lived anywhere else in the world, which I regret. Living in the United States has provided me with many advantages that people in other parts of the world do not enjoy, such as fast food, vast nuclear arsenals, and Lindsay Lohan. These, of course, I would not trade for anything.

On the down side, being an American citizen has left me with an unhealthy disregard for every other living creature beyond our borders. Occassionally some of those living creatures want to blow our stuff up or knock down our buildings, but for the most part, they are more annoying to Americans than anything else. And we treat them as such, sometimes eradicating them like an underpaid exterminator chasing down that last cockroach at the end of his day.

Without the internet, I might never have known about some of the beautiful people and places in other parts of the world. I have little compulsion to travel, and even if I did, I have even less time to pursue it. I have spent the last several years so consumed with hobbies/work/masturbation that I have never really experienced other parts of the world. Canada doesn't count; it's America Lite.

One day in late January 2004, I met a guy online named Paulo. He claimed he was a singer and performer from Portugal, which I sincerely doubted - everybody online seems to be pathetically phony. As I continued my conversations with him, I discovered that Paulo told me the truth.

At first, our conversations were difficult. English is not his first language, and often Paulo would ask me to clarify some of the terms I used with him. Like "goofball." Or "supercalifragilisticexpialidocious." Of course, being American, I expected him to cater to me and communicate fluently in English, which he gamely tried to do. Since he can speak three languages, I should have been grateful he tried to deal with my monolinguistic disability at all. :)

In the first year and a half of our friendship we have had the same types of ups and downs that many fleshly friendships endure. I have let him down. He has let me down. We have been hurtful to each other at exactly the wrong time. And yet. at other times, we can make each other smile and laugh without being in the same COUNTRY, let alone the same room.

Through Paulo, I have learned a lot about Portugal, and the world as well. Unlike me, Paulo has traveled around Europe, Asia, Canada, and South America. His mother and stepfather work for the United Nations, which gives him a larger view of the world than I might ever know.

This breadth of experience shows in Paulo's personality. Unlike many Americans, especially in the Midwest, Paulo accepts so many more idiosynchracies in other cultures. He opens himself to opportunites with other people, and in fact cherishes those differences. Americans rarely do this, even though they declare loudly that they do. I know I don't, nor do those around me. But Paulo does.

Most of all, Paulo is a person with a huge, warm heart. The Portugese in him is hot-blooded, temperamental, and, as he says, "passionate." But life and experience has tempered him into a man who is a steady and loyal friend. Of course, being a 23 year old male model and singer has made him a little vain (LOL), but with so many wonderful experiences ahead, the possibilites in him are endless and exciting.

Even if I stay here the rest of my life, marooned in the center of an egocentric nation, I know I will always have a brother in Paulo somewhere in the world. He is the window I never knew I needed to look through until I did.

I will forever be grateful for the wider and more beautiful view.

Eu te amo meu irmão.

Closer to Murder

2006-08-22T21:29:00.000-07:00

Once, a long time ago, I pitched baseball. Not well, mind you, but I did manage to throw a baseball in the area of home plate, or at least directly at the guy standing next to it. In fact, I didn't have bad linescores in my pitching performances as long as you ignore all the balks (I do). The reason for this usually involved the fact that the hitters stood there petrified for their health and welfare. It's difficult to swing a bat correctly when you dive away from home plate while covering your head, a stream of urine trailing you in the air.

You never see such behavior in the opposing batters of any close ninth inning game with the St. Louis Cardinals. Instead, hitters slobber greedily, their eyes a-twinkle and teeth grinding eagerly. They grip their bat as if it was Excalibur and they were Arthurian gods. They paw the ground with their cleats like angry bulls. You would be hard pressed to find a more eager bunch of people outside of a buffet line at four in the afternoon.

On the mound, mysteriously, stands Jason Isringhausen. He stares into Yadier Molina's sweaty, Latino crotch as if it were a Magic 8Ball about to give an answer to life's most important questions. Questions like... what might happen if I throw this pitch directly over the plate? Would that pitch be more hittable if I hit three people, gave up a walk and a wild pitch, and then stalked around the mound as if it mattered at all?

Only Jason Isringhausen and Tony LaRussa are asking questions like this. EVERYONE ELSE on the field, in the stands, watching on television, listening on radio, and living or dead, know the answer. Such circumstances ALWAYS lead to disaster. And so it did last night for the Cardinals. AGAIN.

I cannot stomach the recap of this gut-punch to any Cardinal baseball fan. Needless to say that Isringhausen couldn't have offered a better pitch to hit if he knelt on the plate and balanced the baseball on his upturned lips. I wish this would actually happen, in the event that a hitter might miss and permanently retire Isringhausen's number. However, hitters never miss with Izzy.

Cardinal Nation spent the evening screeching into their televisions and radios, calling their friends and drinking enormous amounts of beer/Pepto-Bismol. Every fan who has spent over 100 dollars at that shiny new ballpark this year (i.e. anyone who attended a game) wants to understand why this disturbing event continues to occur every ninth inning.

The Dizzy Disaster continues because, even more than Yadier Molina (batting .217) and So Fucking Taguchi (36 year old back up player batting .270), LaRussa loves Isringhausen. And in LaRussa's case, love is not blind, it is acutely retarded and suffering from a stroke-induced coma.

Let's face it: Isringhausen could trot in from the bullpen carrying a kitten, stab the kitten in the neck on the mound, smear its blood all over his face, and then open fire on the crowd in the stands, and LaRussa would classify it as a team failure with a few "missed opportunities." LaRussa wouldn't accept anything less than Isringhausen on the mound in a one-run ballgame even if Jesus Christ landed on the Mount of Busch and offered to pitch the ninth. LaRussa would only reconsider putting Isringhausen into the game if, when he pulled his dick out of Isringhausen's ass, the shit smear on his shaft actually said, "Izzy cannot pitch today." Of course, in the minute Tony spent staring at the message with that emotionless smirk, Izzy would have turned around and sucked it clean, ass-to-mouth style.

So we continue to have Isringhausen on the mound. This will continue as long as LaRussa manages the Cardinals. Fortunately LaRussa is much older than Isringhausen, sparing us the sight of a sixty-seven year old Isringhausen gamely throwing pitches into the dirt from his walker.

If someone would just shoot the jug-eared fucker on the mound, then we could all pitch in and stuff him so LaRussa can satisfy his Izzy fixation in the privacy of his own home, and not on a national stage where it embarrasses every conscious baseball fan and heterosexual male.

Then I could offer my services in his stead. I could blow the baseball out of my ass and get comparable results. And I guarantee, those hitters will be a bit more nervous then.

Vonneguts and Glory

2006-08-22T06:48:00.000-07:00

Kurt Vonnegut recently said this to Rolling Stone magazine, the whorish tabloid of commercial radio:

"I'm Jeremiah, and I'm not talking about God being mad at us," novelist Kurt Vonnegut says with a straight face, gazing out the parlor windows of his Manhattan brownstone. "I'm talking about us killing the planet as a life-support system with gasoline. What's going to happen is, very soon, we're going to run out of petroleum, and everything depends on petroleum. And there go the school buses. There go the fire engines. The food trucks will come to a halt. This is the end of the world. We've become far too dependent on hydrocarbons, and it's going to suddenly dry up. You talk about the gluttonous Roaring Twenties. That was nothing. We're crazy, going crazy, about petroleum. It's a drug like crack cocaine. Of course, the lunatic fringe of Christianity is welcoming the end of the world as the rapture. So I'm Jeremiah. It's going to have to stop. I'm sorry." -Kurt Vonnegut 2006

Of course, Vonnegut is correct: the human race faces the last few moments of possible change in our world, before the window of opportunity closes and the damage inflicted on the Earth ruins it irreparably. Most scientists agree that the rising temperatures, melting glaciers, and disturbed and increasingly violent weather patterns spring from the destruction of the environment.

And remember, a butterfly's wings flapping in St. Louis, Missouri creates tsunamis in Asia. So everyone is to blame for this.

Which brings me to Vonnegut himself. He has amassed great wealth due to his status as one of the great thinkers/writers of the 20th century. Did he share it? Vonnegut has smoked Pall Mall cigarettes since he was a teenager, adding up to seventy years of smoking. Where are all of those butts, and what about the effect of his smoke on others or the environment? Let's not even think about the reams of rainforests used to publish his books and articles over the years. And what about the SIX children Vonnegut brought into a world increasingly faced with population and starvation problems? Did this cross his mind when he blew a wad in his wife?

I have no problem with a man of Vonnegut's intelligence stating ominous warnings of impending doom on future generations. I wish the psychotic monkey in the White House could even UNDERSTAND some of what Vonnegut is preaching here.

But I DO have a problem with a person sounding a warning of a destruction that THEY HELPED CREATE. Don't wag your finger at others, shaming them for their inaction while you yourself used and/or destroyed more than your fair share of resources.

If I want an author to guide my thinking on such a matter, let it be Thoreau, not Vonnegut.

"A man is rich in proportion to the number of things he can afford to let alone." - Henry David Thoreau

Thoreau didn't just bitch about the consumption of the Earth's resources by thoughtless peoples and their selfish governments. He lived a life of simplicity in response to that, treading softly and harmoniously with the Earth around him. He led by EXAMPLE, not just words. Vonnegut should think about that as he coughs and wheezes his way out of this world, leaving behind his own dirty fingerprints.

As for me, I am going outside to kill some of those motherfucking butterflies.

Nothing Inspires

2006-08-21T22:09:00.000-07:00

SuttSteve is a 40 year old asexual virgin that lives with his mother in a trailer in Georgia.

Stop. Digest that one.

He never leaves the trailer; in fact, he rarely ever leaves his tiny bedroom inside the trailer.

Digest that one, too.

He hasn't had a job in TEN YEARS. He last worked at WALMART. As a GREETER.

Better get a stiff drink while you digest THAT.

Yet, somehow, Steve manages to crawl to his computer, despite the crushing weight of hoplessness and despair, to record a video blog every single day to nobody in particular.

It's inspirational.

The Fisherman and Paris Hilton - A New Fairytale

2006-08-21T15:43:00.000-07:00

Here is a short story I wrote for Paris Hilton. Well, perhaps not FOR Paris Hilton, but rather for her detractors. I cannot be the only one LOL...

A "hot" new take on an old classic....

The Fisherman and Paris Hilton

There once was a fisherman named Hilton who lived with his daughter Paris in a little wood shack by the sea. And every day, the fisherman would brave the roiling waves to fetch his hungry daughter a morsel to eat as she absentmindedly gazed out the window and did nothing at all.
One day, the fisherman felt a great tug on his line, a yank so forceful it nearly snapped his simple rod in two. For hours the fisherman fought with the underwater beast, until the sun went down and the sky turned cold and grey. Then, when all hope seemed lost and the fisherman was ready to cast his rod into the sea, he reeled in one last time and pulled out a fat, healthy flounder. The fisherman gazed wondrously at his prize, the sweat of his struggle glistening over his wide smile. Just then, the flounder spoke!

“Dear fisherman,” said the flounder, in a rich, clear voice, “you have made a delightful nemesis, but I pray that you let me live. For you see, I am not really a flounder, but an enchanted prince. Please return me to the sea, that I may not die.” The fisherman, unfazed by the talking fish (there were many known in those parts then), smiled even wider. “Why would I kill a talking fish? Surely you would be better on display than in my belly. There is no need for more words about it. It would be foolish to kill a magical fish!”

So the fisherman released the flounder back into the sea. Though slightly wounded, the flounder turned and looked at the fisherman, its head bobbing just above the water. “Thank you, my friend,” he said, and disappeared below the surface.

When the fisherman returned to his shack by the sea, he found his daughter, Paris, sitting in a stylized way near a window, stacks of Cosmopolitan magazines scattered across the filthy floor around her. When she noticed her father walking through the door empty handed, she began to whine. "My darling daughter, you shall never guess!” said the fisherman excitedly, “I struggled all day and nearly into night with an enchanted flounder! I couldn’t bear to kill such a magnificent thing, so I let him go of my own free will!”

But Paris just stared back vacantly. “What the (expletive), Dad! You caught a (expletive) magic fish and you didn’t get anything from it for me? What kind of (expletive) Dad are you? I should call Child Services and have you arrested!” she screeched at the top of her lungs.

The fisherman felt awful. His head hung down and his eyes dropped as Paris moaned and complained. Finally, after her tirade subsided, the fisherman asked her what he should do.

“Go back out to the (expletive) ocean and tell the (expletive) fish to give me a better house to live in,” Paris screamed. “I deserve better than this little (expletive) hut.”

After begging her to reconsider, the fisherman finally decided to follow her demands and returned to the sea. He called out to the flounder over the bobbing waves, and suddenly the flounder splashed to the surface.
The fisherman began nervously. “My friend, I have a daughter named Paris. And while she is a temperamental and selfish girl, she is all I have in this world. She implored me to ask you if you could grant us one wish.”
“What is it your daughter requires?” asked the flounder. The fisherman squinted, uneasy at the request. “We have a hut to live in, but she would like a nice house instead.”
Without hesitation, the flounder said, “It would be my pleasure. She already has it.”
The fisherman returned to his home by the sea, but instead of a dirty little hut, he found a beautiful house. Inside, there were magnificent furnishings of oak and silver and plush fabrics. But Paris sat by the window, an empty look in her eyes.
“See my dear daughter? The flounder has given you what you desired most. Now be happy and content.”
But Paris glared back drunkenly. “(Expletive) you, Dad. You think this house can make me happy? How can I be happy all alone here while you’re out all day? HUH? I want people to love me, totally be absorbed in everything I do. Only then can I be happy!”
The fisherman’s heart grew afraid. Paris leveled a nasty look at her father. “Go back to the sea,” she commanded, “and tell that (expletive) fish to make me famous!”

So the fisherman went back to the sea, and there he called once again for the flounder. Faithfully, the flounder returned to the fisherman.
“My dear friend,” said the fisherman cautiously,” I know this may seem odd. The house you gave us was exquisite indeed, but my daughter is not yet satisfied.”
The flounder considered. “What more does she yet need?” he asked.
“She wants to be famous, and have all the adoration and wealth and attention it brings,” replied the fisherman tentatively.
“Does she have any talents at all from which this fame might spring?” asked the flounder reasonably.
“None. None at all,” replied the fisherman.
“Alright, go back to your home. All of her desires are hers, and go in peace,” said the flounder.

The fisherman returned home, but instead of a hut and instead of a house, there stood a great mansion, with a winding pathway leading through a sculptured garden. In a large patio area, a rave was going on, with all the lights flashing and music thumping and bodies writhing. The fisherman went inside, only to find even more people roaming through the large rooms of the house. Photographers snapped pictures of people surrounding large glass tables, each doing a longer line of cocaine than the last. The fisherman went up the wide, curving staircase to the bedrooms. There was a group of men standing at the doorway to the bedroom. The fisherman forced his way inside, only to find his precious Paris naked in bed with three guys, while video cameras taped them from every angle. Liquor bottles littered the floor, and cocaine piled like snow on the nightstand.
“That’s hot! That’s hot!” Paris cried endlessly during her orgy, until her eyes met those of her father. She saw the tears welling up in them, and his heart nearly made a sound as it cracked in two.
“Are you happy now, Paris? Are you happy now?” The fisherman asked sadly, and ran from the room. Paris dismounted her momentary paramours and chased after him.
“Hey wait!” Paris screamed. The fisherman turned around slowly, his eyes hollow and dejected. He could barely look at his naked daughter, who stood there sourly and unashamedly with her hands on her hips.
“Yes, daughter?” The fisherman choked through the tears.
“Tell that (expletive) flounder that he’s doing a great job so far. But I was thinking, I think, that it would be hot to be, like, the president,“ Paris blurted. “Yeah, the first female President – there hasn’t been one yet, right? – or maybe God. They’re always saying God is a dude. Well (expletive) that! I’ll be the first female God!” She cackled idiotically.
The fisherman glared back at the monster he created. “Paris, I will not do that. I cannot let you destroy yourself this way. I love you too much.”
“Whatever. If you (expletive) loved me, you’d do it! So go do it!” Paris yelled. All of the people around them took pictures of the incident, and many of them cheered for her as she berated her father in front of them.
“No, Paris,” the fisherman replied steadily,” I will not.” Paris flew into a rage and pushed her father, and he tumbled backwards down the long, winding staircase and landed on the marble entryway, dead.
Paris sighed heavily. “Fine, I’ll do it myself.”

Paris went down to the seashore in the nude, to the humble boat her father used. There she posed for photographers before setting off across the choppy waters. Once a distance from the shore, she began to call out to the flounder. “Hey (expletive) head! Show your nasty (expletive) face! I gotta talk to you!” Paris screamed.
Suddenly, with a splash, the flounder broke the surface of the water.
“What might I do for you, daughter of my friend?” asked the flounder calmly.
Paris wasted no time.” Look everything’s cool so far, but since my dad spared your life, I think you really owe him more than that. I mean, come on.”
The flounder considered. “What is it now?”
“Well I was thinking,” she began,” it might be hot if I was, like, God. I mean, the world could use a woman’s touch anyway, ya know?”
“Why did your father not come ask me himself?” the flounder asked.
“He wouldn’t do it because he’s a dumb (expletive). Besides, he fell down the stairs and died. Um, like, thanks a lot, Dad!” Paris replied.
The flounder waited a moment. The quiet lapping of water against the boat filled the silence between them.
“Well? What the (expletive)? Are you going to give it to me or what?” Paris shrilly shrieked.
“You want to be God, yet you have ruined your own life with your selfishness and stupidity. There is only one way you can be like God. Do you want it?” the flounder asked.
“(Expletive) yeah!” screamed Paris excitedly. With that, a huge wave crashed against the little boat, and Paris flipped from its safety and into the cold, churning sea. Lacking even basic skills like swimming, Paris was easily overtaken by the green waters and quickly drowned.

And the tabloids ran her last pictures in mourning.

The End