Wednesday, January 27, 2010

In answer to your question...

I saw John McCain during President Barack Obama's State of the Union speech tonight roll his eyes and turn to the senator (I presume) sitting next to him; I then read his lips as he asked the question, "Is he still blaming Bush?"  The answer to this question is simple:

YES, you stupid fucking assclown, we are still blaming Bush.

I Am Ready to Secede.

How long will it be before those rich, smug, opressive, conservative, Palin-loving morons start arguing that this James O'Keefe clown and the three other fake phone guys in Louisiana -- incidentally, I find it quite sad that there existed three people whose lives were so pathetic that becoming one of James O'Keefe's cronies seemed a step up -- are heroes and martyrs, before they convince a majority of the American public of this, and before they get yet another rich, smug, opressive, conservative, Palin-loving moron elected to the United States Senate because of it.  Hasn't anyone realized yet that it doesn't matter what is being said; even if they might like the idea, the conservatives' game at this point is to declare it "un-American" and tear it down so that they can scare the American public via lies into voting Republican (see also Massachusetts) and then continue to impose their beliefs on all of us.

Saturday, January 23, 2010

Why Are You Famous: The Jay Leno Edition

I look at you and I see a guy in a bar wearing a black, worn out 1980s leather jacket over a denim, collared button shirt that is pathetically darker than the tapered, stonewashed, almost-white flood jeans, but it isn't 1987.  No one can figure out why or even how you smell so intensely of Life Savers.  You don't really talk to anyone in the bar; people try to say things to you, but you respond by shrugging your shoulders, raising your eyebrows, and contorting your lips into a weird sort of frowning duck thing that screams, "It doesn't matter what you think because I always get what I want out of life."  Some people think that it also conveys your self-perceived martyrdom, but smart people know that it's really just the classic this-guy-is-an-ass-clown face.  Your wife married you for money; you think that this is the way it should be.  She married you for money and you've given her more than she ever could have imagined she would have, but she still hates being married to you.  The people who watch your show are the same people who voted for Scott Brown and who would vote for Sarah Palin.  You are a company man, a yes man -- a stuffed suit who is the host of the Tonight Show because you are exactly like those pricks in the boardroom.  If I was in the same bar as you, I would wait until I got really drunk and then approach you in my stupor; I would shake your hand, put my arm around you, and generally charm the living hell out of you because you are an ignoramus and I would be able to do that.  I would ask you for an autographed photo, and you would make your wife go out to your 1939 idiot-mobile and get one out of the trunk, because you always carry head shots of yourself in your trunk.  She would bring you the picture and you wouldn't notice the hint of mascara running down her cheeks, and you would write "A guy walks into a bar" on the photo and then sign your name and give it to me.  But I would ask for your pen so that I could sign it, too, which confuses you, but which you assent to do.  I would write "Talentless corporate ass-clown hack" on the picture, and then I would sign my full name in big John Hancock cursive.  I'd give the photo to you, grinning, and I would say, "Keep it, ass-clown," because one of the main things I would be trying to do would be driving the point home to you that you are a major ass-clown.  Then I'd pat you on the back and say "See you later, ass-clown," as I walked away, still grinning.  You'd throw the photo on the floor, laughing and thinking to yourself that millions of people watch your show every night, but I, being the smarter of the two of us, would know you would thinking this and so would think to mysef that millions of people also watch that show Two and A Half Men, so that basically cancels your theory out.  Then I would grab the microphone in the bar and would tell everyone that they should really cut it out with all the Jay-Leno-raped-and-murdered-a-girl-in-1990 talk.  You like Charlie Sheen; you think he is a great guy, and you wonder why people are all over his gullet sometimes.  Charlie Sheen thinks you are hilarious.  You once played basketball with the kids down the block just so that for the rest of your life you would be able to tell people that you play basketball with the kids down the block.  Your concept of the American Dream includes a grill, a lawn, and never acknowledging the fact that everyone in your family hates each other.  You associate the word "America" with driving a truck.  If you were a state, you would be Indiana.  Like I said, Charlie Sheen thinks you are hilarious.  Secretly, you are a little bit racist; you rationalize this by saying, "It's true, though."  You are a close personal friend of Arsenio Hall's.  You have Terry Bradshaw on your show, but that's actually true.  You eat like a goddamn squirrel, chewing quickly and with your mouth open, making a smacking sound with your tongue with each chew; your wife has given serious consideration to suicide based on this issue alone.  You bring a newspaper into the bathroom with you, and you make it through an entire section in there.  When you are finished, you put the newspaper back on the table for other people to read.  People make jokes about you raping and murdering a girl in 1990.  "All that hooey" is a part of your verbal arsenal.  People can't help but think of powder blue suits and collared shirts with ruffles when they get a load of that goddamn ridiculous mug of yours.  Seriously, what is with that fucking chin.  I am not comfortable living in a world in which your ridiculous chin is a socially acceptable topic of converstaion.  I long for the day when Letterman just chops that thing off with a meat cleaver; then it might be worth talking about.  You've never consummated any of your relationships, which enrages you.  You are filled with rage.  You tell stories about the seventies, even though every one thought you were a jerk-off back then, too.  Jokes about you are funny because they are true.  You once agreed with Rush Limbaugh.  You've never figured out that you are mentally retarded and that no one has ever told you.  You don't understand that there is no such thing as NBC or The Tonight Show; we just made them up to get you off of our goddamn backs.  Your mother named you Jay because she hates you.  Your name is Jay.  Your brother thinks you are a prick.  You don't like art.  Your favorite Beatle is Paul.  You really like Detroit.  For some God-forsaken reason, your psychological make-up has provided you with the ability to take pride in being what you refer to as a "Hanes man".

Friday, January 22, 2010

The Big Pitch: Have You Ever Been to Walmart?

The American Dream has just killed itself; or perhaps it was murdered, finally suffocated with a pillow by its own children for the insurance money. Our politicians are now owned by Coca-Cola, Target, and Walmart, and they get billion-dollar bonuses to make whatever laws their employers tell them to make; they get billion dollar bonuses to vote whichever way their employers tell them to vote; they get billion dollar bonuses to peel through the Constitution of the United States of America, eradicating and erasing any laws, rights, or principles that their employers tell them to eradicate and erase.

And whom is it that the biggest corporations in the world -- yes, foreign mega-corporations now own our rights, too -- are hoping to serve?  What might be the political agenda of a Walmart, a Target, or a PepsiCo?  The answer -- and your bleak future -- is right there in front of you; turn on a television or radio, surf through the Internet, take a walk down your streets, or go talk to anybody.  Everything you see, hear, smell, touch, or taste has been designed by advertising men and women dressed in slick suits and wearing rectangular glasses. Your life is a product that you have been sold; they churn them out in fifteenth-floor board rooms all across the country every day.  They own your soul, too; you bought God from a man on the street who was taking a break from the Three-Card Monte game he runs on a bench in the park.

Corporations exist only to serve themselves, and everything they do is by definition designed for their own benefit; i.e. to make money.  Of course there are and have been for years laws in place to ensure that these corporations remain at least somewhat ethical; they can not, for example, pay their employees less than minimum wage, unless, of course, they own the minimum wage laws and the politicians who make them, which they now do, and they pay their politician/employee one billion dollars to lower the federal minimum wage to one dollar per hour.

The people who are responsible for selling rifles in aisle five, bullets in aisle six, and milk in the dairy department, the people who are responsible for censoring whatever pathetic excuse for art that we have left, and the people who hooked you on Starbucks coffee, Domino's pizza, Jay Leno, Taco Bell, and skinny jeans are now in charge of your rights; they can take them away at will, and before long, none of us will be able to stop them because we don't own the laws -- they do.

Walmart is our king.  This is not a call to arms; this is an obituary.

Sunday, January 17, 2010

Oh, really?

You're Steven Seagal?  Well, I'm not Steven Seagal.  I win.