Have I now heard everything? You hear people say “Now I’ve heard everything!” all the time. Imagine if you really had heard everything? You’d be listening to some asshole blathering on and on about some mundane bullshit that he calls his life. And you’ve heard it all before, all of it, before…
I would think the urge to rip his tongue out would become quite strong at that point.
The reason I mention this is because I had the urge to rip someone’s tongue out, or something of equal instability, when I heard the term “Jail Coach” used on a T.V. news program. This was the same day Lindsey Lohan was sentenced to jail.
Jail Coach, a truly unique profession. Probably the only job in America where having a felony conviction on your record is a requirement. Hey, this is the land of the weird, don’t be shocked.
I instantly thought of a prison shower scenario. A new prisoner, fresh meat if you will (and you will…) is being violently gang raped by a line of naked tattooed bad guys. Thank God his “Jail Coach” is there. He can mop his brow, give him a towel to bite on, and whisper words of encouragement softly into his ear as to relax his sphincter.
He can make sure the lube is not shied away from; yeah some of those types like it dry. That’s where I personally draw the line; ass rape is bad enough, but down a dusty trail? Now that’s just sick!
Now don’t get me wrong, I’m not being judgmental here. I hold no malice toward those that have run afoul of the law. I just can’t stand it when they get caught.
Hey Lindsey, why don’t you start your fucking rehab by looking up the definition to the word “illegal”. That just might be the place for her to start because it sure as hell doesn’t look like she knows what the definition of the word means. Maybe we need to have a separate dictionary for people like Lindsey. A dictionary that spells out the fact that the word “illegal” pertains to everyone, even famous white girls.
How does “Roget’s Thesaurus, Paris Hilton Version“ sound to you? Is it just as dumb as “Jail-Coach”? I’ll bet the definition of Jail Coach is in there, though.
Some days, I swear to God, you just gotta weep for humanity.
I’d love to hear an honest assessment of little Lindsey’s predicament from Robert Downey, Jr.
Here is a guy that went way too far too many times and ended up doing time. Robert, however, was doing real time. Let me lay it out for you brothers and sisters:
There is a big fucking difference between Jail and Prison. Jail is full of people that are simply too poor to post even the smallest amount of cash for bail, sometimes a hundred bucks would get some of these people out. Lindsey probably spend a hundred dollars a week just to Fabreeze her thongs.
Jail is a holding place for people awaiting trial, first-time non-violent offenders, people with short sentences, put it this way if you’re sentenced to a week’s incarceration you’re not going to prison, you are going to jail.
Jail’s not too bad. Ass rape is damned near non existent. No work detail if you don’t want to. Place to sleep, plenty of company. Oh yeah lots of company. The kind of company that never leaves and stays up all night yelling at each other (I think they call it rap…) the kind of guests that always leave the toilet seat soiled. And they’re damned proud of it.
When I was in jail, I mean I’ve heard first-hand from someone that was in jail that the food’s not really that bad. And it really helps if you work in the kitchen. Keeps you busy, helps pass the time. Working the kitchen means you don’t have to worry about anyone putting some kind of yechh in your food. It also works the other way around.
You can put whatever your sick little mind can come up with anyone’s food you dare to. Anyone fucks with you just look them straight in the eye and, very slowly, say “I work in the kitchen – you eat what my hands give you. Think that over for just a second.” Or if the guy’s smaller than you just ask him what color pubic hair he prefers with his eggs.
After seeing this “Jail Coach” on the T.V. it dawned on me that this guy must have a publicist. How else did he end up on the “Today Show”? One could find out just how many of these coaches are in operation by simply typing “Jail Coach” into the search engine of your choice. I could do this. However that’s a little too close to research and, as I’ve said before “research” is what a paid columnist does.
I couldn’t help myself, I Googled “Jail Coach”. Turns out there’s a lot of the rich and famous hiring jail coaches. There are also an alarming number of coaches that are going to jail, but that’s a different story.
There was also the obvious second choice, the Prison Coach. Now the shit’s getting real. Most of the bile posted was pertaining to Bernie Madoff and family. You just know that your government is doing its sworn duty when a fuckbag like Madoff still has enough money to hire a fucking Prison Coach. Of course if you were Bernie that’s probably money very well spent.
I seriously doubt Robert Downey Jr. felt the need to consult a Prison Coach. The last time he was arrested he had in his possession cocaine, tar heroin, a loaded handgun, was shit-faced drunk and driving a new Mercedes on the wrong side of the road. Bob did everything short of tying-off during his bail hearing. I’m sure he found plenty of kindred spirits in prison.
Can a person really learn that much more about prison survival by hiring a coach? From what I’ve seen as soon as the stock market closes these news channels are full of prison documentaries. These are very real prisons. These documentaries seem to pretty much bring up the same subjects over and over. Plus I would think that in prison you would learn what the deal is pretty damn quick. Maybe these prison coaches can sign Bernie Madoff up to join the Aryan Nation in advance. How’s that for a slap in the face of things to come? Serves the greedy cocksucker right.
I don’t hold any malice towards wealthy people as long as they didn’t cause people to suffer while accumulating all their wealth. Madoff caused a lot of suffering. From what I have read he has not shown any remorse towards the people he (and his family) screwed.
I discussed this with an acquaintance of mine that grew up in mainland China (I always thought saying mainland China sounded cooler than just China). He commented that if Madoff was a Chinese citizen and was connected to the government in any way, he would have been executed. Even if just one of his clients had a menial job with the Communist Party (party?) he would have been put to death.
I have mixed feeling about the death penalty. The main reason I don’t think executions are right is that the death sentence is not used uniformly throughout the country. The death penalty is not equally distributed across the U.S. Since the reinstatement of capital punishment in 1976, there have been 1,000 executions in the South but only 4 in the Northeast.
There is hope, however. Several states have introduced legislation to try to equalize the racial makeup like The “Racial Justice Act” introduced in North Carolina in 2009. I don’t understand how this is going to work but at least somebody cares enough to try.
Will Lindsey learn her lesson? Hire a fucking driver, sweetie. Maybe if we instituted a foreign exchange program for convicts, in this type of situation we may get some results. Actually I’m pretty sure we’d get a lot of fucking “results”. The result status notifications will probably start out with “We regret to inform you…”.
Send Lindsey to a Chinese prison?
I just want to be there when she asks for the menu.
*Just want to say thanks to my Canadian friends, you “get it”. – Pat
R.O.W.Y.C.O.
Thursday, July 29, 2010
Wednesday, July 28, 2010
There's Something Alive In My Woodstove!
Just yesterday I was vacuuming the room where our wood stove sits. Seeing as it’s been hot as hell lately there hasn’t been much need for a fire. So, I was wondering where the ashes were coming from. There were ashes all over the outside “French-Style” double glass doors. It could be from a strong wind (not lately) or the flu could be open (nope). Or the ashes could be caused by a downdraft (I just said the flu was closed, no downdraft).
Oh yeah, “French” doors (they suck)! It also has a blower, thermostat, chrome look chimney stacks; and something that’s alive. I don’t care how nice a unit you have (actually it’s old and falling apart) if there is something living, or worse, stuck, inside the unit, you gots yourself a problem.
I first started to realize something was up when I noticed that one of our cats was staring at the glass door. Being the dumb-as-a-rock housecat that she is, I deduced she was simply staring at her own reflection.
I then realized that this particular cat (we have three) had already been through the reflection fascination phase. If you have cats you know there’s also this phase where they are fascinated by running water. Starting to sound familiar? I thought so.
Getting back to the ashes: The ashes were back. After just having vacuumed the offending former pyre mere hours ago I realized that these were not the same ashes. The same ones as before. Before, as in last night. Last night, as in when I got drunk and decided to vacuum. Therein laid my confusion.
I deduced, obviously, that if I had already vacuumed up said ashes and then said ashes reappeared soon thereafter, some fucking thing is trying to get out of my wood stove!! And it’s still in there. The cat’s still staring at it but she’s not talking. Fucking ingrate cat.
Okay, so what would YOU do? It could be a BAT! We’ve had BAT problems in the past and they are some scary little motherfuckers.
A mouse we can handle. As I said we have three cats. Mice usually wouldn’t stand a chance, but my cats are pure dumb housecats. They might not even notice it run right by them. They might not feel like chasing anything at the moment. The last time the cats and I saw a mouse I screamed like a little girl, causing the cats to scatter.
They were not afraid of the mouse, they were afraid of a grown man jumping around, screaming like Pippi Longstocking! As they damn well should have been.
So, am I supposed to just let it die? I don’t even know what the holy hell it is! I can just see me opening the freaking wood-stove door, on my knees (it’s low) and having an ash covered, half starved, fully pissed off, fucking blind-ass bat flying all over my house. Guano flying everywhere.
So therein lies my dilemma. I either let some damn thing loose in my house or I let it die in my woodstove.
This is just what I wished for a summertime present. Like I don’t have enough bullshit on my mind, now I have to worry about what might be dying in my fucking woodstove! I’m a humanitarian (no, really)! I would be crushed having to clean some dead thing out of the pile of ashes.
It makes you think about your own pets. Little animals that are as important to you as if they were your children. I wouldn’t want to be a pet and have to be compared to a child in a “Sophie’s Choice” type situation (see William Styron), but usually the little suckers are able to pull your heartstrings just like your own kids would.
I just checked on the stove. Now there are two of my cats staring at the glass doors of the wood stove like they’re two little kids watching Saturday morning cartoons. This is not a good sign.
Unfortunately when it comes to opening the doors of said woodstove and letting this thing loose, I don’t think I could handle something running out into the house. Whatever it is would be chased by three overweight housecats that have the combined brain power of a ham sandwich. They wouldn’t know what to do with a rodent if it turned itself in.
I sure as hell am not gonna kill it whatever it is. I don’t even fish because I think it might hurt the fish, and I live on a lake!
I have given this a lot of thought. I can’t just sit back and let this thing starve in my woodstove. Luckily there’s a sliding glass door right near the woodstove. There’s also another door to the room that cuts it off from the rest of the house. I guess I can cover the carpeting with newspaper then open the door to the outside to give the varmint an escape route. I can then quickly open the door to the woodstove and run like a little bitch into the house. I also have to wait until I’m the only one home. I don’t want anyone hearing me screaming like a little girl if something jumps out at me.
There’s so much violence in the world I just can’t bring myself to kill anything. Or maybe I’m just a big pussy, who knows? Whatever it is that’s stuck in my woodstove didn’t get stuck there on purpose and doesn’t deserve to die because of it. Or because of death being convenient! Letting something starve to death because you don’t want to get your carpet dirty is just fucked up.
We could draw a lot of correlations from this to what is happening in the world when it comes to salvation. Who is chosen to be saved? We don’t even hear about our own young Americans dying these days. I can only imagine the horrors that are a bleak reality to millions of people, because you have to use you imagination these days bcause you sure as hell don’t see anything about war on the T.V. news.
Maybe a little blurb about reaching some new disturbing casualty rate will sneak in, but the type of coverage that helped to stop the insanity in Viet Nam has now become passé. I guess the “powers that be” finally realized that bad news doesn’t sell unless it’s connected to some drug-addled celebrity.
It’s a sad state of affairs, death everywhere. From Iraq to Afghanistan to my woodstove. It’s all around us, always has been and always will be.
I try to arrive at my own decisions and opinions by placing myself in the shoes of the “other guy”. Sometimes this “other guy” is a black person, a soldier, a cop, or in this case maybe a mouse. So I think about being a mouse trapped in a fireplace filled with old ashes, not being able to escape. The only visibility I have is occupied by a large vicious animal that wants to torture and eat me (her name is Yoko). And I’m starving.
I would think that should stir up some kind of compassion, and in my case it did. By doing a simple act like opening a fucking door I can bring salvation to a mouse. Sound ridiculous doesn’t it?
Unless you’re the proverbial mouse. Or the real mouse for that matter.
Shit.
I gotta go open a door, thanks for playing along, folks.
Oh yeah, “French” doors (they suck)! It also has a blower, thermostat, chrome look chimney stacks; and something that’s alive. I don’t care how nice a unit you have (actually it’s old and falling apart) if there is something living, or worse, stuck, inside the unit, you gots yourself a problem.
I first started to realize something was up when I noticed that one of our cats was staring at the glass door. Being the dumb-as-a-rock housecat that she is, I deduced she was simply staring at her own reflection.
I then realized that this particular cat (we have three) had already been through the reflection fascination phase. If you have cats you know there’s also this phase where they are fascinated by running water. Starting to sound familiar? I thought so.
Getting back to the ashes: The ashes were back. After just having vacuumed the offending former pyre mere hours ago I realized that these were not the same ashes. The same ones as before. Before, as in last night. Last night, as in when I got drunk and decided to vacuum. Therein laid my confusion.
I deduced, obviously, that if I had already vacuumed up said ashes and then said ashes reappeared soon thereafter, some fucking thing is trying to get out of my wood stove!! And it’s still in there. The cat’s still staring at it but she’s not talking. Fucking ingrate cat.
Okay, so what would YOU do? It could be a BAT! We’ve had BAT problems in the past and they are some scary little motherfuckers.
A mouse we can handle. As I said we have three cats. Mice usually wouldn’t stand a chance, but my cats are pure dumb housecats. They might not even notice it run right by them. They might not feel like chasing anything at the moment. The last time the cats and I saw a mouse I screamed like a little girl, causing the cats to scatter.
They were not afraid of the mouse, they were afraid of a grown man jumping around, screaming like Pippi Longstocking! As they damn well should have been.
So, am I supposed to just let it die? I don’t even know what the holy hell it is! I can just see me opening the freaking wood-stove door, on my knees (it’s low) and having an ash covered, half starved, fully pissed off, fucking blind-ass bat flying all over my house. Guano flying everywhere.
So therein lies my dilemma. I either let some damn thing loose in my house or I let it die in my woodstove.
This is just what I wished for a summertime present. Like I don’t have enough bullshit on my mind, now I have to worry about what might be dying in my fucking woodstove! I’m a humanitarian (no, really)! I would be crushed having to clean some dead thing out of the pile of ashes.
It makes you think about your own pets. Little animals that are as important to you as if they were your children. I wouldn’t want to be a pet and have to be compared to a child in a “Sophie’s Choice” type situation (see William Styron), but usually the little suckers are able to pull your heartstrings just like your own kids would.
I just checked on the stove. Now there are two of my cats staring at the glass doors of the wood stove like they’re two little kids watching Saturday morning cartoons. This is not a good sign.
Unfortunately when it comes to opening the doors of said woodstove and letting this thing loose, I don’t think I could handle something running out into the house. Whatever it is would be chased by three overweight housecats that have the combined brain power of a ham sandwich. They wouldn’t know what to do with a rodent if it turned itself in.
I sure as hell am not gonna kill it whatever it is. I don’t even fish because I think it might hurt the fish, and I live on a lake!
I have given this a lot of thought. I can’t just sit back and let this thing starve in my woodstove. Luckily there’s a sliding glass door right near the woodstove. There’s also another door to the room that cuts it off from the rest of the house. I guess I can cover the carpeting with newspaper then open the door to the outside to give the varmint an escape route. I can then quickly open the door to the woodstove and run like a little bitch into the house. I also have to wait until I’m the only one home. I don’t want anyone hearing me screaming like a little girl if something jumps out at me.
There’s so much violence in the world I just can’t bring myself to kill anything. Or maybe I’m just a big pussy, who knows? Whatever it is that’s stuck in my woodstove didn’t get stuck there on purpose and doesn’t deserve to die because of it. Or because of death being convenient! Letting something starve to death because you don’t want to get your carpet dirty is just fucked up.
We could draw a lot of correlations from this to what is happening in the world when it comes to salvation. Who is chosen to be saved? We don’t even hear about our own young Americans dying these days. I can only imagine the horrors that are a bleak reality to millions of people, because you have to use you imagination these days bcause you sure as hell don’t see anything about war on the T.V. news.
Maybe a little blurb about reaching some new disturbing casualty rate will sneak in, but the type of coverage that helped to stop the insanity in Viet Nam has now become passé. I guess the “powers that be” finally realized that bad news doesn’t sell unless it’s connected to some drug-addled celebrity.
It’s a sad state of affairs, death everywhere. From Iraq to Afghanistan to my woodstove. It’s all around us, always has been and always will be.
I try to arrive at my own decisions and opinions by placing myself in the shoes of the “other guy”. Sometimes this “other guy” is a black person, a soldier, a cop, or in this case maybe a mouse. So I think about being a mouse trapped in a fireplace filled with old ashes, not being able to escape. The only visibility I have is occupied by a large vicious animal that wants to torture and eat me (her name is Yoko). And I’m starving.
I would think that should stir up some kind of compassion, and in my case it did. By doing a simple act like opening a fucking door I can bring salvation to a mouse. Sound ridiculous doesn’t it?
Unless you’re the proverbial mouse. Or the real mouse for that matter.
Shit.
I gotta go open a door, thanks for playing along, folks.
Sunday, July 25, 2010
ENTERTAINING DEATH
I often wonder if I think about death too much. Am I alone? People are fascinated with death like no other action in the cosmos. Movies. What decent movie can you name in last three decades that was well done, poignant? Inspiring or not, some fucker bought the farm in it. And during the making of it. We cannot go to any major film or structure in this country without seeing a plaque memorializing those that have been lost. Died in the making.
Stories of workers falling to their deaths into freshly poured concrete bridge abutments, the bodies never recovered. Rumors of “His body is still in the cement” fascinated the tourists! I actually witnessed a traveler from Germany take a picture of his companion against a backdrop of one such bridge abutment below the George Washington Bridge.
They were speaking a mixture of English and German (Deutch-lish?). This was the only reason I could understand what they were saying. They were obviously told a tall tale by someone that couldn’t resist sending two tourists up to Washington Heights to yak it up and take some travel photos! I gotta admit, funny is funny.
What was I doing there? I was buying drugs, what the fuck do you think I was doing there? Two very effective ways of putting your life in extreme danger. I’m not saying that Washington Heights is a dangerous place (that’s exactly what I’m saying!) you just need to know your place. As long as your place is “not” Washington Heights! If you think “Spanish Harlem” sounds like a very romantic place, brimming with culture, then by all means go there for a stroll. Go at sunset. You want to see some local flavor? Be there when it gets dark!
I remember the early ‘90’s in New York City. The Dinkin’s Administration, or what I like to call “The Time When the City’s Traffic Lights Seemed to Stay Red Forever”. There was a Fireman or a Policeman, I can’t remember which, killed in the barrio on a hot summer night. Right in the hot zone, 165th street and MLK Blvd, some sick fuck with really good aim dropped a five gallon plastic bucket from a rooftop onto his head. The bucket was full of dried spackle, making it as heavy as if it were full of concrete. The man hit was killed instantly.
The Daily News quoted some people that witnessed the crime as remarking on what a horrible death it must have been. Was it? The circumstances were certainly horrible but the death itself in a literal sense was actually very swift. He never knew what hit him or if anything ever did hit him for that matter. It was in the line of duty. You’re not getting blown to pieces. There’s no suffering for the deceased. No body parts strewn about. Just a nice, neat, surprise, death.
If I absolutely had to pick a way to die I think that’s a pretty good way to go, actually.
Think about it.
First point: He didn’t know it was going to happen. Personally I would never want to know when I was going to die. For it to be a complete fucking surprise is just okey dokey with me. Standing by peaceful waters oh I oh I oh!
Second: He never knew what hit him. I can believe that. Noisy, chaotic, street, sirens blaring, people suspected of being “Mexican” all around you. All kinds of shit going on. Then, Blammo! Lights out!
Made me think. Think about death. Again. This must have been fifteen to twenty years ago. I’ve had death on my mind for quite some time I guess! Makes you think. Think about death. Again.
Think of what a logistical nightmare it would be if you knew exactly when you were going to die. Friends calling, wanting to take you to lunch, planning the wake, picking out your own coffin – the whole thing just sounds exhausting! Imagine what your schedule would look like two weeks before D-Day? And the fucking sympathy cards and the whimpering last phone calls! The surprise confessions might be fun, or some pity sex (that’s all you’ll hear about that, I don’t write about sex). Other than that give me quick bucket to the head.
I think Death is “in” these days more than ever. These crazy youngsters have forgotten Marilyn Manson because he’s not dead. Didn’t go far enough I guess. Now you got to be a fucking Vampire to be on the cover of “Tiger Beat” (now I gotta se if that still exists…). It’s not enough that you have to wear that douche bag make-up every fucking day and become a walking embarrassment to music itself (pontificate? you betcha!) now you have to walk in the afterlife.
I do admit that I have watched every episode of True Blood”. I will also admit openly that I think it’s a real dumb fucking show and it just keeps getting more fucking ridiculous with every plot twist. A girl that looks like Anna Paquin, sleeping with a dead guy. I hung in there like a trooper but when a crazy bitch turns out to be some giant crab-monster and a guy that owns the one club where all these vestiges hang out turns into a scrawny little dog, well it kind of speaks for itself right there.
It’s supposed to be about Vampires, God Damn it! Everyone likes a good Vampire! You know it was kind of interesting when the reality of Vampires was explored cinematically. They didn’t reveal everything at once, at first. It was kind of scary, creepy, and different (as am I). There must have been some major changes in screenwriting personnel because it turned dumber than dogshit real fucking quick.
Romanticizing Vampires is like putting the Jonas Brothers on the cover of Rolling Stone, it just should not be done. Ever. Vampires are supposed to be sinister, evil and dangerous just like Rock & Roll is supposed to be! And deadly. When new Rock music was good people were croaking left and right. Real rock music made you aware of all kinds of things about yourself, often with deadly results.
Rock & Roll has its’ own classic list of casualties; Janis Joplin, Jimi Hendrix, Brian Jones, Curt Cobain, Jerry Garcia. We’ve all heard these names before. These were people that had creative streaks deep within themselves. A fire that burned so brightly as to be subdued and diminished at such an early age.
Or it was all that fucking heroin.
Kurt Vonnegut used to opine that the human race was a cancer on this great earth. That nature should do some “House cleaning” as he so eloquently put it. Of course I have great respect for Vonnegut as he is one of my favorite writers, but he wanted us all dead! That wrinkled old fucker that had a face like an old paper shopping bag and eyes that held all the attraction of two dirty ash trays. Yes, a face only a cigarette could love!
Fuck Kurt Vonnegut. If he was true to his convictions then he should have led by example. You first, motherfucker! You knew how to open a window you old crotch.
Nope. We’re gonna hang on, not go softly into this good night. You’d have to drag me off kicking and screaming before I drink the Kool-Aid.
Straight Up.
Stories of workers falling to their deaths into freshly poured concrete bridge abutments, the bodies never recovered. Rumors of “His body is still in the cement” fascinated the tourists! I actually witnessed a traveler from Germany take a picture of his companion against a backdrop of one such bridge abutment below the George Washington Bridge.
They were speaking a mixture of English and German (Deutch-lish?). This was the only reason I could understand what they were saying. They were obviously told a tall tale by someone that couldn’t resist sending two tourists up to Washington Heights to yak it up and take some travel photos! I gotta admit, funny is funny.
What was I doing there? I was buying drugs, what the fuck do you think I was doing there? Two very effective ways of putting your life in extreme danger. I’m not saying that Washington Heights is a dangerous place (that’s exactly what I’m saying!) you just need to know your place. As long as your place is “not” Washington Heights! If you think “Spanish Harlem” sounds like a very romantic place, brimming with culture, then by all means go there for a stroll. Go at sunset. You want to see some local flavor? Be there when it gets dark!
I remember the early ‘90’s in New York City. The Dinkin’s Administration, or what I like to call “The Time When the City’s Traffic Lights Seemed to Stay Red Forever”. There was a Fireman or a Policeman, I can’t remember which, killed in the barrio on a hot summer night. Right in the hot zone, 165th street and MLK Blvd, some sick fuck with really good aim dropped a five gallon plastic bucket from a rooftop onto his head. The bucket was full of dried spackle, making it as heavy as if it were full of concrete. The man hit was killed instantly.
The Daily News quoted some people that witnessed the crime as remarking on what a horrible death it must have been. Was it? The circumstances were certainly horrible but the death itself in a literal sense was actually very swift. He never knew what hit him or if anything ever did hit him for that matter. It was in the line of duty. You’re not getting blown to pieces. There’s no suffering for the deceased. No body parts strewn about. Just a nice, neat, surprise, death.
If I absolutely had to pick a way to die I think that’s a pretty good way to go, actually.
Think about it.
First point: He didn’t know it was going to happen. Personally I would never want to know when I was going to die. For it to be a complete fucking surprise is just okey dokey with me. Standing by peaceful waters oh I oh I oh!
Second: He never knew what hit him. I can believe that. Noisy, chaotic, street, sirens blaring, people suspected of being “Mexican” all around you. All kinds of shit going on. Then, Blammo! Lights out!
Made me think. Think about death. Again. This must have been fifteen to twenty years ago. I’ve had death on my mind for quite some time I guess! Makes you think. Think about death. Again.
Think of what a logistical nightmare it would be if you knew exactly when you were going to die. Friends calling, wanting to take you to lunch, planning the wake, picking out your own coffin – the whole thing just sounds exhausting! Imagine what your schedule would look like two weeks before D-Day? And the fucking sympathy cards and the whimpering last phone calls! The surprise confessions might be fun, or some pity sex (that’s all you’ll hear about that, I don’t write about sex). Other than that give me quick bucket to the head.
I think Death is “in” these days more than ever. These crazy youngsters have forgotten Marilyn Manson because he’s not dead. Didn’t go far enough I guess. Now you got to be a fucking Vampire to be on the cover of “Tiger Beat” (now I gotta se if that still exists…). It’s not enough that you have to wear that douche bag make-up every fucking day and become a walking embarrassment to music itself (pontificate? you betcha!) now you have to walk in the afterlife.
I do admit that I have watched every episode of True Blood”. I will also admit openly that I think it’s a real dumb fucking show and it just keeps getting more fucking ridiculous with every plot twist. A girl that looks like Anna Paquin, sleeping with a dead guy. I hung in there like a trooper but when a crazy bitch turns out to be some giant crab-monster and a guy that owns the one club where all these vestiges hang out turns into a scrawny little dog, well it kind of speaks for itself right there.
It’s supposed to be about Vampires, God Damn it! Everyone likes a good Vampire! You know it was kind of interesting when the reality of Vampires was explored cinematically. They didn’t reveal everything at once, at first. It was kind of scary, creepy, and different (as am I). There must have been some major changes in screenwriting personnel because it turned dumber than dogshit real fucking quick.
Romanticizing Vampires is like putting the Jonas Brothers on the cover of Rolling Stone, it just should not be done. Ever. Vampires are supposed to be sinister, evil and dangerous just like Rock & Roll is supposed to be! And deadly. When new Rock music was good people were croaking left and right. Real rock music made you aware of all kinds of things about yourself, often with deadly results.
Rock & Roll has its’ own classic list of casualties; Janis Joplin, Jimi Hendrix, Brian Jones, Curt Cobain, Jerry Garcia. We’ve all heard these names before. These were people that had creative streaks deep within themselves. A fire that burned so brightly as to be subdued and diminished at such an early age.
Or it was all that fucking heroin.
Kurt Vonnegut used to opine that the human race was a cancer on this great earth. That nature should do some “House cleaning” as he so eloquently put it. Of course I have great respect for Vonnegut as he is one of my favorite writers, but he wanted us all dead! That wrinkled old fucker that had a face like an old paper shopping bag and eyes that held all the attraction of two dirty ash trays. Yes, a face only a cigarette could love!
Fuck Kurt Vonnegut. If he was true to his convictions then he should have led by example. You first, motherfucker! You knew how to open a window you old crotch.
Nope. We’re gonna hang on, not go softly into this good night. You’d have to drag me off kicking and screaming before I drink the Kool-Aid.
Straight Up.
Thursday, July 22, 2010
How Men Scratch Their Balls: A Ladies Guide
Ladies, have you ever caught your guy with his hand down his pants, a look of pure bliss on his face, and a sigh like he just had a big cork pulled out of his ass? His eyes rolled back in his head in ecstasy?
Was your first thought that you had walked in on a covert jerk-off session? Dear God!
Well fear not girls, he was just engaged in the next best thing to having an orgasm, for a guy anyways. He was scratching his balls!
Scratching your nuts is sometimes however mistaken for an “adjustment”. This is where your pubic hair gets wrapped around your schlong and is being painfully yanked. The adjustment is just an untangling of the aforementioned.
Oh yes indeed, there’s a lot going on down there.
I was explaining just how guys have to use a special technique to do a proper nut-scratch to my wife one night. My wife thought it was funny as hell, but for two reasons. The first is very obvious; scratching your balls is almost as funny as farts. But the odd thing, the fascinating thing, is after all these years this was new information!
You think you’ve heard it all by a certain age! And you know, it’s kind of youthfully invigorating when you hear something new about genitals. She was giggling like a school girl. So let’s see how this translates to the written word shall we?
First: “Why are you constantly scratching your balls you gross bastard you”.
Let’s face facts here folks – we all have genitals and they all itch. Some itch due to some sort of infestation, but that’s for another column. We are talking straight up balls itch. So.
When guys get a serious itch on the old scrotum the need for the swiftest reaction is paramount! We’re talking about a stealth itch that can and will attack at any time with no provocation whatsoever! An itch so intense it dispatches all other itches to a much lower sub-classification. This is straight out of J.A.M.A.!
Case in point: I was once interviewing for a computer consulting contract on the 101st floor of the World Trade Center (tower II). I was wearing a dark blue wool suit. This was a harsh lesson I would learn that day.
Wool is the sworn enemy of nutsacks worldwide. It is astounding how those “Scottish” people deal with kilts (a traditional skirt a Scottish man would wear, made of coarse wool and barbed wire, worn with no undergarments) well let’s just say they don’t call it Scotch for nothing!
The combination of a hot NYC summer day, high elevation, and interview stress was the origin of said nasty ball itch. When this vicious poltergeist hit my balls I could not concentrate. I could not form a meaningful sentence. This bad boy needed to be dealt with!
As luck would have it the meeting was attended by all guys, some of which I had known for years. So I went for it:
“Guys, I just have to pause here for a second.”
“Okay, go ahead.”
“Seeing as how we are all guys here (thank God) I feel you will understand my need to (lowers voice, looks around) immediately scratch my balls! It’s this wool suit!”
They could see the look and utter desperation of someone with a real need for sudden personal privacy.
Being guys, good guys, they parted like the Red sea, pointed me to a divider behind the bigwig’s desk and let me have at it. I could hear murmurs of understanding and someone muttering about his own dislike of wool. I quickly finished up after the “understanding” turned to offers of a letter opener.
Unfortunately the itch came back the second I sat back down. At that point I knew I was just going to have to ride it out. That’s when I thought of the awkward handshake that would soon follow the end of the meeting. I don’t know what someone looks like that has itchy balls and is concurrently trying to suppress a major laugh, but I do know what it feels like.
Second: the “Technique”. A guys’ nutsack is like a large deflated balloon filled with two grapes and runny oatmeal. Delightful, yes I know! So, if you try to scratch these in the normal way all you would do is sink your fingers in and stir up the blob. Not very effective I’m afraid.
Using two hands can make the process much easier. One hand to “anchor” the wrinkled mass and the other to smooth and lightly scratch the affected area. The only problem with the two-hand technique is you need total privacy. So what method is there for the “Man on the Go”? Well, obviously you have to figure out a one-handed method.
This can be achieved by using the palm of your hand to “anchor” and the fingers of the same hand to smooth and scratch. We simply curl our hands into proper nut-scratch position. This is done by making a fist, but do not use your thumb and do not bend the high knuckle on your fingers. So, while using your palm as the anchor, you extend your fingers, running the back of your fingernails lightly (and I can’t stress that enough people) over the affected area.
And last but not least: Try not to sigh too loud at the relief because, again, you are giving yourself great pleasure but you also have your hand down the front of your trousers! Try not to get caught also. If you do happen to get caught, make sure you make a big deal about going to wash your hands. Be sure someone is aware of the fact that you don’t have pubies under your fingernails.
I know every gender, and there are more of them popping up very day, experience the same types of discomfort. The pulled pube, the “Deep Cavity” rectal itch, odor problems, and the Jonas Brothers. And because we share these horrible anomalies as a species we should be more understanding of others when we realize they are in the throes of an agonizing personal itch!
Although the letter opener wisecrack was pretty funny try not to snicker or laugh too loud. And for your sake and mine do not get caught staring! If you do happen to get caught make sure your facial expression is one of amusement, bewilderment or even slight disgust.
Just make sure you don’t have a look of intense anticipation – that’s just creepy.
Author's note: If this amuses you check out "My Doctor's Appointment" let me know what you think.
Thanks again for your interest. Selah.
Was your first thought that you had walked in on a covert jerk-off session? Dear God!
Well fear not girls, he was just engaged in the next best thing to having an orgasm, for a guy anyways. He was scratching his balls!
Scratching your nuts is sometimes however mistaken for an “adjustment”. This is where your pubic hair gets wrapped around your schlong and is being painfully yanked. The adjustment is just an untangling of the aforementioned.
Oh yes indeed, there’s a lot going on down there.
I was explaining just how guys have to use a special technique to do a proper nut-scratch to my wife one night. My wife thought it was funny as hell, but for two reasons. The first is very obvious; scratching your balls is almost as funny as farts. But the odd thing, the fascinating thing, is after all these years this was new information!
You think you’ve heard it all by a certain age! And you know, it’s kind of youthfully invigorating when you hear something new about genitals. She was giggling like a school girl. So let’s see how this translates to the written word shall we?
First: “Why are you constantly scratching your balls you gross bastard you”.
Let’s face facts here folks – we all have genitals and they all itch. Some itch due to some sort of infestation, but that’s for another column. We are talking straight up balls itch. So.
When guys get a serious itch on the old scrotum the need for the swiftest reaction is paramount! We’re talking about a stealth itch that can and will attack at any time with no provocation whatsoever! An itch so intense it dispatches all other itches to a much lower sub-classification. This is straight out of J.A.M.A.!
Case in point: I was once interviewing for a computer consulting contract on the 101st floor of the World Trade Center (tower II). I was wearing a dark blue wool suit. This was a harsh lesson I would learn that day.
Wool is the sworn enemy of nutsacks worldwide. It is astounding how those “Scottish” people deal with kilts (a traditional skirt a Scottish man would wear, made of coarse wool and barbed wire, worn with no undergarments) well let’s just say they don’t call it Scotch for nothing!
The combination of a hot NYC summer day, high elevation, and interview stress was the origin of said nasty ball itch. When this vicious poltergeist hit my balls I could not concentrate. I could not form a meaningful sentence. This bad boy needed to be dealt with!
As luck would have it the meeting was attended by all guys, some of which I had known for years. So I went for it:
“Guys, I just have to pause here for a second.”
“Okay, go ahead.”
“Seeing as how we are all guys here (thank God) I feel you will understand my need to (lowers voice, looks around) immediately scratch my balls! It’s this wool suit!”
They could see the look and utter desperation of someone with a real need for sudden personal privacy.
Being guys, good guys, they parted like the Red sea, pointed me to a divider behind the bigwig’s desk and let me have at it. I could hear murmurs of understanding and someone muttering about his own dislike of wool. I quickly finished up after the “understanding” turned to offers of a letter opener.
Unfortunately the itch came back the second I sat back down. At that point I knew I was just going to have to ride it out. That’s when I thought of the awkward handshake that would soon follow the end of the meeting. I don’t know what someone looks like that has itchy balls and is concurrently trying to suppress a major laugh, but I do know what it feels like.
Second: the “Technique”. A guys’ nutsack is like a large deflated balloon filled with two grapes and runny oatmeal. Delightful, yes I know! So, if you try to scratch these in the normal way all you would do is sink your fingers in and stir up the blob. Not very effective I’m afraid.
Using two hands can make the process much easier. One hand to “anchor” the wrinkled mass and the other to smooth and lightly scratch the affected area. The only problem with the two-hand technique is you need total privacy. So what method is there for the “Man on the Go”? Well, obviously you have to figure out a one-handed method.
This can be achieved by using the palm of your hand to “anchor” and the fingers of the same hand to smooth and scratch. We simply curl our hands into proper nut-scratch position. This is done by making a fist, but do not use your thumb and do not bend the high knuckle on your fingers. So, while using your palm as the anchor, you extend your fingers, running the back of your fingernails lightly (and I can’t stress that enough people) over the affected area.
And last but not least: Try not to sigh too loud at the relief because, again, you are giving yourself great pleasure but you also have your hand down the front of your trousers! Try not to get caught also. If you do happen to get caught, make sure you make a big deal about going to wash your hands. Be sure someone is aware of the fact that you don’t have pubies under your fingernails.
I know every gender, and there are more of them popping up very day, experience the same types of discomfort. The pulled pube, the “Deep Cavity” rectal itch, odor problems, and the Jonas Brothers. And because we share these horrible anomalies as a species we should be more understanding of others when we realize they are in the throes of an agonizing personal itch!
Although the letter opener wisecrack was pretty funny try not to snicker or laugh too loud. And for your sake and mine do not get caught staring! If you do happen to get caught make sure your facial expression is one of amusement, bewilderment or even slight disgust.
Just make sure you don’t have a look of intense anticipation – that’s just creepy.
Author's note: If this amuses you check out "My Doctor's Appointment" let me know what you think.
Thanks again for your interest. Selah.
Tuesday, July 20, 2010
Let's Send the Bush Twins to Afghanistan!
Well the Iraq war is now officially longer than The Viet Nam war. Somebody PLEASE tell just how in the fuck we let that happen? We are in the hold of Baby Boomers, a term I always really fucking hated for some reason. I guess I just dislike people judging me and branding me with their fucking labels. Call me crazy. Anyways, I am considered a Baby Boomer. By just a few years, mind you, but a Boomer nonetheless.
We are supposed to be legalizing dope, not having a fucking a “lower-lip high” pile of goat shit we call “The War in Iraq”. And Afghanistan, too, we can’t forget that garden of fucking Eden. So, friends, for the rest of this column I will usually just refer to this double death match as “The War”. If not, I just might not make to the end of this fucking column. I’ve been dreading to write this one for a while.
Starting with the election of George W. Bush as President of the United States I had a sense of impending doom. I always thought that the country was going to go Tango Uniform (T.U.*) because of the rising popularity of Evangelical Christian groups. Believe me; calling them “groups” is being really fucking P.C. for me.
To me they are religious fanatics, and religious fanatics by ANY name are trouble. The antithesis of evil wrapped in religion! Sounds more like the second coming of evil rather than salvation to me, but they sure got Georgie-boy elected!
Less than a year after the election our country was attacked on 9/11. Everything changed. The country was wounded and looking for revenge, hell we were out for blood and you are just fucking up your own reality if you say any different. Even if you were not one of the ones “out for blood” I think you could still see the long black cloud coming down.
Rudy Giuliani was quoted as saying “Thank God George Bush is President” on 9/11/01, within hours of the first attack. This was pretty fucking clear, to me, that he meant “We got a Republican in the White House that will blow the living shit out of these fuckers – we will utilize America’s incredible arsenal and unleash a hell-fire shit-storm like these fucking rag-headed murderous shits have EVER seen!” No more of this pussy Democrat shit.
I want to meet the person that really believes Rudy was remarking on the incredible military prowess of George fucking Bush. Actually that’s not true; I’d never really want to meet Sara Palin.
George W. Bush ushered in the most despicable era of greed known to U.S. history. He did it by surpassing an international organization dedicated to world peace, of which we are a major part of. By initiating a “First Strike” agenda he was telling the world, which includes every red fucking blooded American asshole on earth, to go fuck themselves. He was going to do whatever the fuck he wanted to.
Bush, Cheney and that granny-panty wearing old woman named Rumsfeld propped up a black General to feed the U.S. the biggest pile of shit anybody has ever eaten!
No fucking way am I going to let Colin fucking Powell off the hook for his part in this blistering ass-fuck. He was the face of the administration that held up a fake little glass vile of Anthrax to scare the living shit out of every last fucking one of us. Cocksucker!!! Fuck him and his asshole son**, too. Using a weapon that had scarred the American psyche deeply, he talked Congress into authorizing the “War”. This useless, stupid, fucking never-ending Pap smear we hardly ever even hear about.
I have heard more about Lindsay Lohan going to jail lately than I have heard about the War. This is during the MOST DEADLY MONTH EVER in Afghanistan! If this doesn’t make you sick it fucking damn well should! How did we, why have we, turned our back on this horrible war? How can the media ignore it as they have?
HOW DO WE EVER EXPECT TO END THIS FUCKING THING WHEN NOBODY IS PAYING ANY ATTENTION TO IT!
It makes my blood boil when I see some stupid spoiled little twat all over the fucking headlines and no word whatsoever about real important issues. Issues like young Americans needlessly dying. Still dying in record breaking numbers. Still dying for George Bush. Missing a limb so Dick Cheney’s cronies can be billionaires instead of just millionaires. I can’t even think of Donald Rumsfeld without writing something that would probably get me arrested. Ah, Shit! I just puked all over my coffee table! Bastards!!!
While I’m having a fucking heart attack I might as well mention the scorn I have for today’s college students. During the Viet Nam war things were a lot different on the old college campus. There were anti war protests that were so fucking intense as to culminate in four deaths (there were others, also, don’t ever forget that) on the Ohio State campus by the hands of the U.S. Army National Guard.
So where are the protests? If I see one more college student douche bag protesting the WTO and not a war that his own fucking country started, if I see one more white kid with dread-locks screaming about some multi-national corporation, I would give my left testicle to shove his white-bread dreads up his ass and send him to the front line in Afghanistan. Let’s see what he starts crying about now.
Of course that can’t happen anymore because we have done away with the draft. By the most back-stabbing cowardly methods this dickhead has ever heard of, the administration has imposed a hidden “back-door” draft. I think Sen. Larry Craig gave it that name. It’s also called stop-loss. I call it getting royally fucked by the very country you are risking your life for.
There are soldiers that have pulled more tours of duty, racked up more hours of combat time, than any other conflict in American history (smell that?). Every time you’re about to make it out of the ring alive they kick you back in. And there ain’t a fucking thing you can do about it.
Like Viet Nam the war in Iraq is not a traditional war in the sense that is not played like a football game. Two teams, in distinct uniforms, engaged in battle until one is the victor. It’s just a festering fucking quagmire where young Americans are dying horrible violent deaths.
We now have a whole generation of young people wandering around aimlessly trying to make sense of the violence, death and wonton annihilation of other human beings they witnessed. As they roam quite peaceful streets. Feeling the calm and quite on their faces but not in their heads.
Let’s institute a draft that will only induct college educated students. We’ll start with the real peckerheads at Harvard and Yale. Why? Well we can’t seem to pull our heads out of our collective asses now, so let’s try some new management. Management with real education. Real expensive education. Let’s start with the Bush twins.
I guarantee you that type of brain power will end a war real soon.
Real fucking soon.
*”Tango” and “Uniform” are the words used to spell phonetically by the U.S military.
The term “T.U.” or “Tango Uniform” means “Tits Up”. This refers to someone lying flat on their backs, such as a dead soldier might.
**Colin Powell’s son is the former head of the F.C.C. and was a real fucking asshole about it. Straight up.
We are supposed to be legalizing dope, not having a fucking a “lower-lip high” pile of goat shit we call “The War in Iraq”. And Afghanistan, too, we can’t forget that garden of fucking Eden. So, friends, for the rest of this column I will usually just refer to this double death match as “The War”. If not, I just might not make to the end of this fucking column. I’ve been dreading to write this one for a while.
Starting with the election of George W. Bush as President of the United States I had a sense of impending doom. I always thought that the country was going to go Tango Uniform (T.U.*) because of the rising popularity of Evangelical Christian groups. Believe me; calling them “groups” is being really fucking P.C. for me.
To me they are religious fanatics, and religious fanatics by ANY name are trouble. The antithesis of evil wrapped in religion! Sounds more like the second coming of evil rather than salvation to me, but they sure got Georgie-boy elected!
Less than a year after the election our country was attacked on 9/11. Everything changed. The country was wounded and looking for revenge, hell we were out for blood and you are just fucking up your own reality if you say any different. Even if you were not one of the ones “out for blood” I think you could still see the long black cloud coming down.
Rudy Giuliani was quoted as saying “Thank God George Bush is President” on 9/11/01, within hours of the first attack. This was pretty fucking clear, to me, that he meant “We got a Republican in the White House that will blow the living shit out of these fuckers – we will utilize America’s incredible arsenal and unleash a hell-fire shit-storm like these fucking rag-headed murderous shits have EVER seen!” No more of this pussy Democrat shit.
I want to meet the person that really believes Rudy was remarking on the incredible military prowess of George fucking Bush. Actually that’s not true; I’d never really want to meet Sara Palin.
George W. Bush ushered in the most despicable era of greed known to U.S. history. He did it by surpassing an international organization dedicated to world peace, of which we are a major part of. By initiating a “First Strike” agenda he was telling the world, which includes every red fucking blooded American asshole on earth, to go fuck themselves. He was going to do whatever the fuck he wanted to.
Bush, Cheney and that granny-panty wearing old woman named Rumsfeld propped up a black General to feed the U.S. the biggest pile of shit anybody has ever eaten!
No fucking way am I going to let Colin fucking Powell off the hook for his part in this blistering ass-fuck. He was the face of the administration that held up a fake little glass vile of Anthrax to scare the living shit out of every last fucking one of us. Cocksucker!!! Fuck him and his asshole son**, too. Using a weapon that had scarred the American psyche deeply, he talked Congress into authorizing the “War”. This useless, stupid, fucking never-ending Pap smear we hardly ever even hear about.
I have heard more about Lindsay Lohan going to jail lately than I have heard about the War. This is during the MOST DEADLY MONTH EVER in Afghanistan! If this doesn’t make you sick it fucking damn well should! How did we, why have we, turned our back on this horrible war? How can the media ignore it as they have?
HOW DO WE EVER EXPECT TO END THIS FUCKING THING WHEN NOBODY IS PAYING ANY ATTENTION TO IT!
It makes my blood boil when I see some stupid spoiled little twat all over the fucking headlines and no word whatsoever about real important issues. Issues like young Americans needlessly dying. Still dying in record breaking numbers. Still dying for George Bush. Missing a limb so Dick Cheney’s cronies can be billionaires instead of just millionaires. I can’t even think of Donald Rumsfeld without writing something that would probably get me arrested. Ah, Shit! I just puked all over my coffee table! Bastards!!!
While I’m having a fucking heart attack I might as well mention the scorn I have for today’s college students. During the Viet Nam war things were a lot different on the old college campus. There were anti war protests that were so fucking intense as to culminate in four deaths (there were others, also, don’t ever forget that) on the Ohio State campus by the hands of the U.S. Army National Guard.
So where are the protests? If I see one more college student douche bag protesting the WTO and not a war that his own fucking country started, if I see one more white kid with dread-locks screaming about some multi-national corporation, I would give my left testicle to shove his white-bread dreads up his ass and send him to the front line in Afghanistan. Let’s see what he starts crying about now.
Of course that can’t happen anymore because we have done away with the draft. By the most back-stabbing cowardly methods this dickhead has ever heard of, the administration has imposed a hidden “back-door” draft. I think Sen. Larry Craig gave it that name. It’s also called stop-loss. I call it getting royally fucked by the very country you are risking your life for.
There are soldiers that have pulled more tours of duty, racked up more hours of combat time, than any other conflict in American history (smell that?). Every time you’re about to make it out of the ring alive they kick you back in. And there ain’t a fucking thing you can do about it.
Like Viet Nam the war in Iraq is not a traditional war in the sense that is not played like a football game. Two teams, in distinct uniforms, engaged in battle until one is the victor. It’s just a festering fucking quagmire where young Americans are dying horrible violent deaths.
We now have a whole generation of young people wandering around aimlessly trying to make sense of the violence, death and wonton annihilation of other human beings they witnessed. As they roam quite peaceful streets. Feeling the calm and quite on their faces but not in their heads.
Let’s institute a draft that will only induct college educated students. We’ll start with the real peckerheads at Harvard and Yale. Why? Well we can’t seem to pull our heads out of our collective asses now, so let’s try some new management. Management with real education. Real expensive education. Let’s start with the Bush twins.
I guarantee you that type of brain power will end a war real soon.
Real fucking soon.
*”Tango” and “Uniform” are the words used to spell phonetically by the U.S military.
The term “T.U.” or “Tango Uniform” means “Tits Up”. This refers to someone lying flat on their backs, such as a dead soldier might.
**Colin Powell’s son is the former head of the F.C.C. and was a real fucking asshole about it. Straight up.
A Very Offensive Tribute to Michael Jackson
Wow Michael Jackson’ has been dead for over a year now. That was one quick fucking year, boys and goils.
MJ’s last tour generated a huge amount of publicity, as was expected. Here was arguably the most famous man on earth doing his farewell tour. And the rumors, oh my, my, the fucking rumors.
There wasn’t a whole lot of good news. Or were they just rumors? Bad news sells better than good news and if you wanted a real mind-numbing train wreck of a story, true or not, you could always, always, count on Michael Jackson to be the bear the brunt.
We’ve all heard the tales of freak emanating from MJ’s life. His sex life (or lack thereof) was the one that fascinated me the most. Think about it. If MJ was hot for women, the public would have known.
When guys have a never-ending supply of Poon it’s a little hard for us to keep a thing like that under wraps. We tend to want to be seen with the most gorgeous woman we can get on our arms. It’s a guy thing. It says “I won you fuckers!” “Lookee what I got (and you don’t)!!”.
And Michael was no different (what?). Except he was obviously not a true poon-hound because you could tell he didn’t really grasp the concept. And a true pooner doesn’t need to grasp the concept! He has women, any woman he wants, grabbing at his wee-wee at all times of the night and day.
If he was “into” it there would not be enough blood left in his brain to form a cognitive thought. You can always tell this by the big stupid grin a guy gets when he knows he going to score with a beautiful woman, a hot babe. The stupid grin comes from the lack of normal brain function due to blood “misplacement”.
Michael never looked like he was gonna get laid. And this is with Brooke Shields on his arm! Brooke in her prime! If anyone out there is too young to know about the psycho-sexual furor that surrounded Brooke Shields when she was young, I’ll lay it out for real fucking simple. Every guy on the planet wanted to pork her! And if you say different you’re a lying motherfucker!
Guys had drooled over her from the time it was illegal, meaning little Brooky was one of the most famous pieces of jailbait the world had ever seen. All the way from her performance as an underage (way underage) prostitute in the 1978 movie “Pretty Baby” to her Calvin Klein’s jeans advertisements. Guys worldwide strained their necks, placed wages, jostled to the front of an angry mob to see just who would be the lucky fuck to first ruin her happy little hymen!! Amen, brothers!
And it looked like old Mikey was going to be the first to get to the proverbial holy land. Then it didn’t. The rumors went cold. Just when the world was going to see Michael Jackson finally make up his freaking mind and fuck something, alas it was not to be.
He was then seen in public cradling a tiny little McCauley Caulkin! Cue the rumors that caused a shit-storm of epic proportions that would follow him his entire life. A publicist’s nightmare!
Can you imagine the phone calls from the assistant publicist, the man “on the ground” if you will (and you will…) to the main publicist when all this weirdness with the kids and the chimp started.
Assistant: “Well, Boss, I got some good news and some bad news.”
Publicist: “All right. Hit me with some good news first.”
Assistant: “Michael’s found a replacement for Brooke!”
Publicist: (voice cracking) “A - a-nd the bad news?”
Assistant: “It’s McCauley Caulkin.”
Publicist: “The child actor? How old is he now?”
Assistant: “Twenty-seven.”
Publicist: “Boy, he hides it well.”
Assistant: ‘Yeah it’s great! He looks like he’s eight!”
Publicist: “What are they doing?”
Assistant: “He’s holding him on his hip like a toddler.”
Publicist: “Are the press taking notice?”
Assistant: “Well Liz Taylor just walked by with one of her tits’ accidentally hanging out and nobody so much as flinched”.
Publicist: “Oh dear God…”
Same personnel, different event:
Assistant: “Well, Boss, I got some more good news and some bad news.”
Publicist: “All right. Hit me with some good news first.”
Assistant: “Michael’s found a replacement for McCauley Caulkin!”
Publicist: (voice cracking) “A - a-nd the bad news?”
Assistant: “It’s a chimp! In a diaper!”
Publicist: “Are you sure it’s not Gary Coleman?”
Assistant: “My first thought, too, so I checked. His name is Bubbles!”
Publicist: “And you’re sure Michael knows that’s not McCauley?”
Assistant: “Pretty sure, yeah.”
Publicist: “We have to find some way to get this out of the public eye.”
Assistant: “We could have him taking the kids to an amusement park and not a party at Studio 54!”
Publicist: “Hell, he could buy his own kids at this point!”
Assistant: “Jeez, Boss, that’s going pretty far, even for you…
And so the nightmare continued.
I’ve come to a hypothesis about the whole deal with Michael Jackson being a pederast. I honestly don’t think he was having sex with children. I do think that the relationships he had cultivated with these youngsters were wrong. Even if his intentions were absolutely innocent, in the real world, a single man his age just cannot have a posse whose collective age is still under eighteen. Especially if you just happen to be a weirdo billionaire pop star.
Is it so hard for us to believe that there exists a man so deeply scarred by his past as to render him an asexual androgynous soul? Someone that is just so fed up with the bullshit heaped on him by adult aged people from the time he was a young child himself he seeks out innocence. Children are innocent. Innocents that don’t know enough to judge him or be in awe of him. Or want him to make them famous or rich! Shit. It must have never fucking ended for him!
I guess he could have hung out with “Adults with Special Needs” but once a retard learns how to masturbate it just changes the whole innocence dynamic! (I know, I know – I’ve been going to Hell for a long time now…)
Michael also suffered from intense chronic pain. Now the details of this are what a “paid” columnist would provide. However I don’t think anybody would be real surprised if they heard Michael Jackson was suffering from some permanent, very painful, injury.
After all, the way he danced, the way he moved, put him in the same echelon as any professional athlete. While I was watching the heartbreaking documentary of his last days “This Is It” I came to the realization that I was so impressed with this guys’ talent that I’m actually a fan. Shit. Me, a Michael Jackson fan. Fancy that.
He not only kept up with, but surpassed the professional dancers that were half his age. He was in total control of the choreography, stage and costume design, sound, choosing musicians and dancers. Not to mention the music. Most of which he had written himself. You never really think of Michael Jackson as a song writer, but if you think of all the hits he has written he far surpasses many artists that are thought of solely as songwriters. And they can’t dance.
In my opinion what did Mike in at the end was depression and insomnia brought on by getting straight. This is the scary part they don’t tell you about in school or on “Intervention”. When you have been physically dependent on opiate-based medications for many years, for what ever reason, you will eventually build up a tolerance to these medications. It can get completely out of control to the point where your life is no different than that of the demonized street-drug junkie.
So you go through opiate withdrawal. This has been compared to torture so severe so horrible that people have stayed on Methadone for DECADES in order to keep from going through the horrors of withdrawal.
Only the truly brave and determined can make it through that type of hell. Only a few make it to the point where you are no longer dependant on, or just taking, any medications at all.
But what they don’t tell you is that the hell of recovery has just begun. First and foremost kiss the concept of sleep goodbye. Throw on top of that a heaping shovelful of depression so bleak it’s mind-numbing.
After about six weeks you’d do anything to get even just a few minutes of sleep. And if you are a billionaire and the world’s most famous pop star there are people from heads of state to medical doctors that will do anything just to be in your presence. And they sure did.
He just wanted some fucking sleep. He just wanted a few minutes of fucking peace.
Be careful what you wish for.
Originally Posted by Pat Dillon(Fee Waybill) Monday July 19th, 2010
MJ’s last tour generated a huge amount of publicity, as was expected. Here was arguably the most famous man on earth doing his farewell tour. And the rumors, oh my, my, the fucking rumors.
There wasn’t a whole lot of good news. Or were they just rumors? Bad news sells better than good news and if you wanted a real mind-numbing train wreck of a story, true or not, you could always, always, count on Michael Jackson to be the bear the brunt.
We’ve all heard the tales of freak emanating from MJ’s life. His sex life (or lack thereof) was the one that fascinated me the most. Think about it. If MJ was hot for women, the public would have known.
When guys have a never-ending supply of Poon it’s a little hard for us to keep a thing like that under wraps. We tend to want to be seen with the most gorgeous woman we can get on our arms. It’s a guy thing. It says “I won you fuckers!” “Lookee what I got (and you don’t)!!”.
And Michael was no different (what?). Except he was obviously not a true poon-hound because you could tell he didn’t really grasp the concept. And a true pooner doesn’t need to grasp the concept! He has women, any woman he wants, grabbing at his wee-wee at all times of the night and day.
If he was “into” it there would not be enough blood left in his brain to form a cognitive thought. You can always tell this by the big stupid grin a guy gets when he knows he going to score with a beautiful woman, a hot babe. The stupid grin comes from the lack of normal brain function due to blood “misplacement”.
Michael never looked like he was gonna get laid. And this is with Brooke Shields on his arm! Brooke in her prime! If anyone out there is too young to know about the psycho-sexual furor that surrounded Brooke Shields when she was young, I’ll lay it out for real fucking simple. Every guy on the planet wanted to pork her! And if you say different you’re a lying motherfucker!
Guys had drooled over her from the time it was illegal, meaning little Brooky was one of the most famous pieces of jailbait the world had ever seen. All the way from her performance as an underage (way underage) prostitute in the 1978 movie “Pretty Baby” to her Calvin Klein’s jeans advertisements. Guys worldwide strained their necks, placed wages, jostled to the front of an angry mob to see just who would be the lucky fuck to first ruin her happy little hymen!! Amen, brothers!
And it looked like old Mikey was going to be the first to get to the proverbial holy land. Then it didn’t. The rumors went cold. Just when the world was going to see Michael Jackson finally make up his freaking mind and fuck something, alas it was not to be.
He was then seen in public cradling a tiny little McCauley Caulkin! Cue the rumors that caused a shit-storm of epic proportions that would follow him his entire life. A publicist’s nightmare!
Can you imagine the phone calls from the assistant publicist, the man “on the ground” if you will (and you will…) to the main publicist when all this weirdness with the kids and the chimp started.
Assistant: “Well, Boss, I got some good news and some bad news.”
Publicist: “All right. Hit me with some good news first.”
Assistant: “Michael’s found a replacement for Brooke!”
Publicist: (voice cracking) “A - a-nd the bad news?”
Assistant: “It’s McCauley Caulkin.”
Publicist: “The child actor? How old is he now?”
Assistant: “Twenty-seven.”
Publicist: “Boy, he hides it well.”
Assistant: ‘Yeah it’s great! He looks like he’s eight!”
Publicist: “What are they doing?”
Assistant: “He’s holding him on his hip like a toddler.”
Publicist: “Are the press taking notice?”
Assistant: “Well Liz Taylor just walked by with one of her tits’ accidentally hanging out and nobody so much as flinched”.
Publicist: “Oh dear God…”
Same personnel, different event:
Assistant: “Well, Boss, I got some more good news and some bad news.”
Publicist: “All right. Hit me with some good news first.”
Assistant: “Michael’s found a replacement for McCauley Caulkin!”
Publicist: (voice cracking) “A - a-nd the bad news?”
Assistant: “It’s a chimp! In a diaper!”
Publicist: “Are you sure it’s not Gary Coleman?”
Assistant: “My first thought, too, so I checked. His name is Bubbles!”
Publicist: “And you’re sure Michael knows that’s not McCauley?”
Assistant: “Pretty sure, yeah.”
Publicist: “We have to find some way to get this out of the public eye.”
Assistant: “We could have him taking the kids to an amusement park and not a party at Studio 54!”
Publicist: “Hell, he could buy his own kids at this point!”
Assistant: “Jeez, Boss, that’s going pretty far, even for you…
And so the nightmare continued.
I’ve come to a hypothesis about the whole deal with Michael Jackson being a pederast. I honestly don’t think he was having sex with children. I do think that the relationships he had cultivated with these youngsters were wrong. Even if his intentions were absolutely innocent, in the real world, a single man his age just cannot have a posse whose collective age is still under eighteen. Especially if you just happen to be a weirdo billionaire pop star.
Is it so hard for us to believe that there exists a man so deeply scarred by his past as to render him an asexual androgynous soul? Someone that is just so fed up with the bullshit heaped on him by adult aged people from the time he was a young child himself he seeks out innocence. Children are innocent. Innocents that don’t know enough to judge him or be in awe of him. Or want him to make them famous or rich! Shit. It must have never fucking ended for him!
I guess he could have hung out with “Adults with Special Needs” but once a retard learns how to masturbate it just changes the whole innocence dynamic! (I know, I know – I’ve been going to Hell for a long time now…)
Michael also suffered from intense chronic pain. Now the details of this are what a “paid” columnist would provide. However I don’t think anybody would be real surprised if they heard Michael Jackson was suffering from some permanent, very painful, injury.
After all, the way he danced, the way he moved, put him in the same echelon as any professional athlete. While I was watching the heartbreaking documentary of his last days “This Is It” I came to the realization that I was so impressed with this guys’ talent that I’m actually a fan. Shit. Me, a Michael Jackson fan. Fancy that.
He not only kept up with, but surpassed the professional dancers that were half his age. He was in total control of the choreography, stage and costume design, sound, choosing musicians and dancers. Not to mention the music. Most of which he had written himself. You never really think of Michael Jackson as a song writer, but if you think of all the hits he has written he far surpasses many artists that are thought of solely as songwriters. And they can’t dance.
In my opinion what did Mike in at the end was depression and insomnia brought on by getting straight. This is the scary part they don’t tell you about in school or on “Intervention”. When you have been physically dependent on opiate-based medications for many years, for what ever reason, you will eventually build up a tolerance to these medications. It can get completely out of control to the point where your life is no different than that of the demonized street-drug junkie.
So you go through opiate withdrawal. This has been compared to torture so severe so horrible that people have stayed on Methadone for DECADES in order to keep from going through the horrors of withdrawal.
Only the truly brave and determined can make it through that type of hell. Only a few make it to the point where you are no longer dependant on, or just taking, any medications at all.
But what they don’t tell you is that the hell of recovery has just begun. First and foremost kiss the concept of sleep goodbye. Throw on top of that a heaping shovelful of depression so bleak it’s mind-numbing.
After about six weeks you’d do anything to get even just a few minutes of sleep. And if you are a billionaire and the world’s most famous pop star there are people from heads of state to medical doctors that will do anything just to be in your presence. And they sure did.
He just wanted some fucking sleep. He just wanted a few minutes of fucking peace.
Be careful what you wish for.
Originally Posted by Pat Dillon(Fee Waybill) Monday July 19th, 2010
Gays in the Military, Just Too Hard?
Now there’s a touchy subject, gays in the Military! Big pulsating, throbbing topic just ready to explode! I know the days of mere political correctness, when pertaining to gays, has turned into political necessity, or political suicide depending on what comes out of (or goes into) your mouth.
There are gays and lesbians wearing their sexual preferences tattooed on their foreheads for all to see in all walks of life! Every arm of government to exclude only the Presidency, and some of those fuckers are pretty damned suspect in my opinion. And, thank God for all of us, my opinion means nothing.
But seriously, I must say that I do not agree with having openly gay boys and girls in the military. Not because I’m a homophobe, I’m not. Literally all of my friends are gay. Every last one of the little fairy fuckers, so let’s not have anymore of that!
It’s just, when you look at the reality of preserving equal rights for gays in the military, do we run into a clusterfuck of the most clusterfuckiest intensity. I served proudly in the United States Army for about three years. Two years plus in Dexheim, West Germany and a fucking lifetime in hell in Fort McClellan, Alabama (about twelve weeks). This extended insider’s military experience is what I base my following views upon:
After you step out of the U.S. Army Recruiter’s office feeling queasy and having that feeling that you have really fucked something up royal (you have) you are first sent to Basic Training. That is “Where They Make a Man Out of You!” They turn you into a “Lean, Mean Fighting Machine”.
Welp, we have to face some grim facts here, kids.
It’s the men that are trained to kill. We are all given the same Basic Training, but it is the men that are given the jobs of the “Killing Machines”. I would never diminish the role of you cute little broads in the Army. And there have been many, many gay men and women that have served many tours and many lifetimes, in all aspects and at all levels of military service. But when it comes to really “Mounting an Offensive”, “Sweep and Clear”, “Search and Destroy missions”, “Special Ops Group”, Navy S.E.AL.S. and several other really cool acronyms are mainly manned with men (that’s why they call it manned and not womened, that’s why..).
The only reason I even bring up the intensity of “kill” missions divided between men and women in the military has to do with training. We’ve all heard the notion that the Army, in Basic Training, tears you down and builds you back up mentally and physically.
This is very true. During training if you cannot keep up the pace of the run you will be mocked in a very severe manner. Such as a Drill Sergeant spitting violent words into your face inquiring if you are some kind of little fucking queer because you cannot keep up running with the rest of the platoon. That’s just the tip of the iceberg.
They constantly address you as “Ladies”, etc. I’ve heard such colorful quotes as “He a talks like a fag but he sure don’t shoot like one!”. That was one from our company commander, a Captain, a member of the U.S. Army Officer Corp. It goes on practically non-stop to the point where you start to wonder why many Drill Sergeants can’t open their mouths with out something gay coming out!
Their view is that it is an effective (undocumented) motivational tool. Soldiers can’t be pansies. They are teaching you to be a trained killing machine. Straight up.
For Gays to be open in the Military they must, abso-fucking-lutely must, be given equal rights and equal levels of protection accorded to every non-gay soldier. What this would entail would be a series of major changes.
No sexual epithets could be used during training. Separate Basic Training for Gays? How does this roll off the tongue “Hey Mom, I’m off to Gay Basic Training, now! Bye!” or the inevitable “You trained with the faggots training we were in with the real men – the women!”.
What about the housing nightmare? You can’t put a gay guy in with a straight guy; you can’t put a gay guy in the same room as a female. And we all know what would happen if we let these gay guys share rooms together! They’d never make it to morning formation at 6:00am after hours of unprotected “deep cavity” sex involving poppers, gerbils, and anything else Jimmy Swaggart ever fantasized about! God Forbid! And that will be their rationalization too, “God Forbids”, oy!
They’d be humping each other silly! Astroglide tubes would litter the once sparkling hallways! The word would get out to Gay cities all over the country like San Francisco, New York and Old Lyme, CT. Recruitment would be through the roof! But the most serious questions that remain are just what would the Army do with all these interior decorators?
The uniforms definitely need work, no one would ever disagree there, but just what else would they be good at? Outing Gay Russian Generals? Smuggling classified material (extra credit if you get that one)? Impersonating Janet Reno? Seducing Dick Cheney on tape (why do you think they call him “Dick”)? Thank God (for me) most gay people have a good sense of humor!
The laws that govern the Military are not the same as the laws that guarantee our rights as American citizens. U.S. Military personnel are under the Uniform Code of Military Justice. That is a whole ‘nother ball game, folks. Things like entrapment, search and seizure, your right to privacy, and death by hanging are all handled quite differently.
The sweeping changes the Military would have to undertake to guarantee equal treatment for gays would be mind numbing in its sheer size and possibly crippling when it comes to monetary expense. Just building separate quarters would be a daunting task. Unfortunately rebuilding just the morale in the service will be akin to nation building in Afghanistan. It would take forever and create an unstable atmosphere for years.
This, my friends, is certainly a sad state of affairs, but it is reality. As much as I wish for equal rights for all, the military is governed by different laws. That is the U.C.M.J. – Uniform Code of Military Justice for those of you with low reading comprehension.
I do, of course, offer a simple solution. We keep the “Don’t Ask, Don’t Tell” policy. But if you get caught you don’t get thrown out of the service. You get transferred to a different post and are given a promotion!
Why not? It’s worked for the Catholic Church for years.
Originally Posted by Pat Dillon(Fee Waybill) Tuesday July 13th, 2010
There are gays and lesbians wearing their sexual preferences tattooed on their foreheads for all to see in all walks of life! Every arm of government to exclude only the Presidency, and some of those fuckers are pretty damned suspect in my opinion. And, thank God for all of us, my opinion means nothing.
But seriously, I must say that I do not agree with having openly gay boys and girls in the military. Not because I’m a homophobe, I’m not. Literally all of my friends are gay. Every last one of the little fairy fuckers, so let’s not have anymore of that!
It’s just, when you look at the reality of preserving equal rights for gays in the military, do we run into a clusterfuck of the most clusterfuckiest intensity. I served proudly in the United States Army for about three years. Two years plus in Dexheim, West Germany and a fucking lifetime in hell in Fort McClellan, Alabama (about twelve weeks). This extended insider’s military experience is what I base my following views upon:
After you step out of the U.S. Army Recruiter’s office feeling queasy and having that feeling that you have really fucked something up royal (you have) you are first sent to Basic Training. That is “Where They Make a Man Out of You!” They turn you into a “Lean, Mean Fighting Machine”.
Welp, we have to face some grim facts here, kids.
It’s the men that are trained to kill. We are all given the same Basic Training, but it is the men that are given the jobs of the “Killing Machines”. I would never diminish the role of you cute little broads in the Army. And there have been many, many gay men and women that have served many tours and many lifetimes, in all aspects and at all levels of military service. But when it comes to really “Mounting an Offensive”, “Sweep and Clear”, “Search and Destroy missions”, “Special Ops Group”, Navy S.E.AL.S. and several other really cool acronyms are mainly manned with men (that’s why they call it manned and not womened, that’s why..).
The only reason I even bring up the intensity of “kill” missions divided between men and women in the military has to do with training. We’ve all heard the notion that the Army, in Basic Training, tears you down and builds you back up mentally and physically.
This is very true. During training if you cannot keep up the pace of the run you will be mocked in a very severe manner. Such as a Drill Sergeant spitting violent words into your face inquiring if you are some kind of little fucking queer because you cannot keep up running with the rest of the platoon. That’s just the tip of the iceberg.
They constantly address you as “Ladies”, etc. I’ve heard such colorful quotes as “He a talks like a fag but he sure don’t shoot like one!”. That was one from our company commander, a Captain, a member of the U.S. Army Officer Corp. It goes on practically non-stop to the point where you start to wonder why many Drill Sergeants can’t open their mouths with out something gay coming out!
Their view is that it is an effective (undocumented) motivational tool. Soldiers can’t be pansies. They are teaching you to be a trained killing machine. Straight up.
For Gays to be open in the Military they must, abso-fucking-lutely must, be given equal rights and equal levels of protection accorded to every non-gay soldier. What this would entail would be a series of major changes.
No sexual epithets could be used during training. Separate Basic Training for Gays? How does this roll off the tongue “Hey Mom, I’m off to Gay Basic Training, now! Bye!” or the inevitable “You trained with the faggots training we were in with the real men – the women!”.
What about the housing nightmare? You can’t put a gay guy in with a straight guy; you can’t put a gay guy in the same room as a female. And we all know what would happen if we let these gay guys share rooms together! They’d never make it to morning formation at 6:00am after hours of unprotected “deep cavity” sex involving poppers, gerbils, and anything else Jimmy Swaggart ever fantasized about! God Forbid! And that will be their rationalization too, “God Forbids”, oy!
They’d be humping each other silly! Astroglide tubes would litter the once sparkling hallways! The word would get out to Gay cities all over the country like San Francisco, New York and Old Lyme, CT. Recruitment would be through the roof! But the most serious questions that remain are just what would the Army do with all these interior decorators?
The uniforms definitely need work, no one would ever disagree there, but just what else would they be good at? Outing Gay Russian Generals? Smuggling classified material (extra credit if you get that one)? Impersonating Janet Reno? Seducing Dick Cheney on tape (why do you think they call him “Dick”)? Thank God (for me) most gay people have a good sense of humor!
The laws that govern the Military are not the same as the laws that guarantee our rights as American citizens. U.S. Military personnel are under the Uniform Code of Military Justice. That is a whole ‘nother ball game, folks. Things like entrapment, search and seizure, your right to privacy, and death by hanging are all handled quite differently.
The sweeping changes the Military would have to undertake to guarantee equal treatment for gays would be mind numbing in its sheer size and possibly crippling when it comes to monetary expense. Just building separate quarters would be a daunting task. Unfortunately rebuilding just the morale in the service will be akin to nation building in Afghanistan. It would take forever and create an unstable atmosphere for years.
This, my friends, is certainly a sad state of affairs, but it is reality. As much as I wish for equal rights for all, the military is governed by different laws. That is the U.C.M.J. – Uniform Code of Military Justice for those of you with low reading comprehension.
I do, of course, offer a simple solution. We keep the “Don’t Ask, Don’t Tell” policy. But if you get caught you don’t get thrown out of the service. You get transferred to a different post and are given a promotion!
Why not? It’s worked for the Catholic Church for years.
Originally Posted by Pat Dillon(Fee Waybill) Tuesday July 13th, 2010
World Cup Soccer and Severed Human Heads
World Cup Soccer! Of course all those “non-Americans” (and you know who you are…) call it Football. Why? Because it is freaking football! What the hell else would you call it? Kickball? Actually kickball’s kind of funny.
And they need more humor in European Football. I viewed a great documentary that was done by Vanguard Documentaries on the “Current” channel. It showed a level of violence and naked racial hatred that goes way beyond the mere (mere?) hooliganism of the ‘90’s. Nazi groups that buy out entire sections of the football stadium were filmed displaying huge signs that contained giant swastikas, Maltese crosses, and any other Nazi, Hitler loving, Jew hating symbolism they can get their slimy hands on.
The skin-heads were constantly shown repeatedly giving the straight-armed “Hitler salute”. They were grunting like monkeys every time an athlete of color was handling the ball, jumping up and down shit-faced drunk, screaming until they were hoarse. Popular black players were hung in effigy and were actually pelted with bananas while they were on the field! Can you just picture a drunken skin-head staggering into the stadium carrying an armload of bananas?
Where does the impetus and manic energy for this kind of intensity and insanity come from? This kind of hate takes a lot of hard work and dedication. Not that they should be praised for actually having incredibly strong convictions no matter how vile, they should be dissected and studied, oh fuck the study, just dissect the cocksuckers!
Now I have figured out, after watching the entire broadcast of the World Cup Finals, why all this shit is going on. It’s because SOCCER IS THE MOST BORING FUCKING GAME ON EARTH!!
Nazis, skinheads, violence – NOW THAT’S ENTERTAINMENT!!! I do know the game. I went to a high school where the main sport was not Football but Soccer. That didn’t mean the school and town weren’t full of stuck-up clique driven assholes – they were chuck fucking full of them. Our High School Soccer teams were winners of many State Championships, we even played the game in summertime, in gym class, and just while fucking around. Like guys threw a football around, we kicked a soccer ball.
And I still think it’s duller than dogshit.
Of course I’m not really into sports at all. The only team I guess you could say I was a fan of, or gave a shit about is the New York Yankees. And that’s probably just because Derek Jeter’s parents live right down the street from us. Seriously I would only watch the fucking Mets if they were in the World Series, and their stadium is only about three miles away from Yankee stadium! Couldn’t give a fuck. Oh, I like the Giants, too…
My hypothesis on Soccer’s worldwide popularity is its ease of play. Not much equipment is needed to get a rousing match started. No bats, special balls, helmets, padding or specific playing surface (think grass courts at Wimbledon). All you need is some kind of land clearing and something round that you can kick.
I have literally seen soccer played on a field of rotted crops with a severed human head as the ball! Now think of the grass courts at Wimbledon again real quick! See what I mean? Now that’s diversity!
Kind of makes you wonder what you’d have to do in order to get a red card while playing football with a severed human head. Or even a yellow card for that matter.
Selah.
And they need more humor in European Football. I viewed a great documentary that was done by Vanguard Documentaries on the “Current” channel. It showed a level of violence and naked racial hatred that goes way beyond the mere (mere?) hooliganism of the ‘90’s. Nazi groups that buy out entire sections of the football stadium were filmed displaying huge signs that contained giant swastikas, Maltese crosses, and any other Nazi, Hitler loving, Jew hating symbolism they can get their slimy hands on.
The skin-heads were constantly shown repeatedly giving the straight-armed “Hitler salute”. They were grunting like monkeys every time an athlete of color was handling the ball, jumping up and down shit-faced drunk, screaming until they were hoarse. Popular black players were hung in effigy and were actually pelted with bananas while they were on the field! Can you just picture a drunken skin-head staggering into the stadium carrying an armload of bananas?
Where does the impetus and manic energy for this kind of intensity and insanity come from? This kind of hate takes a lot of hard work and dedication. Not that they should be praised for actually having incredibly strong convictions no matter how vile, they should be dissected and studied, oh fuck the study, just dissect the cocksuckers!
Now I have figured out, after watching the entire broadcast of the World Cup Finals, why all this shit is going on. It’s because SOCCER IS THE MOST BORING FUCKING GAME ON EARTH!!
Nazis, skinheads, violence – NOW THAT’S ENTERTAINMENT!!! I do know the game. I went to a high school where the main sport was not Football but Soccer. That didn’t mean the school and town weren’t full of stuck-up clique driven assholes – they were chuck fucking full of them. Our High School Soccer teams were winners of many State Championships, we even played the game in summertime, in gym class, and just while fucking around. Like guys threw a football around, we kicked a soccer ball.
And I still think it’s duller than dogshit.
Of course I’m not really into sports at all. The only team I guess you could say I was a fan of, or gave a shit about is the New York Yankees. And that’s probably just because Derek Jeter’s parents live right down the street from us. Seriously I would only watch the fucking Mets if they were in the World Series, and their stadium is only about three miles away from Yankee stadium! Couldn’t give a fuck. Oh, I like the Giants, too…
My hypothesis on Soccer’s worldwide popularity is its ease of play. Not much equipment is needed to get a rousing match started. No bats, special balls, helmets, padding or specific playing surface (think grass courts at Wimbledon). All you need is some kind of land clearing and something round that you can kick.
I have literally seen soccer played on a field of rotted crops with a severed human head as the ball! Now think of the grass courts at Wimbledon again real quick! See what I mean? Now that’s diversity!
Kind of makes you wonder what you’d have to do in order to get a red card while playing football with a severed human head. Or even a yellow card for that matter.
Selah.
Kill Whitey
I like to rant and rave about shit that pisses me off. And pisses you off too. Only sometimes you’re not aware that this shit pisses you off in a major fucking way. If you think deeply enough about it, with my prodding, angst, anger, disgust, and general overall negative view of the topic of disgustion you may just realize that, what I’m ranting about, you may happen to agree with. You’ve just never thought about this particular subject in the way it is now being presented. I sound like I’ve been doing speed.
Let’s gently ease into this by talking about something gentle and light, not too controversial: Black/White race relations in the glorious U.S.!!
I have learned about race relationships in this country of ours up close and personal. Mostly in exotic locations that just naturally mix blacks and whites. Unfortunately I’m not referring to Trinidad and Tobago, the Virgin Islands or Bermuda; I’m referring to the U.S Army - and jail.
I do not accept the term reverse racism. The definition of that phrase just means when a white person – just white, mind you, runs into a discrimination situation where they are the victim. They have had a crime committed against them just, and only, because they are white, Caucasian if you will. This has been blessed with the moniker of “REVERSE RACISM”.
That says to me that the litmus test for black/white racism is your skin color. If you are white you are the definition, the antithesis, the origin, the creator, the perpetuator of the baseline boiler plate of white/black racism. YOU, you pasty faced fuck, are a racist automatically if the color of your skin looks like Larry Bird with a suntan (Larry Bird is so white he is almost transparent…).
What all that means is “Reverse Racism” makes me feel like I was born a racist because I am a white skinned person. That has always made me feel sad and left me confused. Confused because for me, I can honestly say that I certainly have never hated (hate may be too strong a word here) anyone just because they were black without any further knowledge of that person at all.
When I first started active duty for the U.S. Army in Dexheim, West Germany I must say that I felt the scorn and mistrust towards me as the new and only “white boy” in the supply office. Fresh from Basic Training and having no rank I didn’t have much choice but to suck it up.
And fuck with me they did. It took almost two full years before these guys would “accept” me as being “alright”. I was even given the distinct honor of being introduced, by one of my black co-workers to another black soldier, as “He’s Cool”. They taught me the handshake and everything.
Wow.
However, it took two years to get to the point where these guys would trust me, treat me with a modicum of respect. Just because I’m white? Well, WHY???? I had never even been in a situation where I could have been a mean old racist walking penis. And believe me I had a pretty hard time staying objective to the situation. I was dogged at work (for years), had things blatantly stolen from me, even had been beaten.
One time while waiting at a Bahnhof (German train station) a group of intoxicated black soldiers (off duty, street clothes) simply walked up to me and started hurling racial insults at me. Simply because I was white. Then one of these gentlemen walked right up to me and sucker punched me, just as hard as he could, right square in the face. You would have thought he had just told the funniest joke ever by the reaction of his friends. Jeering, scornful, snorting laughter filled my ears and rattled my head. I was both trying to stay conscious and pray to God that they wouldn’t kill me at the same time.
This incident happened at a train station in Mainz, West Germany, on a peaceful, clear, beautiful night after a fantastic local wine festival.
These German wine-fests were always the highlight of the summer. They are wonderful, happy celebrations of the new and old when it comes to wine and all things German. They transform the village into stretches of wine booths, fresh food, music, art and dancing for all ages.
The problem is that my experience at a wine-fest or anywhere else in Germany at the time was much different than a black U.S. Army soldier. At the time, and I’m just qualifying this because I have not been back to Germany since the re-unification, but at that time blacks were still not allowed to go into certain night-spots when their white friends were ushered right through the front door. This was in 1983 to 1986. I guess (guess?) twenty-seven years is actually a very insignificant amount of time when it comes to racial prejudice.
For maybe the first time in my life I really concentrated on what it would feel like if this were to happen to me. Put yourself in the other guy’s shoes for a minute.
I have tasted a slight wisp of discrimination while getting a prescription filled (read my post Oxy-Morons). I have long hair, was in a good mood because I was with a good friend of mine and I guess the pharmacist decided that this happy hippy didn’t need these painkillers as he just didn’t look the part. This whole ordeal is in another column so by all means do some reading (it’s posted!).
When I allowed myself to really try to feel that level of resentment I realized that if it was me on the other end of this gigantic fuck-stick I would make it my life’s work to kill as many white motherfuckers as I could. The rage that I felt was alarming, and of course we’re talking about simple concentrated thinking, I didn’t go undercover or disguise myself in any way for this experience. I didn’t need to.
I can’t and never will be able to understand what a Black man in this country still has to put up with. He will experience discrimination just by seeing whites go out of their way to make him feel “welcome”. Not to mention stupid shit like “Hey you’re one of the good ones!” or bringing up "I have a lot of black friends!” for no apparent reason other than you are speaking to the "Scary Black Man”. I have heard these actual words way too recently for comfort and it doesn’t embarrass me anymore. It makes me fucking mad as hell.
I think I’ll go beat up a honky – at least I’ll have a chance with a white guy…
Selah.
Let’s gently ease into this by talking about something gentle and light, not too controversial: Black/White race relations in the glorious U.S.!!
I have learned about race relationships in this country of ours up close and personal. Mostly in exotic locations that just naturally mix blacks and whites. Unfortunately I’m not referring to Trinidad and Tobago, the Virgin Islands or Bermuda; I’m referring to the U.S Army - and jail.
I do not accept the term reverse racism. The definition of that phrase just means when a white person – just white, mind you, runs into a discrimination situation where they are the victim. They have had a crime committed against them just, and only, because they are white, Caucasian if you will. This has been blessed with the moniker of “REVERSE RACISM”.
That says to me that the litmus test for black/white racism is your skin color. If you are white you are the definition, the antithesis, the origin, the creator, the perpetuator of the baseline boiler plate of white/black racism. YOU, you pasty faced fuck, are a racist automatically if the color of your skin looks like Larry Bird with a suntan (Larry Bird is so white he is almost transparent…).
What all that means is “Reverse Racism” makes me feel like I was born a racist because I am a white skinned person. That has always made me feel sad and left me confused. Confused because for me, I can honestly say that I certainly have never hated (hate may be too strong a word here) anyone just because they were black without any further knowledge of that person at all.
When I first started active duty for the U.S. Army in Dexheim, West Germany I must say that I felt the scorn and mistrust towards me as the new and only “white boy” in the supply office. Fresh from Basic Training and having no rank I didn’t have much choice but to suck it up.
And fuck with me they did. It took almost two full years before these guys would “accept” me as being “alright”. I was even given the distinct honor of being introduced, by one of my black co-workers to another black soldier, as “He’s Cool”. They taught me the handshake and everything.
Wow.
However, it took two years to get to the point where these guys would trust me, treat me with a modicum of respect. Just because I’m white? Well, WHY???? I had never even been in a situation where I could have been a mean old racist walking penis. And believe me I had a pretty hard time staying objective to the situation. I was dogged at work (for years), had things blatantly stolen from me, even had been beaten.
One time while waiting at a Bahnhof (German train station) a group of intoxicated black soldiers (off duty, street clothes) simply walked up to me and started hurling racial insults at me. Simply because I was white. Then one of these gentlemen walked right up to me and sucker punched me, just as hard as he could, right square in the face. You would have thought he had just told the funniest joke ever by the reaction of his friends. Jeering, scornful, snorting laughter filled my ears and rattled my head. I was both trying to stay conscious and pray to God that they wouldn’t kill me at the same time.
This incident happened at a train station in Mainz, West Germany, on a peaceful, clear, beautiful night after a fantastic local wine festival.
These German wine-fests were always the highlight of the summer. They are wonderful, happy celebrations of the new and old when it comes to wine and all things German. They transform the village into stretches of wine booths, fresh food, music, art and dancing for all ages.
The problem is that my experience at a wine-fest or anywhere else in Germany at the time was much different than a black U.S. Army soldier. At the time, and I’m just qualifying this because I have not been back to Germany since the re-unification, but at that time blacks were still not allowed to go into certain night-spots when their white friends were ushered right through the front door. This was in 1983 to 1986. I guess (guess?) twenty-seven years is actually a very insignificant amount of time when it comes to racial prejudice.
For maybe the first time in my life I really concentrated on what it would feel like if this were to happen to me. Put yourself in the other guy’s shoes for a minute.
I have tasted a slight wisp of discrimination while getting a prescription filled (read my post Oxy-Morons). I have long hair, was in a good mood because I was with a good friend of mine and I guess the pharmacist decided that this happy hippy didn’t need these painkillers as he just didn’t look the part. This whole ordeal is in another column so by all means do some reading (it’s posted!).
When I allowed myself to really try to feel that level of resentment I realized that if it was me on the other end of this gigantic fuck-stick I would make it my life’s work to kill as many white motherfuckers as I could. The rage that I felt was alarming, and of course we’re talking about simple concentrated thinking, I didn’t go undercover or disguise myself in any way for this experience. I didn’t need to.
I can’t and never will be able to understand what a Black man in this country still has to put up with. He will experience discrimination just by seeing whites go out of their way to make him feel “welcome”. Not to mention stupid shit like “Hey you’re one of the good ones!” or bringing up "I have a lot of black friends!” for no apparent reason other than you are speaking to the "Scary Black Man”. I have heard these actual words way too recently for comfort and it doesn’t embarrass me anymore. It makes me fucking mad as hell.
I think I’ll go beat up a honky – at least I’ll have a chance with a white guy…
Selah.
Oxy-Morons
Sorry I’ve been away my beloved readers but we ran into a few serious hardware problems (buntcha shit all broke down at the same time). But that certainly didn’t stop the voices in my head! Voices that can only be expurgated by foolish writing (combined with embarrassing, copious drug abuse, nyuk, nyuk) so mix the blog and barf and I present to you the following blarf.
I’m certainly not one to complain about or have a negative opinion of how people handle, interpret, or even just fucking deal with DRUGS. Old Fee’s got a bit of a bug up his ass about this one however, and my bitch is about Oxycontin.
Unfortunately I find myself, suddenly, with no warning whatsoever, as old as Methuselah! When the fuck that officially happened is for a much more important blarf than this.
Trying not to sound like a withered old man bitching about the cancellation of Matlock and squirting somewhat accidentally into his adult Depends, I have, through no fucking fault of my own, been stricken with a horrible fucking disease.
A disease with no known cause! No known cure! And no hope for any recovery of any kind! It is (they think) your own immune system trying to kill a life threatening infection that is no longer there. Your own body is trying to kill you! How fucked up is that? (And people say some of my writing is dark!) The symptoms (R.A.) are pretty simple. Massive fucking pain anywhere and everywhere. Actually it’s my joints. And not the good kind! Sometimes “it” just feels like making you suffer. And it most certainly does.
Quick thought:
When some people pass away it is often heard said by a friend or relative “He was in great pain, but you never heard him complain, not even once.” Well then how in the fuck did you know he was in all this great pain?
Well you’re in pain, you have insurance. Hey, let’s go to the Pain Doctor and get some pain drugs! A few tests, little blood drawn, a prescription, you skip happily to the pharmacy. While the Pharmacist man is reading the ‘script you notice he’s also staring at you. Sizing you up, dressing you down. Is this a scam or is this guy one of “THOSE PEOPLE” that abuses these drugs? You think quietly to yourself (at first) what the fuck is this guy’s problem?
The prescription (for Oxycontin – that’s what this whole thing’s about, remember?) is from a licensed doctor with a valid DEA number. If you have a problem with it, Mr. Pharmacist, call the fucking doctor. Their names and phone numbers are right there on the prescription pad, asshole!
I’ve had pharmacists stare me down like I just wrote the thing up on the counter right in front of them! One holier-than-thou phallus actually took my prescription and he reduced the number of pills prescribed by 33% because some pharmacist guidelines (I believe the name of the book is “How to Be an Asshole Because I Can’t Handle Being a Real Doctor”) indicates that he can.
He just can. And he did. He didn’t know what my malady was, he didn’t bother asking, and he certainly didn’t bother calling my doctor to gather any further information. He just looked at me and decided all on his own that he was just going to cut my dosage of pain medication by 33%. A dosage that I had been on for three years, and a prescription I had been getting filled at that very pharmacy for those three years.
I realized then with great ire that this was pure appearance discrimination. I’d bet my bottom dollar this fuckstick had filled a ‘script just like mine before. Without any of these bullshit changes. Probably to some matron with a boring home life. Someone that didn’t fit the “profile”.
I then came to the conclusion, “Oh now I get it – you’re just being an asshole!” I said right to his pinched-up rat-like face. “Give me back my fucking prescription!” I guess he could tell that normally docile Fee (that is a lie) was about to jump over the counter and beat him like he beats his own tiny pecker at night. That didn’t sound quite right, but you get the picture. He handed over my ‘script pronto. The pharmacy down the street filled it in 20 minutes with no problems at all.
Now, I don’t dress like a banker but I don’t look like Keith Richards either (in public anyways). I did, however, get a taste of pure discrimination that day. It was an eye opening experience that brought a lot of other thoughts to mind. Thoughts like how I would I feel if I were a black man in America and felt this horrible shit every day, but that’s for another column.
I’m getting sick of seeing perfectly good drugs (that I need!) like Oxycontin getting a bad rap because people that do not need Oxy’s do not have the fucking Balls, their genuine God given BIG AMERICAN BALLS, to go out and score some scag. Dope. Diesel. “The Boy not the Bitch”. I’m talking heroin boys and girls.
It’s cheaper, gets you a lot fucking higher, is easier to get, and is easier to imbibe. A Quadrophenia, man. Why fuck around you pussies? You want that buzz you know what the fucking deal is – it’s all the same shit! From Tylenol #3 with codeine to 80mg Oxycontin to Mexican tar to China white (I’m drooling) it’s all opium based dope.
Plain and fucking simple. You know it and I know it (and they know it).
So why are you fucking with these innocent people that are in real need of pain relief, and can’t get it, because you dicks are out there slinging Oxy’s? These innocent, bonafide, pain sufferin’ people deserve to get high! Real high! Right now! (Not a bad idea, be back in a second…).
You know, headlines of “Teenaged Kids Overdosing and Dying from Rampant Oxycontin Abuse!” are really making it tough for the rest of us to get the good quality drugs we need and deserve. So these media whores also bear some responsibility in my opinion. Imagine, writing about drugs just to get attention or sell newspapers! You’d have to be a pretty sick individual to do such a thing (Do you smell that?). Preposterous! These medications are made for a very serious specific purpose.
So why not simply turn to heroin? Is it the scary name? Is it the evil reputation? If it’s all the same thing, the same drug, the same high, why not just get some fucking scag? You don’t even need to prep it and crush it to snort it!
SO WHY?
Fee knows EXACTLY fucking WHY!
But that’s for another column.
Happy trails, kiddies!
And just a quick note to thank the love of my life for an incredible Independence Day weekend celebration and all-out brain-fry. I would not be here with out her. So just remember - it's her fault I'm still here!
Props to the "S" and DMI.
Originally Posted by Pat Dillon as Fee Waybill on Saturday July 10th, 2010
I’m certainly not one to complain about or have a negative opinion of how people handle, interpret, or even just fucking deal with DRUGS. Old Fee’s got a bit of a bug up his ass about this one however, and my bitch is about Oxycontin.
Unfortunately I find myself, suddenly, with no warning whatsoever, as old as Methuselah! When the fuck that officially happened is for a much more important blarf than this.
Trying not to sound like a withered old man bitching about the cancellation of Matlock and squirting somewhat accidentally into his adult Depends, I have, through no fucking fault of my own, been stricken with a horrible fucking disease.
A disease with no known cause! No known cure! And no hope for any recovery of any kind! It is (they think) your own immune system trying to kill a life threatening infection that is no longer there. Your own body is trying to kill you! How fucked up is that? (And people say some of my writing is dark!) The symptoms (R.A.) are pretty simple. Massive fucking pain anywhere and everywhere. Actually it’s my joints. And not the good kind! Sometimes “it” just feels like making you suffer. And it most certainly does.
Quick thought:
When some people pass away it is often heard said by a friend or relative “He was in great pain, but you never heard him complain, not even once.” Well then how in the fuck did you know he was in all this great pain?
Well you’re in pain, you have insurance. Hey, let’s go to the Pain Doctor and get some pain drugs! A few tests, little blood drawn, a prescription, you skip happily to the pharmacy. While the Pharmacist man is reading the ‘script you notice he’s also staring at you. Sizing you up, dressing you down. Is this a scam or is this guy one of “THOSE PEOPLE” that abuses these drugs? You think quietly to yourself (at first) what the fuck is this guy’s problem?
The prescription (for Oxycontin – that’s what this whole thing’s about, remember?) is from a licensed doctor with a valid DEA number. If you have a problem with it, Mr. Pharmacist, call the fucking doctor. Their names and phone numbers are right there on the prescription pad, asshole!
I’ve had pharmacists stare me down like I just wrote the thing up on the counter right in front of them! One holier-than-thou phallus actually took my prescription and he reduced the number of pills prescribed by 33% because some pharmacist guidelines (I believe the name of the book is “How to Be an Asshole Because I Can’t Handle Being a Real Doctor”) indicates that he can.
He just can. And he did. He didn’t know what my malady was, he didn’t bother asking, and he certainly didn’t bother calling my doctor to gather any further information. He just looked at me and decided all on his own that he was just going to cut my dosage of pain medication by 33%. A dosage that I had been on for three years, and a prescription I had been getting filled at that very pharmacy for those three years.
I realized then with great ire that this was pure appearance discrimination. I’d bet my bottom dollar this fuckstick had filled a ‘script just like mine before. Without any of these bullshit changes. Probably to some matron with a boring home life. Someone that didn’t fit the “profile”.
I then came to the conclusion, “Oh now I get it – you’re just being an asshole!” I said right to his pinched-up rat-like face. “Give me back my fucking prescription!” I guess he could tell that normally docile Fee (that is a lie) was about to jump over the counter and beat him like he beats his own tiny pecker at night. That didn’t sound quite right, but you get the picture. He handed over my ‘script pronto. The pharmacy down the street filled it in 20 minutes with no problems at all.
Now, I don’t dress like a banker but I don’t look like Keith Richards either (in public anyways). I did, however, get a taste of pure discrimination that day. It was an eye opening experience that brought a lot of other thoughts to mind. Thoughts like how I would I feel if I were a black man in America and felt this horrible shit every day, but that’s for another column.
I’m getting sick of seeing perfectly good drugs (that I need!) like Oxycontin getting a bad rap because people that do not need Oxy’s do not have the fucking Balls, their genuine God given BIG AMERICAN BALLS, to go out and score some scag. Dope. Diesel. “The Boy not the Bitch”. I’m talking heroin boys and girls.
It’s cheaper, gets you a lot fucking higher, is easier to get, and is easier to imbibe. A Quadrophenia, man. Why fuck around you pussies? You want that buzz you know what the fucking deal is – it’s all the same shit! From Tylenol #3 with codeine to 80mg Oxycontin to Mexican tar to China white (I’m drooling) it’s all opium based dope.
Plain and fucking simple. You know it and I know it (and they know it).
So why are you fucking with these innocent people that are in real need of pain relief, and can’t get it, because you dicks are out there slinging Oxy’s? These innocent, bonafide, pain sufferin’ people deserve to get high! Real high! Right now! (Not a bad idea, be back in a second…).
You know, headlines of “Teenaged Kids Overdosing and Dying from Rampant Oxycontin Abuse!” are really making it tough for the rest of us to get the good quality drugs we need and deserve. So these media whores also bear some responsibility in my opinion. Imagine, writing about drugs just to get attention or sell newspapers! You’d have to be a pretty sick individual to do such a thing (Do you smell that?). Preposterous! These medications are made for a very serious specific purpose.
So why not simply turn to heroin? Is it the scary name? Is it the evil reputation? If it’s all the same thing, the same drug, the same high, why not just get some fucking scag? You don’t even need to prep it and crush it to snort it!
SO WHY?
Fee knows EXACTLY fucking WHY!
But that’s for another column.
Happy trails, kiddies!
And just a quick note to thank the love of my life for an incredible Independence Day weekend celebration and all-out brain-fry. I would not be here with out her. So just remember - it's her fault I'm still here!
Props to the "S" and DMI.
Originally Posted by Pat Dillon as Fee Waybill on Saturday July 10th, 2010
New Rape of the Native American
In the past few days I have been seeing a certain commercial for money lending. While most of these are an obvious rip-off, scam, Shylock, whatever term you wish they are scum. Predatory scum. I had seen the late thespian Gary Coleman in a television commercial that was, what seemed to me, geared toward black people that are having serious money problems. Let's face it, lately who isn't having money problems? Or who hasn't seen thier net worth completely befucked?
HOWEVER: After all this shit with with bailing out banks, executive bonuses,etc., etc., you would think that blatant predatory lending practices would subside or at least try to lay low, blend into the woodwork at it were. But hell "fuggin A" no. The Gary Coleman commercial was offering around two grand for 99.8% interest. In his best homeboy, down wid' it, shtick 'ole Gar was really offering some serious shit, in the literal sense, to his peers. Or, of course, that is what these money lenders wanted to portray.
Now I thought that was pretty damned disgusting. I actually had to rewind the broadcast a few times to read the fine print because I just could not believe what I was seeing. That Gary Coleman was used (used hell - he got paid) trying to sell shit loans to his own minority group is as revolting as it gets.
I do understand desperation folks, don't get me wrong. I do have some fathom of sympathy for an old child actor (how's that for an oxymoron?).
BUT: This new, latest piece of pure dog shit I have seen twice so far on daytime TV was geared towards Native Americans. Indians for those of you whom do not toil in data processing. The advertisement showed what appeared to be a native American man, olive skin, long straight dark hair, everything but the the feathers and a teardrop (if you get the teardrop reference you get extra credit). Pure stereotype of the most vicious type. They showed this fuck stick's name as Thomas Morgan. What no "Running Wolf " or "Sitting Bull's grandson"? Where are your stereotype balls you whores? Anyways they were touting money for lend. At a rate of 138.98%!!!
Now that is BALLS! Full out all American BALLS !!
At one point in my life I was introduced to the term "Usury" (I have no memory of "when" or "how" on a whole bunch of subjects!) anyways usury was a crime synonymous with shy locking, or lending money at an inflated rate. Usually this was a favorite crime, oh yes it was a serious felony, of the Mafia. You end up owing them money through loans or gambling, drug debts, what have you until they really have you by the balls. They also charge penalties for late or missed payments. This has been referred to as a "Vig" which was added on to the principal - nothing you can't learn from watching "The Sopranos".
Of course the legal usury "cutoff" percentage was about 25%. So, anything charged interest at a rate above 25% was a felony. I really don't know why or when the laws have changed. I could do an hour of research, but so can any body reading this if you care about specifics.
The highest interest rate I have ever witnessed, 138.98%, for the minority group in this country that has the lowest education level ratings, lowest annual income, and, in some minds social status. Let's not even insult them by making casino comments. I don't know but if I had to venture a guess I wouldn't bet on actual Native Americans being the sole profiteers from legalized gambling.
How did we get from throwing people in jail for usury to letting insanity rule the interest rates charged. This is the definition of predatory lending at it's brightest and at the same time so, so dark. The commercial has this "Thomas Morgan" stating that "Sure it's not cheap, but it's better than a payday loan.". Who out there knows off hand what he means exactly by a "Payday Loan"! If it's worse than 138.98% you must be pretty fucking desperate.
And desperate times call for desperate measures.
This was more to me than just another sad commentary on some of the bullshit we have to put up with as Americans. This is the type of shit that spreads disillusionment, mistrust, and paranoia, needless paranoia on how our government is being run, who is pulling these strings, manipulating legislation and who the real profiteers are here.
Our collective Native American heritage, and I mean everyone that was born here is a native American, should be more important in our collective ethos. From predatory lending to endless strip malls I really think we as a nation would feel more pride in ourselves and our country if we cherished it the way the people that were always here did. And still do.
Happy Independence Day, folks. Now let's show our love for our country by blowing a small piece of it to smithereens!
Originally posted Thursday July 1st, 2010
HOWEVER: After all this shit with with bailing out banks, executive bonuses,etc., etc., you would think that blatant predatory lending practices would subside or at least try to lay low, blend into the woodwork at it were. But hell "fuggin A" no. The Gary Coleman commercial was offering around two grand for 99.8% interest. In his best homeboy, down wid' it, shtick 'ole Gar was really offering some serious shit, in the literal sense, to his peers. Or, of course, that is what these money lenders wanted to portray.
Now I thought that was pretty damned disgusting. I actually had to rewind the broadcast a few times to read the fine print because I just could not believe what I was seeing. That Gary Coleman was used (used hell - he got paid) trying to sell shit loans to his own minority group is as revolting as it gets.
I do understand desperation folks, don't get me wrong. I do have some fathom of sympathy for an old child actor (how's that for an oxymoron?).
BUT: This new, latest piece of pure dog shit I have seen twice so far on daytime TV was geared towards Native Americans. Indians for those of you whom do not toil in data processing. The advertisement showed what appeared to be a native American man, olive skin, long straight dark hair, everything but the the feathers and a teardrop (if you get the teardrop reference you get extra credit). Pure stereotype of the most vicious type. They showed this fuck stick's name as Thomas Morgan. What no "Running Wolf " or "Sitting Bull's grandson"? Where are your stereotype balls you whores? Anyways they were touting money for lend. At a rate of 138.98%!!!
Now that is BALLS! Full out all American BALLS !!
At one point in my life I was introduced to the term "Usury" (I have no memory of "when" or "how" on a whole bunch of subjects!) anyways usury was a crime synonymous with shy locking, or lending money at an inflated rate. Usually this was a favorite crime, oh yes it was a serious felony, of the Mafia. You end up owing them money through loans or gambling, drug debts, what have you until they really have you by the balls. They also charge penalties for late or missed payments. This has been referred to as a "Vig" which was added on to the principal - nothing you can't learn from watching "The Sopranos".
Of course the legal usury "cutoff" percentage was about 25%. So, anything charged interest at a rate above 25% was a felony. I really don't know why or when the laws have changed. I could do an hour of research, but so can any body reading this if you care about specifics.
The highest interest rate I have ever witnessed, 138.98%, for the minority group in this country that has the lowest education level ratings, lowest annual income, and, in some minds social status. Let's not even insult them by making casino comments. I don't know but if I had to venture a guess I wouldn't bet on actual Native Americans being the sole profiteers from legalized gambling.
How did we get from throwing people in jail for usury to letting insanity rule the interest rates charged. This is the definition of predatory lending at it's brightest and at the same time so, so dark. The commercial has this "Thomas Morgan" stating that "Sure it's not cheap, but it's better than a payday loan.". Who out there knows off hand what he means exactly by a "Payday Loan"! If it's worse than 138.98% you must be pretty fucking desperate.
And desperate times call for desperate measures.
This was more to me than just another sad commentary on some of the bullshit we have to put up with as Americans. This is the type of shit that spreads disillusionment, mistrust, and paranoia, needless paranoia on how our government is being run, who is pulling these strings, manipulating legislation and who the real profiteers are here.
Our collective Native American heritage, and I mean everyone that was born here is a native American, should be more important in our collective ethos. From predatory lending to endless strip malls I really think we as a nation would feel more pride in ourselves and our country if we cherished it the way the people that were always here did. And still do.
Happy Independence Day, folks. Now let's show our love for our country by blowing a small piece of it to smithereens!
Originally posted Thursday July 1st, 2010
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