Bad Sum Bitch

There are a lot of swear words in recent posts of mine. What can I say? I'm bad. And not like weird, Michael Jackson, wearing leather chaps bad, but bad. Hardcore bad. I say things like, "I eat pieces of shit like you for breakfast" and then people say, "Ha! You eat shit for breakfast!" and then I say, "Yeah, I do". And then I smile with poop smeared all over my teeth. That's the kind of bad I'm talking about. I'm gg allin bad.

My wife swears I'm a nice guy. That's why I kick my dogs just to prove I'm hardcore. Don't blame me, though, it's in my nature.

Milo and Otis

Bekki and I just bought a new DVD player. Our cat, Clementine, broke the old one (she has her moods). Well, we were carousing our local Wal-Mart the other day and decided to pickup a copy of the children's classic The Adventures of Milo and Otis. I'd seen it as a child, loved it and rightly assumed that its charm would not be lost to time. But what I saw shocked and horrified me. Honestly.

The film shows Milo the cat jumping (being thrown) off a cliff into the ocean, fighting a black bear and many other dangerous and harrowing stunts. But the sickest thing occurs later in the film. The director tries to construct a 'love story' out of this blatant 'buddy film' and it falls short in so many ways. Milo totally ditches Otis for a hot piece of cat tail. Then Otis finds some poon as well. Neither one of them gets married, mind you. But I let this slide. Until. . .

. . . Until they show closeups of the cat and the dog giving birth! Not fake Hollywood stuff, but real birth. The cat eats off the sack from the kittens and everything! All of you Republican men who dream of sucking the retarded afterbirth from Sarah Palin's pussy lips need to see this movie. It might turn you queer.

When the credits start rolling, I see all these Asian names. I know of Prince Gomolvilas , so that accounts for one Asian in California, but who the hell are all these other people? So I Wikipedia the film and find that it's a Tokyo release, which would explain all the weird shit.

I, for one, agree with the racist statements of John McCain and denounce this film as well as anything else done by those "squint-eyed sons of bitches"! I also support McCain's right to call his wife a cunt . I'm not afraid to say it. Don't believe me? Then, here: John McCain's wife is a cunt.

The Five Minute Bitch Slap

Wedding is the word for this weeks Sunday Scribblings . It also happens that I recently had a conversation about weddings with my BFF, Prince Gomolvilas . Enjoy the transcript.

ring ring ring

Mike: Yello?

Prince: Hey, Mike. It's me, Prince!

Mike: Oh, hey buddy! It's nice to hear from you! What do I owe the pleasure of this call?

Prince: I was just calling to check in, see how things are going with you.

Mike: I appreciate that. Good, good. The cream you suggested work brilliantly. The pain is almost gone.

Prince: That's good. What can I say? This beat-up Chevy's been around the block a few times, if you know what I mean.

Mike: (uncomfortable chuckle) Yeah, I think I do, Prince. So, anyways, is your sister still engaged to old what's-his-face?

Prince: Yes, and I wouldn't care that she devotes her life to some stranger she barely knows if it weren't for the possibility that she discovers that they aren't compatible and divorce.

Mike: I wouldn't want my sister to go through that type of heartache, either.

Prince: Fuck heartache. I just don't want her to get re-married. One wedding is enough to attend. I'm not sitting through another. If Brad Pitt can't get married because gays can't get married, then she shouldn't get married.

Mike: Well said.

Prince: She needs to respect Brad Pitt's premeditated decision to use one group's lack of civil liberties to disguise his own fear of commitment.

Mike: Not all weddings are bad, though. Mine was lovely. It was a Spring wedding, small, outside. . .

Prince: Shut the fuck up.

Mike: Or if it's a large wedding, maybe it'll be like the opening scene of the Godfather. Remember?

Prince: Yeah. That was a pretty fun looking wedding. The best part was when the curly-haired guy. . .

Mike: Sonny.

Prince: Yeah, Sonny. When he was fucking the bride in that room. That was crazy!

Mike: That wasn't the bride. It was a bridesmaid he was screwin'.

Prince: No, it wasn't! It was the bride!

Mike: Prince, the bride was Sonny's sister. He was fuckin' his sister?

Prince: (awkward silence) Well, that certainly changes the plot significantly.

Mike: Sorry to cut this short, but I think I have to reapply some of my cream. It's starting to puss again.

Prince: Alright. Bye, BFF.

Mike: Bye, you.

click.

Paul Newman's Dead and You're Next McCain

I just read the horrible news. I wasn't a huge fan, but Cool Hand Luke was boss hog. Aside from his acting, race car driving and salad dressings, Newman was a good man. He is the only actor in Hollywood to stay married longer than one of Rosie O'Donald's bowl movements (which is pretty impressive), and also set up charities for children with cancer. Whenever a good man dies, the world should mourn because there are so little of them left. He was 83.

How old are you, McCain?

Teddy Roosevelt Teabags McCain!

McCain needs to stop comparing himself to Theodore Roosevelt. If Teddy wanted to light a fart on fire, McCain wouldn't be worthy enough to hold a candle to his buttcheeks. Roosevelt had more integrity and determination concerning himself and his country than John McCain could ever wish for. Also, Teddy was one of the few presidents who was always faithful to his wife. John, didn't you cheat on your- wait, you're married to- and there was a stripper-?

If anyone has the Daily Show clip from 9/25 about the 2 Roosevelts I would love for you to shimmy it over this away. Oh, yeah, and I just devoured another chapter , bitches!

Sarah Palin? I'd rather fuck a pig.

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Does Anyone Remember Zion?

Or, for that matter, did anyone watch the Larry King interview with Iranian President, Mahmoud Ahmadinejad? I hate to side with the lunatic, but the President did have some very valid points concerning Israel. King didn't seem too pleased with the answers he was getting. Why is it so outrageous to denounce Zion? And why is it so difficult for King to grasp the concept of a government establishing another government in unfriendly territory for financial gain? I guess he's never heard of Operation Ajax .

The concept is really quite simple: Group A rescues Group B from Group C. Then relocate GroupB to a holy land that they haven't inhabited in 3,000 years. Totally ignore the fact that Group D already live there, and if they bitch, kill them. Or better yet, play on their religious zealousness and constantly refer to them as "evil". That's always a nice way to pass the time. Wait a few years and become friends with Group C and use their military weight to crush the defiance of Group D. Then wait until Group B and Group D are too busy killing each other to notice you steal all of their oil. And who will reap the benefits of this global theft?

Probably Larry King. I just don't trust that bastard. Meanwhile, I'm waiting in line for an hour to pay over $4 a gallon for gas. I wish I had a camera with me last night. They had police officers directing a clusterfuck of 100+ cars at the gas station. But even a photograph wouldn't have caught the magic of an SUV full of black women yelling 'muhfucka' at me for supposedly cutting them off. Then I flip to the local news to see that regional auto part stores are selling out of tubing and lockable gas caps at breakneck speed. 1/3 are syphoning gas from the next 1/3 while the final 1/3 are apparently smart enough to buy lockable gas caps to put on their cars. What third do I belong to? None. I'm too busy flipping back to the Larry King interview and ranting about Zion. And I've been around Group A long enough to know that they can't be trusted. And if Larry King is so adamant about restoring aboriginal peoples to their ancient homeland, I know some folks that are interested in Manhattan. Wait, where do you live, Mr. King?

The Five Minute Bitch Slap

Invitation is the word for this weeks Sunday Scribblings . Here's my five minutes worth. Enjoy.


Man 1: Look at those two over there.

Man 2: Over there?

Man 1: Yeah, over there. Them two right across the street, there.

Man 2: Yeah, I see them.

Man 1: Of course you see 'em. They're right in front of our fuckin' faces. Whaddya mean, 'you see em'

Man 2: I just said I see them. What else do you want? Eh? What about 'em?

Man 1: What about 'em? I just ask you if you see 'em and you say 'yeah'. Now you gotta ask me 'what about em'? Obviously you weren't really lookin'. If you see 'em like I see 'em you'd know exactly what the fuck I'm talkin' about.

Man 2: What then?

Man 1: Look at 'em! They're fuckin' disgusting! He's sittin' there lookin into her eyes all attentively. It makes me fuckin' sick! She was probably sittin' at home shavin' her box when she got the funny idea to call up Mr. Appleseed. She's all like, 'Hey, Johnny I was thinkin' we could go out to lunch and have something to eat. It'll be like a date but with less strings attached because it's not dinner'!

Man 2: What does dinner have to do with it?

Man 1: Dinner is everything! Dinner is romance. Dinner is deep conversations between shallow people. And most importantly, dinner is fuckin'. Guaranteed. But lunch? Lunch is pretty meaningless, too. It's just people too bored with their fuckin' lives to think of anything intelligent to do. So instead of reading a book or writing the great American novel, they go to Red Lobster and order the sampler platter. After they've milked that for a good hour and a half they go home to fuck. And if the broad wants some alone time? She goes in the bathroom and takes a shit. That, or shave her box. Eating, fucking and shitting. That's what those two right there boil down to.

Man 2: (sighs) So, you wanna leave?

Man 1: Hell no. Wave the waitress down, I'm fuckin' starved!

Damon '08!

I was watching Good Will Hunting last night and thought that this scene was somewhat relevant to what we're all going through right now. Why was I at home on a Friday night, alone? My blue-plate cod with quaker-state gave me a nasty case of the shits. That's why.

A Message to You, Rudy

I shaved my head today. I liken this ritual to the Roman soldiers shaving their heads to prepare for battle. But, as you may know, I do not belong to any standing army. Perhaps it was my childhood run-in with the secret service that makes them weary of me joining their ranks. Or it could possibly be the fact that I enjoying living for just causes as opposed to, you know, what's going on right now.

But the best possible reason could be that I got my contacts in the mail today from 1-800-Contacts and I was so relieved to have my glasses off my face that I went a bit crazy during the whole shedding process.

Bekki's gonna kick my ass when she gets home from work.

Rainy Day Rescue #2 and 13

#2 "Hello? Yes I have your dog. She was wandering around the highway today. She was about to get hit by a semi when I snatched her up. She gets out pretty frequently, huh? You leave the gate open so she can return? You're not sure why she went to the busy streets today instead of the neighborhood streets?" -Bekki on the phone with (un)concerned pet-owner

Maybe that's because dogs lack the reasoning skills that (some) people have!

I met Bekki in the yard this morning to see her cradling a very scared little pooch that was covered in feces. We bathed her (twice) to get the poop from her neck and face. I washed her collar which was covered in poop and wiped the rabies tag clean so we could find a number to call. Bekki soon found out the dog's name (Sadie Mae) and the location of her home (2 blocks from the highway). Sadie Mae soon found a budding friendship with another Southern belle as Dixie made her feel more than welcome to play in the backyard. Ernie, who had to be locked in the computer room, was less welcoming.

Her spotted skin was very apparent, especially when we bathed her. This, coupled with her coloring and face, led us to believe that she is a Jack Russel mix. Her body screams either Dauschund or Basset Hound. A weird combination, I know. After the cat I had to bury a few weeks ago and the German Shepard that ran into the woods off of Highway 70, it was nice to be able to have a successful rescue.

#13 The wife and I finally got to see There Will Be Blood last night. I've been itching to see it for a while and wasn't disappointed. Daniel Day-Lewis was just as phenomenal as he always is. The guy that played Eli was pretty stunning, too. This film brought us back to a conversation we had about another movie we recently saw, Shutter. Joshua Jackson is by no means anywhere close to Daniel Day-Lewis (in the wedding scene he has stubble! who doesn't shave on their wedding day?), but the difference that was the most interesting was the length to which each director went to explain their plot. At the end of Shutter, the director gives you a five minute recap to explain the "twist" as if you're a complete idiot. There Will Be Blood, on the other hand, left us scratching our heads at various occurrences. This leads me to my point. The brilliance of any film (or any other artwork for that matter) is not in any one performance, but in how intelligent the director perceives the audience to be.

The title of this blog is a Bob Dylan reference, just in case that was lost to anyone.

The Best Kind of Staff Infection Never Truly Leaves You

Staffordshire Bull Terrier


This is a link to a short article I wrote. Enjoy!

California Or Bust!

I don't know what that title means, but it sounds fitting. Last night went as well as could be expected when you're trapped in sum "cyber room" (oh, god) with a bunch of pathetic little bitches. The conversation got a little raunchy at times, but Prince and I managed to salvage the bulk of it.

Bitches Shot at My House

Bekki found a BB in our yard the other day. A fucking BB. I already know that Austin's momma called the cops (snitch) on those two neighbor boys (I mean, bitches) for shooting BB's at her house. So I figure it's those same motherscratchers shooting their BB gun at MY house. Fuck that. I'll punch a kid in his face. I don't care how young he is.

But before I could say anything, Austin comes over to share his daily hillbillyisms with us. And then Bekki asks him if he knows anything about the BB. Instead of throwing the boys under the bus, he takes the blame for himself. Now, THAT says something to me. It doesn't even matter who shot the BB, now. Austin had the personal integrity to man up to the situation. Austin's got balls.

*And I haven't read a single page in the last three weeks. I suck.

A Five Minute Bitch Slap

Coffee is the word for this weeks Sunday Scribblings . Here's my five minutes worth. Enjoy.

A Room Full of Strangers

A steady wave of morning light washed over Tom as he left the bedroom with the door shut tight. He struck a match and inhaled a deep breath of dissatisfaction as the steam from the coffee pot meandered unknowingly into the sunlight's path. It tasted a lot like Turkish blend. The phone jumped from the hook to pierce the silence Tom had found. He listened intently as a soft young voice expressed her longing into an answering machine. Tom smiled into his coffee as the girl described the overwhelming presence of Rome. ‘You don’t need to go to Rome to be overwhelmed’, Tom thought. His thumb slipped forcefully from the erase button as his eyes locked on the cracked door. A short girl with a large face stood in the doorway holding the sheets to her breast, “Who was it?” Tom exhaled a puff of frustration and smiled, “No one you know”.

-OR-

For Tony

I threw down my last pack of cigarettes over a year ago. They were Marlboro Lights. I miss them sometimes. I also miss the man who raised me. He smoked, as well, until lung cancer snuck up and bit him in the ass. I drink coffee, now. Two pots almost. Better than two packs, I guess. I miss you, grandpa.

Moonshine and Banjos

What better time to reflect about life than Sunday? As we put our inherent pessimism on the shelf next to that mason jar with grandpa's own mountain dew swishin' around inside, let us remember to celebrate our lives as we celebrate our art, for they are one and the same. And if art does imitate life, then isn't any reflection of our art a reflection of the best parts of ourselves? Of our own flawed existence? Good question, right? So just open your hymn books and follow along. . .

The Second Gleam is the latest release from North Carolina natives, The Avett Brothers. Some may have forgotten about this lost gem as it lingers in the shadow of their upcoming major-label debut, but The Second Gleam casts a glow all its own.

The Second Gleam may lack the ferociousness associated with some of the groups other work, but makes up for it with sheer sentimentality. The slow, melodic numbers are the perfect soundtrack for an evening down by the river with the girl that you love. And if you wished your little gal would move just a little bit closer, heartfelt songs like “Bella Donna” will be the best argument made for her to wiggle closer until the distance between the two of you is nonexistent.

The fan favorite here, of course, is “Murder in the City”. “Murder” perhaps does best to summarize the masculine sentimentality that the Avett’s are known for. It goes to show that the Avett’s dedication to love is not pigeon-holed to romantic entanglements, and that their devotion to family is the strongest tie that binds. This is a sentiment that anyone can get behind (not just your ‘little gal down by the river’), and a driving force behind what has made this trio so successful.

Natives of North Carolina have been long devoted to the musical stylizing of the Avetts, and are more than a tad bit anxious to see their leap from hometown wonders to national celebrities. The group is currently working with legendary producer Rick Rubin for their still untitled upcoming album. This will be the groups first with a major label, Rubin’s own American Recordings. Rubin draws his fame from groundbreaking work with Red Hot Chili Peppers, Tom Petty and the late Johnny Cash. The two musical entities draw on a similar style of minimalism that owes more to base melodies and inventiveness rather than simplicity. Novices and audiophiles alike will surely be clamoring to get their hands on a copy of this.

But if you’re still more concerned with getting your hands on your ‘little gal down by the river’, then just push play on the Second Gleam and let the Avetts serenade her into a state of bliss. As the river sways lazily by the silhouette of you and your gal sitting on the hood of your truck, try to think of the moonshine and the banjos, because if you listen too closely to this wonderful record you might get teary-eyed as well.

Confessions of a Guappo

The tangled web of personalities that were responsible for World War II would cause many to heap blame upon the Italians, but I protest! I can prove in several short paragraphs why Italians should be celebrated for conquering the evil zealots and returning peace (?) to the world.

So you're thinking to yourself, 'C'mon, Mike. Everyone knows that Italy was 1/3 of the Axis. How can a group of people who buddied up with Hitler possibly be considered crusaders for peace?'

Well, I would respond to you with a quick slap to the face. How dare you lump the actions of a few deranged Italians onto the whole population and their global descendants? That would be like calling Albert Einstein a Nazi just because he was German born. You're not saying THAT, are you? I didn't think so. Plus, most of the population of Italy during the reign of the Fascists hated them. This is made clear by the public execution of Mussolini after he tried to flee the country.

Fiorello La Guardia
Fiorello La Guardia, notable for being a congressman, three time mayor of New York and the namesake of one of the cities three largest airports, is directly responsible for defeating the Germans in World War II.

Here's how:

La Guardia pushed hard and put loads of pressure onto the police to clean up New York. New York mobsters, including the Five Families, were hit the hardest. This was fuel to the fire for federal prosecutor Thomas E. Dewey who made it his mission to lock up flashy Mafioso's like Dutch Schultz. Lucky Luciano, founder and head of the Commission, grew fearful of the public attention and had Schultz murdered in the hopes of muting the publics interest. After the murder of Schultz, Dewey turned his full attention to Luciano who was sentenced to 30-50 years for running the largest prostitution ring in American history. During World War II, the Allies needed a way to open up a southern front against the Germans who were already battling the Americans coming up from France and the Russians hammering away on the western front. That's when the US government propositioned Lucky Luciano, now imprisoned, to use his Italian connections to ensure safe passage for the Allied soldiers traveling north through Italy. Luciano's sentence was reduced as his mafia buddies in Italy waved the Allies through the backdoor of Europe. Germany was defeated and Hitler blew his brains out while listening to Wagner.

Lucky Luciano

THAT, my friends, is how Fiorello La Guardia is DIRECTLY responsible for the Allied victory in World War II.

Upon Passing a Republican

I was walking alone in the woods today, as I often do. And I scarcely saw someone up the path. So I slowed my pace and hugged the shoulder so the stranger could pass. He hugged the opposite shoulder, as expected, and I gave my obligatory greeting. But as I passed that quick-footed patron of silence, I planted my feet into the dirt and turned to question the man, "What the fuck did you just say?"

"Excuse me?"

My eyes were bloodshot and the veins on my arms bulged like a cock in a pair of boxer briefs. I puckered my lips tight with determination. "I'll ask it again. What the fuck did you just say to me?"

His face flickered with fear against the backdrop of the forest. "I didn't say anything", he stammered.

"Exactly. I walk past you and say hi and what do you say? Nothing. Not a fucking word. Who the fuck do you think you are?" I approached speedily and with grace as if gliding over the worn down pathway. The stranger inched backwards. "You egotistical motherfucker! This is exactly what I'm talking about!" His footing was uneasy at best. The heels of his boots bucked against random rocks that littered the dirt. "This is exactly what's wrong with this country today. It's filled with people like you who don't give two shits about anyone else". His cries were shrill as his legs failed. The crack of his skull was quick and dull against the heavily packed earth. "You call yourself a fucking outdoors men as you soil the land with oil refineries and murder its creatures for sport" I rushed to the fallen stranger and threw my fists towards his lifeless face. "You send us to die for your profits! You hold back our health care for your profit! You tax us on what we buy, where we live and what we do for a living!" Blood from the strangers face jumped up with each balled up fist that flailed downward. "You are a snake! You are a hypocrite! You are nothing you claim to be!" With each seceding blow the impact grew softer. Perhaps it was the blood that cushioned the strangers face. Perhaps it was the bones breaking in my fingers. Or perhaps it was the exhaustion spent on trying to kill an idea.

To Kill a Billy Goat

Did you know that the Bible predicts that a Muslim will become president of America? I didn't either! Nor was I aware that Obama was a Muslim! I don't know why the Republicans aren't jumping all over this. Maybe they don't know. Hey, maybe we should tell them. There's a thought. Well, that was Renee's talking point LAST week. THIS week all she could talk about was getting her neighbor a job. So I told her to get him to come on in and I'd see what I could do. So homeboy shows up. No, I don't call him homeboy just because he is black. I call him homeboy because of his tattoos. On his face. Of two blue tear drops.

I tried to reason with Renee about why I couldn't hire her neighbor. She just couldn't see the big deal about having prison tats on your face that announce to everyone that you are responsible for a double homicide. "So he killed somebody. So what? My brother killed somebody. He served his time". Hmm.

Later on that day I received ANOTHER shock to the system. Instead of Bekki and I taking the dogs on our nightly walk up beautiful Southern St, we opt for looping up Main St and going back down Cleghorn. Little did I know that Cleghorn is even uglier on foot. Aside from sum scary old lady yelling from her porch to ask us for Tylenol, a herd of goats was the only memorable part. Yes, I said a herd of goats! In a fenced-in, empty lot covered in kudzu there were a lively group of goats that literally scared the feces out of Dixie .

So, of course, we rush home to ask our man on the inside what the word on the street is. Our man on the inside who hears every word on the street? Austin . "Yeah, they let them goats go so they'd eat all the grass". And then Austin really laid sum truth on us when I asked about his Confederate flag t-shirt. "We hate black people". So all the times Austin's mom randomly stated that they weren't racist WAS just bullshit. Interesting. The worst part about it was that we had our window open. So, like always, Jane's sitting on the kitchen counter by the open window listening to every last racist word. It definitely rubbed off on her. Every other thing she says now is "Nigger this" and "Nigger that". I can't get her to quit! It's horrible!

The life-sized cardboard Barack Obama cut-out? Jane pissed on it. And then called it a nigger! I know that Austin is a bad influence on her fragile mind, but I can't help thinking that she's picking it up from other sources as well. Last night I walked in the computer room and caught her watching this bullshit .

Maybe my live chat with that raging faggot, Prince Gomolvilas, will open her mind up. A parent can only try so hard.

An Open Letter to a Reclusive Bitch

Dear Jane,

I'm sorry I teased you earlier. I just think it's cute that you finally found someone that you LIKE, let alone find sexually attractive! I promise to never poke you in the tummy while singing the Kitty Cat Song , again. I'll be frank for a second, though. Jane, you're a bitch. I'm sorry but there's no other way to put it. And I hate to use that word. Despite our feelings toward each other, I am happy that you've found someone. I just hope that he feels the same towards you. I know that you're shy (is that why you never leave the kitchen?), so I took the liberty of posting a picture of you making a mayonnaise sandwich in the hopes that your crush, Pork Chop , would see you and fall madly in love.

No, you're not fat, Jane. You're beautiful just the way you are. It doesn't matter to Pork Chop that you weigh 14 pounds. Trust me. I've got it on good authority that he's into heavy chicks, anyways. But, if you did want to slim down, I don't think the mayonnaise sandwiches are going to do it.

love,
michael

Sunday Scribblings

I found this link thru Quin's page. You're suppose to write 100 words on the topic of the week. This week: Miracle. Here's my five minutes worth.

Miracles don’t just happen.
They just happen to be little lumps of coal
You grind between your molars and canines
Until they shine like tennis bracelets
And if you’re self obsessed just throw it around your wrist.
If not, give it to your gal
She’s the real miracle, anyhow.

Miracles aren’t spewed from the pulpit.
They’re recited into toilets
And they smell like vodka and cranberry.
And if used tampons don’t disgust you
I hear the stalls here have great acoustics
And it’s not that I’ve got a voicebox
The miracle is that I’ve got the sense to use it.

Welcome Back! (?)

Dear Bitches,

Just to remind everyone that tomorrow is the day I shall return. I expect flowers, loud music and tons of vodka. Or a healthy dose of patronage will suffice. Thanks for nothing, fuckers!

love,
micky v.

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Bob Dylan and Joan Baez

I love it when Dylan forgets the lines. Classic.

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Mathematics by Mos Def

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Confessions of a Guappo: The God Complex Continues

Everyone knows that Martin Scorsese is considered one of the greatest living film makers (AND a proud Italian?). He boasts such classics as Taxi Driver, Raging Bull, Goodfellas, Gangs of New York and the Departed. Aside from creating these masterpieces and molding the careers of folks like Robert De Nero and Leonardo DiCaprio (how many talented goombahs ARE there in Hollywood? Not enough, not enough) he is fully responsible for safer gun laws in America today.

How does a man who creates such horribly violent crime epics act as a key component in safer gun laws, you say? Well, it's simple. Scorsese made Taxi Driver. John Hinckley, Jr was obsessed with Jodi Foster who played an underage whore in Taxi Driver. In order to "impress" Jodi Foster, Hinckley tried to murder Ronald Regan (can't blame him for that one), missed and permanently paralyzed then press secretary James Brady. Brady dedicated his life to gun control as a result and in 1993 passed the Brady Bill under president Bill Clinton. THEREFORE, Scorsese is DIRECTLY responsible for safer gun laws today.

*On a side note, does anyone know who America was named after? A horny little Italian named Amerigo Vespucci- that's who! Is there anything we CAN'T do?
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Of Mice and Menstrual Cramps

What is it with people divulging all of their innermost secrets onto anyone who'll listen? I'm not your friend, roommate or relative so why is it so important for you that I know the monthly pains you suffer due to your placenta or your clitoris or whatever it is up there that shrivels up and dies every four weeks. I don't care. And furthermore, why is it expected of me to be polite when people are giving me these novellas of pain and hardship. Is it really that uncouth to respond when you tell me about your sexual encounters by saying, "Ooh, bitch, you nasty!"? I don't think so. In fact, I think it is perfectly suitable for the situation. If you think it's alright to describe your lower back tattoo as a "cum-catcher" in mixed company then I have no qualms with randomly throwing out the statistics of STD carriers and every disgusting sign and symptom (scabs, rashes and blisters included).

I walked into the break room today to find a female co-worker narrating to a small audience all about her love for her deceased father. I came in on the tale end of her description of the first time he raped her. She's forgiven him, though. No worries. So as she stood there rambling on about that damn farm she'd always dreamed of, I placed a 44 to the back of her head. She died with a smile on her face. They can't hurt you now, Lennie. Keep dreaming.

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Wu-Tang is for the Children!

Does anyone remember ODB? They should. Old Dirty Bastard did more in his short life to help inspire and motivate than the Catholic Church AND the YMCA. He was a founding member of New York hip hop group Wu-Tang Clan and also enjoyed a successful solo career. Despite his frequent run-ins with Johnny Law (including shoplifting a pair of shoes and multiple crack cocaine possessions) he was a revered man in the community. He often spent his time helping the children of New York (not his own, mind you, he was once arrested for failure to pay child support on three of his 13 children). He was also a humble man, ignoring, of course, that one time he bum rushed the stage at the Grammy's to ask why the Clan hadn't won best rap album. Paraphrasing here will just not suffice, so here is what ODB said as he was escorted from the stage:

"I don't know how you all see it, but when it comes to the children, Wu-Tang is for the children. We teach the children. Puffy is good, but Wu-Tang is the best. I want you all to know that this is ODB, and I love you all. Peace!"

See? Wu-Tang IS for the children. If a crack-smoking, shoe-stealing, illegitimate child-having rapper declared so on national television then it MUST be true.

In the Osirus' defence, though, he did once rescue a 4 year old girl from an automobile accident by lifting a '96 Mustang off of her. That's gotta count for something, right?

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Coons? Revisited.

So Bekki gets home the other night from work around 12:30 and who should be roaming the street but sum crazy black dude hopped up on PCP! Actually, I'm just assuming he was smoking the old angel dust because he had his shirt off and, of course, because I'm a racist. But what is sum scary looking, muscular black guy doing walking in the middle of our street with his shirt off in the middle of the night? A tad bit odd, don't cha think?

Bekki woke me to help her switch the cars in the driveway. She told me about the strange man, so I grabbed my shotgun and headed outside. Lucky for him I couldn't find him in the dark (what with him being black and all) and the fact that the gun was unloaded didn't hurt. I started asking the hillbillies and Klansmen we call neighbors if they knew where this influx of colored folks was coming from. Apparently the top of the hill behind us is where all the blacks live. I suppose you could call it "uptown".

While we're on the subject of black folk, what's the deal with Bernie Mac and Isaac Hayes? Is there sum kind of conspiracy to murder off all famous black people? Weren't they both in an upcoming movie with Samuel L. Jackson? If I were Sam, I'd hide out for awhile. These things often happen in threes, you know.

*If you're just joining us, this post is a continuance of pure satire .
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