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.

Sarah Palin? I'd rather fuck a pig.

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The Hillbilly Speaks

-Or-
A Feeble Attempt at Silencing Regional Stereotypes

In response to Prince's repeated references to me being a "Hillbilly" which clearly I have too many teeth to meet the requirements, I feel it is my utmost duty to rectify these slandering remarks by somewhat detailing my arduous travel from the sunny coasts of Charleston to the wooded hills of Southern Appalachia. OR I gotta set sum shit straight.

About a hundred years ago my family was swept up in the mass migration of Sicilians that were seeking refuge from the oppressive mafioso that basically dominated the local politics of Sicily. They settled in the historic town of Charleston, SC long after the Civil War had crushed the antebellum society and civic pride that the once large and prosperous city had. The correlation between myself and slave owning aristocrats is, therefore, nothing more than a humorous stereotype. While on the subject of stereotypes, I must also point out that my wife and I are far from the "downtrodden Southerners", because although my kin were not slave owning aristocrats, they were somewhat aristocratic (although at what some consider the tale-end of that self-gratifying echelon).

So, as I blossomed into adulthood and found a bride in my childhood sweetheart, I came to see my standing as King-like in the midst of rural Southerners and, on the other hand, pauper-like while amongst my own (My own being the private school attending, cocaine sniffing, imported car driving and imported beer drinking aristocrats). And so naturally my wife and I made that arduous trip from prosperous Charleston to the hills of North Carolina where folks place commerce long behind God and family. We enjoy the slower pace of life and the simplicity that surrounds us and, for the moment, are completely contented.

* These are pictures from a few years back of a Charlestonian "night on the town" to prove that we aren't THAT backwards. Oh, and Prince, if you keep saying things like this: "Mike, please do no die before I get to suck you off while your wife's back is turned", Bekki won't let us continue our friendship. She thinks you might be a bad influence. She's probably right. That's why I find you so hip, like an Asian James Dean. You are a Hoosier, right?

Spread the Love Like Mustard

There's nothing wrong with spreading a little love, right? And if the red flags of sarcasm are being waved unintentionally, I suppose I'm flattered. So thank you, Prince.

I mean. . . "fuckin' queer. Boy, nothin I hate more in this world than a queer. Cept maybe a nigger. Babydoll! Bring Daddy a beer!"

But my dilemma is, Prince invited me to be his friend on Myspace. That's wonderful. I feel like a princess (makes the sound of vomiting) that the social elite of California would consider me "five minutes in a broom closet" worthy, but if I allow him to see all of my pictures where I look somewhat less than "ass-tap-able" then maybe the love will stop. And that must not happen.

Gee, what's a heterosexual, married NC resident male have to do to keep a homosexual CA playwright interested in a nonsexual relationship? Aw shucks! (kicks at a rock and pulls up overalls) I cain't never get me sum man love!

*The man in the picture is totally me. Oh, and Prince, If I was gay, single and living in Cali we'd definitely have a fags night out. You're the cats meow!

Juicy

I wrote a blog a few years back about chil'ren labeling themselves with their clothing. My friend Steve thought it was hilarious and upon seeing a re-flux in these offenses, I thought it would be wise to revisit this issue. So here it goes:

Why is it that girls with the biggest, sloppiest asses wear those tiny little shorts with the words on the back? They're always making some half-truth or blatant lie concerning the shape and/or attractiveness of said ass. Juicy? Not when the backfat's rolling up and out the top of your Daisy Duke's to form a mushroom cloud.

And what about when the ass IS actually Juicy? Are the shorts really necessary? Do you really need to broadcast it, ladies? Trust me, men were sizing you up and categorizing you in their heads based on mere physical attractiveness long before you stenciled your low self-esteem on the back of your britches.

So What?

The Jehovah's Witnesses left a religious track on my door yesterday. I find it humorous that the throngs of churches scattered around our little country town all vie for the souls of the damned. I suppose Bekki and I are indeed damned. I'm fine with that, though. I'm also fine with the track that was left. I've received far more horrifying pamphlets before. I've received tracks where cartoon children are burning in the flames of Hell because they forsook Jesus Christ or voted Democrat or some other deadly sin. This one was calm, polite and family friendly. I appreciate that.

The Baptist Church across the street actually has a three person team dedicated to saving the souls of the damned. I find that a little pretentious. Especially when they came to my door. Like I said before, I AM damned, but how do they know that? They're either assuming that anyone who isn't a member of the Baptist Church is damned OR they know what I do in the shower when the door is locked. Either way, I find it a bit pretentious and arrogant that they think they have the tools to offer me salvation and everlasting life in Heaven. Wouldn't it be a trip if the next time some false Holy Man comes to my door that I try to save HIS soul. It would probably just turn into a dead end argument of 'oh yeah, my god can smite your god!' followed by 'nuh uh! my god can smite YOUR god!'. All of this talk about salvation got me thinking. And so I turned to a man who has offered me great comfort and wisdom throughout my life: George Carlin.

After watching his stand-up routine for "Religion is Bullshit", I got to thinking about other things that are bullshit. First off, the police officer that pulled me over the other night was bullshit. Both the ticket and the lip he gave me were bullshit. The DMV that told me all of my fines from a year prior were paid when in fact they weren't was bullshit. That same DMV that still couldn't locate the fine in their computer system that the cop had cited me for was bullshit. And the cop taking the license plate off the back of my car and telling me not to go "cruising" was definitely bullshit.

The fact that gas is so inflated that I can hardly get to work, much less go "cruising" is bullshit. George W. Bush having yet to address the issue despite everyone knowing that him, his family and his friends are all connected with and profiting from oil is bullshit. The fact that the oil inflation has caused such a tear in the economy that thousands of people (like me) are losing their jobs (like mine) due to nonexistent profits (like my workplace is experiencing) is bullshit.

But through all of this, I look to my wife's beautiful smile, I look to the life we've built together and I look forward to the peaceful walks we take along Southern Street every night. These are the things that keep me sane. Having my dogs bark at the neighbor boys. Having my wife beg me for a back rub. Having the throngs of religious zealots yearning for my soul- these are the simple pleasures of Mountain life. All of the unnecessary death, disease and poverty in the world is bullshit. All of the child prostitution, drug addictions and warfare is bullshit. All of the endless and unnecessary suffering that religion claims to fight but in actuality only perpetuates is bullshit. But as I sit in my backyard and watch the dogs chase lightning bugs, all I can say is . . .

. . . so what?

Poor Man's Supper

Every day that I drive to work I pass by our neighborhood bar, and they got this large sign out front advertising a poor man's supper. This enrages me. At first I found it amusing, but due to rising gas prices, rising health care prices, hell, rising milk and egg prices, I find myself in that lump category of 'poor men'.

So, being the poor slob that I am, all I can afford are my thoughts. And so on the hour long trek to work I tend to flex my brain muscle (that's what working class call 'thinking') about a number of things, but mostly concerning how god damn poor I am. Gas finally reached $4 a gallon in Podunk, NC and the sad thing is that in a month's time I'll look back on this and think what a deal it was. Even the price of bananas has gone up 15 cents! That may not upset you, but I love my B-A, B-A, nana, nana, nanas. Hey, Gwen Stefani, drop me a line and we can buy stock in Chiquita.

So as I wasted $10.45 on my way to work the other day, I popped in a cd that I hadn't listened to in while. It's a live concert by Utah Phillips. All the songs are by or relating to the Wobblies or Industrial Workers something something. It's good stuff, though. All about joining a Union and being poor and hating your boss. One song in particular, 'Hallelujah, I'm a Bum', really gets the blood pumping to my testies. The last line goes, 'Why don't you save all the money you earn. If I didn't eat I'd have money to burn!'. I suppose you'd have to hear it to comprehend the magik. But the point it makes is that the enemy is not the working class here in America or in Iraq or Iran or whatever country we're gonna 'free' next, but the Big Business Tycoons who make ten fold off of our sweat. It sounds simple, but it really puts a different spin on the whole class issue. The album gets bawdy at times, but he does read a poem, i know, i know:

The Two Bums

The bum on the rod is hunted down
As the enemy of mankind;
The other is driven around to his club
And feted, wined and dined.

And they who curse the bum on the rods
As the essence of all that is bad
Will greet the other with a winning smile
And extend him the hand so glad.

The bum on the rods is a social flea
Who gets an occasional bite;
The bum on the plush is a social leech,
Blood-sucking day and night.

The bum on the rods is a load so light
That his weight we scarcely feel,
But it takes the labor of dozens of men
To furnish the other a meal.

As long as you sanction the bum on the plush,
The other will always be there,
But rid yourself of the bum on the plush
And the other will disappear.

Then make an intelligent, organized kick,
Get rid of the weights that crush;
Don't worry about the bum on the rods,
Get rid of the bum on the plush!

And then that gets me thinking (excuse me, flexing my brain muscle) about the whole election coming up. I realize that I have a biased view on who should win the presidency, but to me it's clear who stands by the working man and who stands to make a profit. John McCain is going to do what every Republican does, claim that he holds the monopoly on morality that Americans fiend for. This does not make him a representative of the working man. He is still for big business, he doesn't hide that fact. Just because he says he is against abortion and pro war doesn't mean anything is going to change. W was prez for 8 years and Roe v. Wade didn't get overturned. Morality in politics is an oxymoron, anyways. Just because he is pro war doesn't mean we're going. . . oh wait. . . hello Iran! But the fact is that food, healthcare and gas prices are all I care about right now because I can't afford any of them. McCain intends to do nothing about any of these issues. Maybe Obama won't be successful, but at least he claims he wants to try. Oh and a little sidenote for all the Clinton supporters who are going to jump ship and vote Republican, shut the fuck up you racist hillbillies. If you wouldn't vote for Obama, who holds all of Clinton's beliefs, just because he's black, then you belong in a party that cares more about facades than facts, anyways.

Underneath that damn sign at the bar, it says: '$6.95 Trout with Baked Potato. . .' I tell you what, Honky, that ain't no god damn poor man's supper. I wish I had seven bucks to throw down for some trout. Tonight I'll be having sardines and saltine crackers with a side of discontentment. That's a poor man's supper.