(the view from the) Sunday Morning Vol. II

From the opening track of "Whatever people say I am, that's what I'm not", indie group Arctic Monkeys 2006 debut album, one is left dizzy and gasping for breath due to the nonstop barrage of interwoven guitar melodies, enchanting grooves from their spontaneous rhythm section and their impassioned, half-shouted lyrics delivered via Yorkshire accents as thick as maple syrup. The momentum here is never lost, even during the bands only down-tempo song, "Riot Van", a youthful and taunting disregard for the law and those "silly boys in blue". Here are a group that certainly aren't afraid to "take it on the chin".

The English lads never relinquish their firm grasp of mystery. Even as lead singer, Alex Turner, dismisses blood-thirsty bouncers in "From the Ritz to the Rubble", his youthful age is covered like a blanket by the presence of hindsight and acceptance. Never here do the boys show their years, though all are under the age of twenty. The description of people and places and the recollection of the urgency of life spent on the dance floor draw a picture of a much older and traveled troubadour.

From the condemnation of the whores and scummy men of "When the Sun Goes Down" to the reluctant acceptance of promiscuity in "Still Take You Home" the gamut is crossed and then crossed back again. An urban landscape of bad people and bad decisions is painted with unflinching realism amongst a backdrop of 1980's pop culture references and working class poetics. From the pursuit of "lairy girls" with "bunny ears and devil horns" in the opening song to the closing number's concern over the faults of friends that are not met with scorn, but are merely dealt with quietly, we are narrated through what appears to be a long and arduous weekend. Perhaps these faults are the same social circumstances Turner riles about throughout the album. Perhaps his acceptance of others shortcomings extends to the cast of characters that roam like tribes through the hard streets of his memories. But maybe that task is reserved for someone not nearly as resolute as our narrator pretends to be.

Even Girls Have Smelly Buttholes

I read a magazine called 'ol skool rodz'. It's a car mag that's filled with colorful cars and busty broads. Bekki is under the assumption that the cleavage grabs my attention more than the rust encrusted model-T's. I've got eyes. But I've also got a heart. A heart that goes out to gals with big stomachs and bad hair-dos. I realize that the tattooed and pierced up rockabilly broads are just another version of the blond haired, blue eyed Cosmo models: they both showcase women as stick figures with large titties and at least three coats of paint, except instead of Sherwin-Williams they're using Max Factor. Real women hate the way they look and eat fried chicken.

And yeah, the rockabilly broads are just pigeon-holding themselves into a somewhat less popular stereotypical archetype of beauty, but at least they're fully aware that they're nothing more than cliches. They do know that , don't they?

Putting the Cosmo starlets and rockabilly broads aside, the subgroup of females that really has my support are the gals that need support the most. Ass support. What support, if any, does a nylon string cutting up your smelly ass-crack* provide, hmm? What happened to thongs being merely for strippers and porn stars? This goes back to my belief that real women hate the way they look and eat fried chicken. And, girl, you know that fried chicken's going directly to that big ol' ass of yours. But that's ok. That's why fruit of the loom made briefs. So put on a pair of High Rise Briefs and throw out that crusty old g-string. Or, better yet, put it in your medicine cabinet. The next time you get some chicken cartilage in your teeth, hey! you've already got floss!

Not that I really give a rat's ass what other people think is beautiful, though. I'm just lucky enough to have the most beautiful girl in the world right by my side day and night. But ladies, if you need that pink thong with the little lacy thingies coming off it to feel beautiful, then go ahead and feel beautiful. But if you're hungry for a drumstick, well that's alright, too.

"Oh baby, this is dedicated to all the pretty girls. All the pretty girls in the world, and the ugly girls too cause to me you're pretty anyway."

-Ol' Dirty Bastard




*No one wants to smell poop when they're sniffin' your panties. So please keep your drawers from rubbing up on your hairy old butthole. Thank you.

The Vikings Are Coming. . . Over For Supper!

There's this little pasty-skinned, red-boned neighbor boy who lives next door. His name is Austin. He claims he was named after Stone Cold Steve Austin. You know, the wrestler. Bekki verified this with the boys mother and, sadly, it's true. Austin comes over fairly regularly to play with our dogs despite the fact that I think our rat terrier despises every bright red hair on the boys head. He even knocks on the front door and asks if he can come in. Now, I'm not going to be known as that pervert who lets little boys into his house so I politely tell Austin 'Hell no!'. Austin's a Viking, he's use to people being blunt with him.

Recently, Austin hasn't been coming around. He's been occupied by these two other neighbor boys (they're not red-bones, just retarded looking) who live across the street. Long story short: the two other neighbor boys are little bitches who would hang out with Austin at home but wouldn't even say hello to him at school because he wasn't hip enough. They're also little bitches because one of them fell on their bike the other day and cried for his mom. Austin just stood there and looked at the kid like he was the biggest pussy on Green Street. (What an eight year old little bitch)

Austin's coming over more often now. Apparently both sets of parents didn't think it was a good idea for the boys to hang out after Austin opened up a stone cold can of 'dude, you got blood all over my fist. not cool'. I wanted to high-five Austin when he told me this but I thought it might seem a little immature. Austin's a Viking, though. Immaturity is his families motto. He's got two older siblings who both have speech impediments and work menial jobs. I think they all have different daddies because none of them look alike. Austin calls the head Viking daddy, but Austin's real daddy died a couple years ago. That's about as specific as I could get. Bekki and I have an ongoing joke where we pretend to be Austin's momma in the middle of 'paying rent' (it gets pretty raunchy). All in all, they're a very colorful cast of characters. But it gets better. . .

The mighty Viking hoard had a family outing to the tattoo parlor the other day. The father and daughter both got tattoos. How sweet. Austin was going to get his ear pierced but pussed out (he is only eight years old!) In what issue of Southern Living does it recommend going to get inked as a wholesome family activity? Now, I went to public schools. I smoked the marijuana. I even slummed it on the weekends at my mom's double-wide, but I was never white trash enough where my mom would let me get my ear pierced at eight years old. There's a difference between working class and white trash and I think that line might be drawn in the cigarette ash in front of the tattoo parlor.

Oh, and Austin's daddy. He got a tattoo of a $100 bill. On his penis.

George Carlin

George Carlin died today.

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?

The White Man's Burden

Indeed, Wiggas are the new Negro. They are the social oddity for a new generation of aristocrats. They need to be studied at great length, perhaps even kept for public observation in a zoo or traveling circus. They, like the Negro of old, are the closest that civilized society has to the Missing Link. The mention here of historical blemishes is not meant to reopen old wounds, but to illustrate our subject's history which is forever intertwined with that of the Negro. And like the Negro of old, it is our responsibility to protect the Wigga from himself. This is the White Man's Burden.

Some folks would have you believe that the Wigga is nothing more than an individual obsessed with popular culture. They feel that the Wigga displays this with his dress, mannerisms and speech patterns. I will state my case in order to convert the nonbelievers that the Wigga is indeed a false heir to the throne of the Negro.

I do not believe that characteristics are inherent for certain racial groups. I have therefore left off the -er on the end of the root word, Wigg, and opted for the more socially accepted -a. I do not think of the Wigga as a "White Nigger", but as a "White Nigga". Aside from the obvious racial slur that the "Wigger" implies, I can honestly say that I have never seen a White man trying to emulate an Uncle Remus-type persona. Perhaps the closest there ever came to this would be Stevie Ray Vaughn. No, the Wigga is driven by urges unknown to the scientific world to copy and emulate the mid-Eighties to the Present urban black culture where it's members are self-identified as "Bitches" or "Niggas" . It is this specifically crafted stereotype that the Wigga spends every waking moment trying to emulate. This is who the Wigga is.

I'll open with a quote by one of the top spokesmen of the Nigga Movement, Tupac Shakur: "Niggers was the ones on the rope, hanging off the thing; niggas is the ones with gold ropes, hanging out at clubs." This does as much as any argument to paint the differences between the two words and their meanings. So, in turn, a "Wigger" would be someone who only wants to drink from the "colored-only" water-fountain, whereas a "Wigga" would be someone who only wants to drink Colt 45 (and probably from a brown paper bag).

So, in establishing that there does exist a Black subculture that refer to themselves as "Niggas", we can disprove those who claim that Wiggas are only emulating popular culture. Corn row braids, baggy FUBU pants and 22inch rims on an 88 Pontiac are not products of pop. culture, they are the hallmark of the Nigga Movement. Therefore, when a White person has or does these certain things, they are trying to establish themselves in Nigga culture, but due to the fact that no matter how hard they try to drop their S's they will never be "Niggas", they are cast aside as wanna-be fake pussies or the preferred "Wigga".

Wiggas are not evil because they try to assimilate themselves into a culture that will never accept them. Wiggas are evil because they have taken the most vile actions and stereotypes from a Black subculture and held those vices to such high esteem. They thrive off materialism, masochism and violence (or the facade of violence because they're really just huge pussies that could never hurt anything except maybe their girlfriends' feelings when they refer to them as 'ma baby momma').

The Wigga can be saved, though. And it is this, the white man's burden, to free the Wigga from the clutches of a meaningless subculture. Like a dog that is distracted by a shiny object (most likely platinum), we must roll up the newspaper we call civility and smack their wet noses until some sort of appreciation is formed for rational thought and respect for all of mankind (not just the thuggish kind). The Wigga is not our enemy. They are just like us but they are lost to a sea of commercialism first navigated by the likes of Snoop Doggy Dogg, Easy-E and Dr. Dre. Indeed, these pioneering sailors of crap are at the core of this cancer spreading through every race and nationality in this great country of ours. Not just the Wigga, though, but also the Essays (Latinos), the Stir-Fried Niggas (Asians) and the OG's (the true Niggas) need our compassion and help to overcome this crippling obsession with apathy and poor style.

Yes, the Nigga Movement has spread to almost every aspect of American culture (mainly thru Mtv), forever embedding itself into our collective consciousness. We owe it to the misguided young white, black, latino and asian people to stomp out this atrocity. We owe it to the youth of America. We owe it to ourselves. This is not just the White Man's Burden, this lies on the shoulders of us all.


P.S. The next time you see a gaudy looking thug walking down the street like a peacock, kindly remind him that the Italians did it first.

Ed Norton's Penis

What the fuck is going on in this fucked up country of ours!?!

I don't mind that we're in the middle of an unjust war started by falsified facts. I don't mind that large corporations and powerful politicians are making record profits off of the record gas prices. I don't even mind that a movie can show death, destruction and mutilation and still receive a PG-13 or R-Rating, but the second you show a man's un-erect penis, it's rated NC-17. I don't mind those things, because those are the things that make America so special.

But what does bother me is the news that Anheuser-Busch is considering moving all of its plants overseas. Honestly, what is more American that Bud Light? It goes Apple Pie, Jesus, Racism and then Bud Light. We could never have crushed those damned British during the American Revolution if our boys in blue weren't throwing back cans of BL to ease their woes. BL is the social lubricant that has enabled us to slip our proverbial fingers up the rectums of loose college girls throughout our history. In order to understand the preceding metaphor, replace 'proverbial fingers' with 'hard cock of justice' and replace 'loose college girls' with 'towel-headed evil-doers'.

I'm not sure if anyone remembers the outsourcing of Converse a few years ago, but I still roll the horrible memory around in my skull at great length. Remember when you could throw on a pair of grimy old Chucks and march down your neighborhood street and proudly display your 'Made in America' logo with pride? Those were the days. Then the Converse Company went and got castrated by China (via Nike) who in turn jacked the price up to over $35 for a shoe that previously sold for under $20 and is only really worth $10. I know Chuck Taylors were the original basketball shoe, but has anyone ever tried to actually play a game of b-ball with those P.O.S.'s on? They sucked, but at least they were OURS! (by 'ours', of course, I mean us as Americans)

I would rather bleed all over the basketball court as my skin scrapes and tears as it rubs against the rough canvas interior of my American-made Chucks. I would rather spend my substandard paycheck on a 24 pack of Bud Light with the Stars and Stripes brazenly displayed on the box than a 12 pack of some imported sissy piss-water that won't even get me buzzed enough to forget about my miserable, pathetic life. And, you know what, I would rather sit through a box office American blockbuster, shoot-em-up, kill-fest than see one more artsy-fartsy French film about two fags who fall for each other in pre-World War II Tokyo and slap their flaccid penises against each other in the closing scene.

And for those of you out there who would rather see a limp dick than bloodshed, check out Edward Norton's package in American History X. They show it twice!


This is America. Jealous?