Bigotry: The forgotten virtue

While having the noblest of intentions, the civil rights movement has trampled over an American Virtue. Bigotry is on the wane. Civil rights leaders and liberal politicians are nursing sore shoulders from patting themselves on the back. But they fail to appreciate the damage they’re doing. This country was founded on bigotry. It needs bigotry to thrive. Americans need bigotry like the queers need a parade, like the Irish need liquor and dagos need a bath. Let me explain.

Hatred is a part of who we are. People hate. Period. Along with love, fear, curiosity, lust, greed, and the craving for ice cream, hate is wired into our genetic make-up. Hate is not a bad thing. How can something innately human be bad? One might just as soon condemn the naked body; for both are human. Do you need an excuse to love someone? Of course not. Why then, do you need a good reason to hate somebody? You don’t. And that brings us to the virtue of Bigotry.

Our ancestry recognized the inherent hatred in Man, and made provisions for its expression in everyday life. To wit, they bequeathed on their posterity a meticulously crafted dynamic of ethnic and racial hatred. A look back in time will find good, honest, hard-working, virtuous, church-going people hating just about everybody. Irish, Italian, Jewish, Polish, Hispanic and African immigrants were the subject of American hate. And they, the immigrants, hated them right back. We called this reciprocal hatred “enculturation.” Catholics hated Protestants. Irish hated Blacks. Polish hated 3rd grade math class. Everybody hated somebody. Of course, the hatred had no discernable merit. Thus, the bigotry. Our hatred was so thick that a walk down the street would coat you in a residue of loathing. Hate was right out there in the open, like the liberal bias in the mainstream media. It was omnipresent. It was arbitrary. We didn’t oppress hatred. We embraced it. It was a beautiful thing.

I can hear my readers’ thoughts even now. “LBB, have you fallen off your rocker? Are you drunk again (yes!)? Hate is despicable. The ugliest feature of American history is our bigotry. We’ve spent the last 40 years making amends for the sins of our hateful and bigoted past.”

Pipe down, hippie. I’m not done yet. As I’ve postulated, and hopefully you’ve agreed, hatred is an innate part of the human animal. To the extend we squelch hatred in racial and ethnic venues, we redirect it into unhealthy, innocent aspects of everyday life. Our hatred has gone "underground." It's cryptic. It's under pressure and therefore erupts in random, unpredictable and dangerous flare-ups. Hatred is no longer a predictable and controllable thing. It’s a live grenade. It’s a hot potato. It’s a firecracker with a thousand fuses. It’s Russel Crowe with a 12-pack in his belly and brass knuckles on his hand. Our hatred has metastasized from a manageable human trait to a capricious enemy who can strike at any moment.

I’ve got a newsflash for you: Our hatred is alive and well. In fact, it’s stronger than ever. Just as the abuse of antibiotics creates new, opportunistic bacteria, so does our crusade against bigotry create a thousand new bigotries.

How can I be so glib, so reckless? Am I trying to convince the reader that efforts to squelch hatred have been fruitless, that the war against bigotry is detrimental, that we hate as much now as we ever did? Yes. Let me offer some examples. Take a mental snapshot of contemporary American life. We no longer tolerate bigotry. Anyone who dares to say a foul word against another based on their race, ethnicity, gender, religion or sexual orientation is condemned, sued, and in extreme cases, imprisoned. We’ve defeated bigotry. We’ve eliminated hatred. We’ve evolved.

That is, of course, unless you’re overweight, a smoker, an SUV owner, a meat-eater, a gun-owner, home-school your kids, use a cell phone while driving, vote for Bush, shop at Wal-Mart, eat fast-food, go to church, show the vaguest interest in Intelligent Design, work at a for-profit company, watch Fox News, or find Dennis Miller refreshingly poignant. Ask the above if we’ve eliminated hatred from our culture. Meditate on the thousand subtle little things we hate. Then consider whether we’ve “evolved.”

What’s happening here? We have to invent new reasons to hate each other. Do you honestly believe that we would have hated cell phone users who talked while driving 50 years ago, should that technology have existed? Hell no. Being able to call Bangkok while driving down I-10 is cool, yo. We wouldn’t have minded if you were driving 5 under the speed limit back in the day. We had more patience back then. We had more forgiveness in our hearts. Most important, we had far better reasons to hate each other. What else could explain the preposterous hatred we have for McDonald’s and Wal-Mart? McDonald’s sells burgers and fries. Please explain to me the harm in that. Wal-Mart has everything you need at rock-bottom prices, and a wonderful return policy. What’s the damn problem? The problem is, we’ve blocked the natural avenues of hatred, so we channel it into innocent entities like Wal-Mart or a cell-phone or an SUV. You’ve have to hate something. Skin color, accents and religion are off-limits. So we discharge our hatred on a Big Mac. Has anybody else considered the folly of hating a burger joint? God help us!

As we prosecute our crusade against hatred, we’ll see it erupt in evermore senseless facets of our lives. I fear I’ll live to see Mackies burning PC owners alive, or at least suing them in the name of “computing justice.” Incidentally, have you noticed how our hatreds are a form of “justice?” Environmental justice. Social justice. Economic justice. Gender justice.

How far are we from “Hamburger justice?” “Discount-shopper justice (look out, Wal-Mart!)?” “Vehicular justice (death to SUVs!).” “Telcom justice (kill your cell phone?)”

Let’s conserve the American Virtue of Bigotry before our innate hatred consumes us.



A blog is nothing if not a place to rant. Here are 10 aggravations selected at random from my life. Here goes...

1) FUNERAL PRECESSIONS: It’s a dead body, people -- not a trailer party. I have as much respect for the dead as the next guy. But do we really need to gridlock a city because 92 year-old Myrtle had a fatal stroke trying to butter toast? I’m trying to get to work! Myrtle has the rest of eternity to make it to Bing’s Discount Burials. Get the hell out of my way.

2) FAST FOOD CLERKS who take your order, wait until the split second you start speaking, then interrupt you with “is this for here or to go?” Why the fuck didn't you ask that beforehand? Do you enjoy interrupting? Your parents should have practiced coitus interruptus! By the way, my order is to-go, because after I'm done kicking you in the crotch, I'm going to need to make a fast getaway with my #5 combo! You degenerate.

3) HOLLYWOOD ACTIVISTS: It pisses me off to listen to somebody with 29 bedrooms address the issue of homelessness. Sounds a bit insincere. Hey, Mr. Hollywood jerkoff, if you're looking for a cause celebre, how about the shortage of decent movies coming out of Hollywood?

4) WEEDS: These things can grow in a mixture of cement and battery acid. Actually, I respect weeds' toughness. They just aggravate me when they flaunt it around my dead, dried up garden. If I break wind outdoors, my rose trees keel over. But I can't kill my weeds with gasoline. I don’t get it.

5) BABY BOOMERS: Have you seen a bigger lot of sellouts? Thirty-five years ago these people fought to say the word “fuck.” Now they file sexual harassment suits to sue the person saying it.

6) GOATEES: Guys think this makes them look tough and rugged. All it really does is tickle their boyfriends' balls.

7) MEN WITH PONY TAILS: This is another thing that guys think makes them look macho. But all it really does is give their boyfriends a handle to pull on during oral sex.

8) THE WORD "BULLCRAP": If you use this word, go fornicate yourself.

9) COLLEGE SCIENCE MAJORS who celebrate the comic genius of Monty Python: Come on, nerdlings. If you can figure differential equations, you should be able to figure out that Monty Python is warmed-over mutton. British humor peaked with Benny Hill -- and that was mostly because of all the topless girls. If you want to laugh at British guys, check out a Congress of Parliament on C-Span.

10) HOUSEFLIES: If I had the gift of flight, I’d find a more appealing place then my own hair. There’s nothing in there but cured Sports Gel. Shoo, fly! Go find an Humberto’s Taco Stand.


Weekend appetizers

I hate when you’re dying of thirst. You find a drinking fountain. You press the button and a stream of water dribbles 2 millimeters from the spigot. Then you’ve got to give the thing a hummer just to hydrate yourself. Sssssssssshhhhhhhhhhhhlurp! Everybody hears what you’re doing. Some wiseass passes by and says, “work that nozzle, Monica.”

One day my boss didn’t like my attitude and warned me, “Bug’s Butt, straighten up or I’LL HAVE YOUR JOB.” I replied, “OK, but I’m not sure you’d want it. The pay sucks and the boss is a consummate asshole.

I don’t believe in racial reparations. But not because the idea lacks merit. It’s because it doesn’t go far enough! After all, should we really be let off the hook for cutting a check? That’s a dangerous precedent. Then, every rich fat cat tycoon could cut a check every time he got caught with his hand up his company’s financial skirt. That’s not justice! It’s bribery. If blacks really want justice, and whites really want to make amends, why don’t we become their slaves for a few hundred years? Fair’s fair, after all. We could do their accounting and stuff.

Rum and cola go together like cruise control and road head. In fact, all four of those things mix nicely on I-8.

When Hollywood stars honor their promises at the altar, I believe their assurances of global warming. Until then, I think both “commitments” are just for show.

Sometimes idiocy can fall down the line like dominoes. You know the idiot who parks his car over the line? The problem is, the empty space his car invades is the only space left. So you take it. Compensating for the idiot’s parking job, you park too far to the other side. Guess what happens next? Idiot drives away, leaving you looking like the original idiot, not merely a victim of his idiocy. The next guy parks next to you in the same manner and thinks you an idiot. And so it goes. One idiot makes jerks of the rest of us.

Many self-help gurus encourage us to ask “what if?” I ask “what if?” all the time. And let me assure you it’s not the key to my success, but the foundation of my neurosis. “What if they fire me for this?” “What if my back goes out?” “What if they never stop making new reality TV shows?” “What if my vasectomy spontaneously reverses and the wife catches a bun in the oven?” “What if it doesn’t and she gets pregnant anyway?” It think a far more productive question to ask oneself is “who cares?” Or maybe “who can I blame?

You have to wonder how anybody took a leak, popped a boner, shook depression, kept a healthy heart, maintained strong bones or purged their sinuses of boogers before Merck incorporated!

How do trees know which way is up? How do carrots know which way is down? How do hermaphrodites know which restroom to use?

If the bank can take your house away when you don't make the mortgage, why can't you take the bank away when they short your account?


A diamond in the asphalt

Freeways reserve a lane for carpooling. They identify this lane with a diamond painted into the asphalt. As long as you have two or more bodies in your car, you can use the carpool lane and leave all the friendless chumps behind!

I think the carpool lane is a diamond of an idea. In fact, I love the notion of assigning lanes to those with special needs. We need more categories for more drivers. Why should carpoolers have all the fun? This isn't about getting rid of bad drivers. I don’t believe in “good” and “bad” drivers. We all just have different needs, different states-of-mind. Therefore, it makes sense to merge everybody with the same mentality into the same lane.

Commuting-to-work lane: This lane has no rules (like a date with Courtney Love). You can drive as recklessly as you please and take your life into your own hands -- along with all the other commuters. After all, you’re heading to work. Who cares if you crash? Take me out of my misery, please. I know I’d rather spend a day in the trauma center than my cubical! Also welcome in this lane -- people who have to urinate real badly.

Window-shoppers’ lane: On the opposite side of the road from the Commuting-to-work lane, above. This lane is for drivers who evidently have no place to be and all day to get there. In fact, their only purpose seems to be slowing down the rest of us. This lane is for all the mid-80’s model sedans with the wood paneling and the missing rear bumper -- the cars of old people, serial killers and traveling salesmen. Also welcome are those who are lost and have to read each road sign, and those who enjoy giving themselves a fondle during a long, leisurely drive. The only rule here is you can’t leave once you enter (like Kobe Byrant’s hotel dates).

Drunk-armed-and-angry lane: For all intoxicated drivers who have a firearm in the glove box and a naked-lady mud flap on the back of their trucks. And of course, those with a cartoon character taking a whiz on a car manufacturer emblem. Drive this lane at your own risk. Emergency services to not respond to calls from this lane. You’re on your own. Hopefully you can do society a favor and thin out your own ranks.


A man of easy virtue

I wanted to be a good man. In fact, I wanted to be a Man’s Man, and not in the queer way, either. I mean a man of virtue. So I set myself to a regimen of self-improvement.

For instance, I tried to take pride in my work. I wanted to believe in my heart that any job worth doing was worth doing well. I wanted to work for work’s sake. I wanted to work hard until the day was done. And at the end of the day, my reward would be knowing that I did a good job. I loaded myself up with all that malarkey and gave it a try. But I couldn’t make the sale. I couldn’t bullshit myself for very long. They say “a job well-done is its own reward.” Try telling that to the bill collectors! “I don‘t have everything I owe you this month, but I did a damn fine job painting the garage this weekend.” You can debate the value of a job well-done. But everybody agrees on the value of a buck.

Working hard and doing a good job are both monumental pains in the ass. Plus, you usually have to stay sober. And you have to give a damn what the boss wants. Needless to say, my resolve to do a good job waned quickly. Now I want to do as little as possible -- for the most compensation, of course. I want to minimize my work/pay ratio. It’s the rational hedonist in me. I’d rather make $9/hr and sit on my ass than six-figures and have to do something productive. In fact, I mean to check into this “welfare” thing I keep hearing so much about. Sounds like a sweetheart deal! And if it ever runs out, I’ll seek employment in the federal government.

I also tried to respect women. Scouts’ honor! I wanted to live down the reputation men have as selfish, sex-fueled brutes with no consideration beyond their own appetites. I paid attention in class when the teachers taught us that women are equal in every respect. I didn’t buy it. But by God, I was going to force myself. I was going to be a feminists’ wet dream. I was going to listen to all the words coming out of girls’ mouths and process them into intelligible thoughts. Then, I was going to find those thoughts informative and insightful; women don't nag -- they're just trying to help me!

Oh, and I was never going to look at women as sex objects, despite 5 million years of evolution encouraging that very thing. I don’t need to tell you how that plan turned out.

In fact, I wanted to be politically correct in every way. I wanted to purge myself of racial, ethnic or sexual prejudices. I wanted to look at somebody with a different skin color than mine and not think, “You (insert epithet here) bastard!”

I tried so hard to muster the correct attitudes. I even tried to change my diet. I would tell myself how “delicious” healthful foods were while forcing them down my gullet. I told myself I preferred fruit to those nasty, processed junk-foods. Fruit has this delicious, natural sweetness to it that junk food just can’t deliver. And how I “loved” those whole grains. They were so much better-tasting than the refined, white flour you find in pastries, Frosted Flakes and the other processed junk pumping out of factories. I’d much rather eat whole-oat rice cakes than a Pop Tart a la mode. My body thrives on natural foods.


I was going to think innocently and justly of other people. Then I started following politics.

I was going to save and invest my money. Then I saw how much they take in taxes and at the gas pump. And they don’t just give those Velvet Elvis paintings away.

I was going to go on a diet. Then I discovered the Klondike Bar.

I was going to elevate my taste in entertainment. Then the new Dukes of Hazard Movie came out.

I was going to give each waking hour to industry. But I started blogging.

I tried to get my mind right, to have the right attitude, to think positively and be a good person. I applied little mental coercions to implant the right beliefs. But at some point, my Bullshit Detector always sounds the alarm: “Your job sucks and they pay you a pittance.” “This health food is nasty; send down a candy bar.” “Well, Mr. Nice Guy, you tried being nice. Now it’s time to exact revenge.”

Things haven’t gone well with my quest for self-improvement. Dr. Phil can go fist himself!


You think?

Read this news excerpt from today:

There are 490 female students at Timken High School, and 65 are pregnant, according to a recent report in the Canton Repository.The article reported that some would say that movies, TV, videogames, lazy parents and lax discipline may all be to blame.

...Jeez. You think a few penises would be to blame. Unless they all had sex with their PlayStation 2's.


Random stuff

What do you call a girl who masturbates on the top of a building? Diddler-On-The-Roof.

Managers use a 3-step process for conflict resolution: 1) gather all pertinent facts. 2) analyze the facts fairly, objectively and with disinterest. 3) arrive at whatever conclusion best covers your own ass and/or spares you the biggest headache.

I keep hearing women say that they like the “bad-boy image.” If that’s the case, how come my dates never liked it when I played with my food at dinner? Or soiled my diapers?

I read in the news that 40% of Mexicans want to live in America. The other 60% want to immigrate here illegally.

Penis: Nature’s natural thermometer.

I hate those people who remind me that it’s “whom,” not “who.” I like to respond by asking them, “Hey, guess WHOM I’m going to kick in the crotch?”

If flies have 200 eyes, why can’t they see they’re standing on a pile of turds?

Everybody knows that Jesus turned water into wine. But few people know that He also made a killer Bathtub Margarita.

What’s the worst thing you can say to a blind man with no legs? “You got to learn to look before you leap.”

A girl goes to her gynecologist and says, “Hey, I need an operation on my vagina. Can you do it? The gynecologist replies, “Sure, I’ve been told I can cut a rug.”

A penis is like an antenna: the longer it is, the more likely it’ll pick something up.

Here’s a little-known physics fact: you can create a black hole by mixing equal parts Viagra and saltpeter.

If nobody judged a book by its cover, they’d never sell any books.


Anchormen and Real Sex: two for the weekend.

First, thanks to everyone who picked up a copy of "What's Shakin' in the Men's Room." I hope you enjoy it.

I haven't made it to the computer much this week. So here are a couple of posts. I'm off to get current on my favorite blogs. Have a great weekend!

Aliens and Anchormen

Every once in a while I'll catch my local news broadcaster looking in the wrong direction while he's talking. His attention is somewhere off camera. I always think "this guy's and idiot!" until I catch myself waving at the television trying to capture his attention.

You might think the newscaster has simply lost track of which camera is "live." But I like to imagine that one of his colleagues -- the weatherman, perhaps -- is making a crude gesture off camera. Maybe he's mooning him, or drawing dirty pictures on the digital weather map. That would be fun.

Or else, maybe the newscaster is really taking his lines from an invading alien who has the poor bastard in his laser sighting, because the aliens are using the broadcast to spread disinformation to fool us humanoids before the big invasion.

Real Sex. Really?

HBO is running a series called Real Sex. It's a voyeuristic look into the sex habits of modern- day Americans. It features beautiful people without an ounce of body fat or body hair prancing around in zany costumes on elaborate sets reminiscent of a Roman sex orgy. Everybody's fit, free, healthy, happy, uninhibited and having a wonderful time while discovering new facets of their sexuality.

The show's entertaining enough. But it isn't exactly real sex, is it? I know they haven't been stealing material from my sex life. Hell, my wildest masturbatory fantasies don't get much more sophisticated than the grocery clerk discounting canned peas wearing nothing but her Safeway smock. That’s right baby -- work that price gun. Work it! Anyway, it’s safe to say that 20 people dressed up in ancient Roman battle armor and riding each other like horses isn't real sex. It just doesn't happen that often. It’s staged. It’s contrived. When I watch a show called “Real Sex,” I want to see real sex.

I'd like to watch a series that takes the notion of real sex seriously. Real Real Sex -- a voyeuristic look at what really happens in the bedroom. How about a 240-pound hairy assed bastard climbing on his reluctant wife to claim his monthly ration? As she disappears under the blob she utters a muffled, “make it quick, Stan.” Stan fires off a few pelvic thrusts before developing a leg cramp, rolling off the missus and passing out into a beer-and-chip-fueled slumber. Afterward, the show producers can interview the stars, just like they do in Real Sex. ?

“Well, Stan cleaned out the garage today like I've been nagging him to do for a month now. So I was obligated to let him crawl on me and do his business. He knows I'm not a big fan of the oral sex but he always asks and I always say to him, 'don't I do enough with the cooking can cleaning?’”

See, this show practically writes itself.


What's Shakin' in the Men's Room

It's here!

Dear Reader,

Have you ever found yourself deeply offended at this blog's content, yet lacked a book to hurl across the room or burn in protest?

Have you ever wondered what it would be like to read LBB at the gym, coffee house or your local holding tank?

Has your workplace banned blogging? Is your TV on the fritz? Are you ashamed to have this blog in your Internet cache? Do you need a gift idea? Do you have a coffee table that needs leveling?

If so, you've got to get a copy of What's Shakin' in the Men's Room, by Alpha Johnson (that's my cool new nom de plume.)

It has all the material from this blog, plus never-before-published works.

Get your copy today!


The Lost LBB Maxims

  • If education prevents crime, why don’t we send criminals to school instead of jail?
  • A woman I admire and whose advice I try to live by just wrote that she has no friends who cuss. She ads that she can’t think of anybody interesting who uses vulgarity. Well, fuck that cunt.
  • I’m on a quest to find the rendezvous point where lost socks and sunglasses meet.
  • You know how you can have a case of the shits? Well, I’ve got a case of the I-don’t-give-a-shits.
  • Some people remind me that “two wrongs don’t make a right.” I’m not trying to make a right. I’m trying to get revenge. Duh. If I wanted to do right, I’d consult the Bible or search my conscience or something. I want to get even with the bastard. I don’t give a whoop whether it’s right or not. Let God sort it out.
  • Have you seen those signs on the pizza delivery cars that read, “Driver carries less than $20.” The idea is to discourage robbery. If that’s the case, why not just put a sign on the car that reads, “Driver carries firearm?”
  • Happiness is part-time work.
  • I don’t understand how some vegetarians eat eggs. Don’t they realize that they’re so anxious to eat an animal that they can’t even wait until it’s born before they kill it?
  • Speaking of vegetarians, I wonder what they would do if we genetically engineered a tree that grew meat instead of fruit.
  • Now that we’re in a “global economy,” I can’t help noticing that white people are the minority. In a global context, white is the new black. So I want some affirmative action up in this motherfucker. My people have been oppressed too damn long.
  • There are two awakenings in life. The first is realizing that you don’t really like work. The second is realizing that’s the stuff life is made of.
  • I’m going to invent a car that runs on discarded cell phones and MP3 players.
  • The best career advice I can give is to forget ambition, creativity, schmoozing the boss, working extra hours and taking an Excel class -- and start digging up dirt on your colleagues. You never know when you’ll need a pile of manure to shovel onto a workmate who’s trying to screw you over. It’s similar to the Assured Mutual Destruction philosophy of the Cold War. Let everybody else know that if you go down, you’re taking them with you.
  • There are only a few places a fat guy can look cool: in bowling alley, on a motorcycle, or at a belly flop contest.


Don't misunderestimate American schools

For the last 30 years we've been hearing about how poorly the American educational system ranks against those of foreign countries, particularly the Asian and European nations.

You've heard the statistics. We don't read as well nor write as well. We can't perform elementary math calculations nor apply critical thinking to real-world problems. The Asian countries are light-years ahead of us in math and science, and the European nations speak English better than we do.

Hogwash! I don't buy it, folks. We grow the best and brightest right here in American schools. Think about all the guns, bombs, planes and missiles that make America the great nation it is. Where do you think these things came from? Japan? The Japanese still don't have a nuclear bomb -- and after we were thoughtful enough to show them two prototypes all those years ago. What are they waiting for? Those babies win wars quickly. I though Japanese workers strived for efficiency.

I'll tell you what the problem is. Foreign educational systems have kids studying languages, medicine and international business instead of designing nuclear weapons that kill all the people and leave the buildings undamaged. That's ingenuity. You show me a country with a warehouse of neutron bombs and I'll show you a country that's educating its children just fine. These high-tech weapons don't grow on trees. You've got to be pretty damn smart to design and build them. Then you’ve got the missiles and planes to design for their delivery. Atomic theory, rocketry and aeronautics take brains, people. What do you think Einstein, Oppenheimer and the Wright Brothers knew about the Humanities? Who gives a crap? They got the freggin’ job done. We owe thousands of dead foreigners to their fine educations. And I’m not about to trample on their contribution to warfare by indicting the American education system, which has churned out enough scientists and engineers to blow up anybody who looks at us crosswise faster than a rerun of Friends. So the next time somebody tries to tell you that our education system is failing, you remind them that we've got more high-tech weaponry than anybody on the planet and we’ll blow their little fag-generating schools up as soon as we vote all the peace-loving pussies out of Congress.

Oh, our schools also are the best at teaching kids how to put condoms on bananas. So don’t let anybody tell you we don’t have a broad-based, multicultural learning model. Because we do.


I did it My Way, and it sucked

Sometimes I wonder how some celebrities managed to claw their way from obscurity. How the hell did they make it with such little talent? How did they succeed in an entertainment venue? How are their knees holding up?

Bob Hope? He was a nice guy and a patriot. But he wasn't funny. I've gotten more laughs watching Holocaust documentaries. Bob Hope couldn't make me laugh if he filled the room with nitrous oxide and tickled my balls with a feather.

Frank Sinatra? Old Blue Balls? That guy couldn't carry a tune if you stuffed it down his shorts. Frank Sinatra is living proof -- well, now he's dead proof -- that Italians are tone deaf. Although I did enjoy him offering Sinead O'Cue Ball a kick in the ass after she tore a picture of the Pope. Just don't get your foot caught in the gash, Chairman!

Jerry Lewis? Cerebral palsy is usually funny. But this no-talent manages to eviscerate the humor out of retardation. The French can keep him. After all, who would notice one more self-important, arrogant douche bag in France. Talk about camouflage.

Sammy Davis, Jr? I know if I were Sammy Davis, Sr., I’d have myself neutered after siring that genetic misfire. Sammy’s face looked like he just caught a cactus in the crotch. Yikes! He should be thankful he only had one eye; that way when he looks in the mirror, he’ll only be half as ugly. And anybody whose career highlights feature a rendition of The Candy Man should die working two jobs and sucking dick for rent money, the way the E! True Hollywood Story intended.

Hold on. I need to draft a quick check-list of people I’ve offended:

Italians -- check.
Jews -- double check.
Feminists -- check.
Advocates for the disabled -- check.
The WWII Generation -- check.
African Americans -- check.
The French -- check.
Eunichs -- check (sorry, PopFizz).
Those with good taste -- bingo!

Well, I think I’ve covered everybody. Good afternoon.


Soft Porne falls on hard times

The Internet has enriched our lives. It's spoiled some things, too. It’s slowly bleeding the romance out of life. For example, e-Bay is driving local flea markets out of business? Who wants to rub elbows with tattoos and tube-tops in the hot sun when you can bid on old Lynard Skynard albums and bogus handbags from the comfort of you home computer? The music industry, too, has felt the pinch of the Internet now that every college kid in America is loading his hard drive full of free MP3s. And the dating scene is unrecognizable. Who goes to bars anymore? A couple of martinis and an “Internet Adult ‘Friend-Finder’” and you never have to leave the house. Or you can use OsBasso's HNT. Either way.

But no industry has withered in the Internet age more than the soft-porn industry.

Soft-porn had its heyday in the 1980s, when premium cable channels featured it during late-night viewing, much to the delight of adolescent boys with converter boxes in the privacy of their own bedrooms. Do you remember all those soft-porn movies on Cinemax? If you were like me, you spent your evenings sifting through B-grade cinematic crap because you knew that 49 minutes into the film, you got to see the side of a naked breast for 3 seconds during a simulated sex scene between the pizza guy and the lonely housewife. If you were ambitious -- again, like me -- you'd Betamax the movie and then work the pause button, hoping the line of interference didn't cover the good stuff. Fine memories. Back then you had to work for your porn.

But now we have the Internet. Two mouse clicks and you're looking up some European co-ed's whisker biscuit through a “vagina-cam.” And you don’t have to wait 49 minute for the nude scene. “No plot -- just twat.” That's the motto. Hey, I think I just stumbled on a great name for a website! Don’t you think? Anyway, Internet porn is all the rage. It’s pure, undiluted and addictive. It makes those old Cinemax movies look like Nick-at-Night.

The Internet did to porn what Wal-mart did to housewares: it put it all in one place, easy to find, and affordable to everyone who can afford a single-wide trailer. And that makes soft-porn the mom-and-pop-shops that are fading away. Good bye, soft-core. I'd wipe the tears from my eyes, but all I have is my old jism rag.


Legalize it!

Generally speaking, activists annoy the heck out of me. But there's one advocacy group I adore: the legalize-marijuana crowd. You haven't heard sophistry until you've listened to a marijuana advocate spend 2 hours explaining why hemp is superior to nylon. These guys are good. I don't care how straight-laced you are. After listening to an advocate contrast the detriments of alcohol with the health benefits of weed, you'll want to toke a fatty just on principle. One of my “legalize-it” buddies almost convinced me to paste a “Buck Fush” bumper sticker to my car back in 2000, but ironically, once you get high, all those “Bushisms” make perfect sense. So I refrained. He did, however, persuade me that the only way to play bongo drums is while in the nude. And don’t bother citing your First Amendment rights if they try to arrest you for doing that. They don’t care.

I think America is wasting a valuable resource in its marijuana advocates. Right now they’re wasting their creative energies into fashioning evermore-sophisticated bong kits.
“Dude, man. Check it out… you hold the flame up to the bowl, right? Then you suck on Buddha’s 3 arm, then the stuff shoots through the intake manifold in his belly, right. Then it gets cooled in my patented valve crossover array. Shit'll fuck you up, brah."
But marijuana advocates are expert debaters. We should have marijuana advocates handling international diplomacy. Anybody who can convince us to legalize hemp ought to be arguing for our policies in Europe and Arabia. I’ve got a friend -- this guy who goes by “Hotbox” on account of he likes getting high by locking himself in a closet and filling it with hash fumes. Anyway, I think Hotbox should be our delegate at the UN. He’ll have Israeli and Arab diplomats blazing up together and singing Smashmouth records in no time.

I love marijuana advocates. Just don’t try to tell them that PC’s are better than Macs. That’ll start them on a 2-hour tirade on how “The Man” wants you to think just like that. Jeez! Don’t get them started.


Don't blame me. Blame the Skyy.

  • Every embarrassment begins with a lie one has told oneself.
  • Why not put an adequate amount of ketchup in the packet? Or, make them easier to tear open with greasy fingers. I’m open to either solution.
  • I wouldn’t be able to laugh at much if I didn’t know death awaited all of us.
  • The Food Network is the pornography channel to short order cooks across the country. And seafood dishes are the full-frontals.
  • If ancient portraits featured robes and swords, why don’t modern portraits feature Spandex and I-Pods?
  • The probability of a morning boner is directly proportional to the number of coworkers in the room and inversely proportional to the room one’s slacks afford the crotch.
  • Failure to order at least one veggie pizza guarantees at least one disgruntled vegetarian; remembering to order at least one veggie pizza guarantees at least one uneaten pizza.
  • The most common discovery researchers make is that they need more funding.
  • The only time household chores seem worthwhile is when you have to go to work.
  • I spent four years of high school ditching history and science classes and my entire adulthood watching the History Channel and the Discovery Channel. I think somebody should start The Irony Channel.
  • The worst mistake women made was the Feminist Movement. Once men learned that women liked sex too, we stopped negotiating.
  • The most magical time of day takes place between the second and third cocktail.
  • While it’s not better to look good than to feel good, looking good does make you feel good.
  • I haven’t balanced my checkbook in a decade, but I know exactly how many calories I’ve eaten an burned at the gym today.
  • We blame fashion magazines for defining beauty, as if big boobs, shapely legs and full lips needed an ad campaign to become popular.


Ointment for your disappointment

Have you ever noticed that life is disappointing? It can, of course, be wonderful and fulfilling and worthwhile -- sometimes. But in totality, life is disappointing. Our expectations go unfulfilled. Ask yourself whether your occupation, spouse, social life, home, bank account or waistline are what you hoped for. I rest my case.

I've meditated on this for years. I‘ve considered why life is so disappointing and what, if anything, I can do about it. Why is life such a disappointment?

That's an awfully big question and it requires a big answer. But I believe I know part of it. And I’d like to express it on this post. I hope I don’t disappoint you.

Life’s disappointments stem from our childhood. Our parents, schools and communities conspired against us. They set us up. How? They implanted unreasonably high expectations in our little, fertile brains, and we nurtured these expectations into blossoming disappointments.

We were supposed to have it all: career, family, fulfillment, health, happiness, meaning. Naturally, we would succeed at work and at home, live in perfect health, keep our hair and our figures and our teeth, and steer clear of all the evil stuff like drugs, alcohol, divorce and public defecation.

That’s what the brochure advertised. Remember? But like so much advertisement, it was a best-possible-scenario.

These unrealistic expectations compose the foundation of our disappointment. But there's another, bigger reason: Cracker Jack. You read correctly -- the popcorn and peanut-based snack. Cracker Jack duped us. Think about it. Every kid ate Cracker Jack. I ate Cracker Jack. I didn't like it. But I ate it -- because it was junk food, in the academic sense; it had sugar, corn syrup and nuts, so it was my childhood duty to eat the nasty shit. How could something with so much unhealthy stuff taste so nasty? Anyway, what lesson do you learn from Cracker Jack? Eat all the sugary crap you want and you'll be rewarded with a toy prize.

That's not real life. Is it? The people at Cracker Jack misrepresent the real consequences of routinely eating boxes of junk food -- obesity, adult-onset diabetes, cardiovascular disease diverticulitis and tooth decay. Those aren't toy prizes! They suck.

McDonald’s got in on the act, too, with those Happy Meals. “Happy!” They put a toy prize in the box and then invite you play in their “playland.” Just keep woofing down burgers and fries. Then go play. Isn’t life grand?

In adulthood, nobody rewards you for your vices. If I gulp down a dozen chicken wings and a 12 pack at my local dive bar every night, nobody's going to give me a time-share in Boca Raton. If I knock over a liquor store for hooker money and smoke crack until Noam Chomsky makes sense, the mayor isn't going to give me the key to the city. Unless that mayor is Marion Barry. But what are the odds of that?

Yet that's what they teach you as a child: indulge and then get a prize. That's all childhood is: eating all the junk food you can get your hands on and waiting for the next toy prize. Santa Claus, birthdays, Easter, Halloween, the freggin' Tooth Fairy.

I liked what I saw as a kid. All you had to do is keep eating junk food and somebody would eventually reward you for it. I once forced down 4 bowls of Capin' Crunch and there was a toy waiting for me at the bottom of the box. So I figured that as an adult, I'd do more of what I love and somebody would give me more toy prizes. I remember wondering what my reward would be should I read and commit to memory the pages of a Playboy magazine, once I reached the age of interest. Or when I drank my first bottle of whiskey while recklessly trifling with a firearm. The future had such promise.

But the adult rules are in direct opposition to those we learned as children. Sometime during adolescence somebody “flipped the script.” Every childhood pleasure has an adult consequence. So, thanks largely to the assholes at the Cracker Jack factory, we're doomed to lives of disappointment.

I'd like to kick that little cartoon sailor in the crotch.