Terror Scare

Hello, friends. It's Chas, back from a long trip to the Vatican (not France, Spencer ... like I'd associate with cheese-eating surrender monkeys). I won't bore you with the details of my journey — like flying in my own Gulf Stream V-SP, the most expensive private jet in the world at a whopping $45 million — but let's just say that Christianity and the conservative way of life are safe for the time being and will be for a while after I did a little favor for Joe, aka Pope Benedict XVI. Hey, I owed him for recommending my new tailor. Seriously, it's so hard to find a good one these days that doesn't make you feel nervous when he cups your balls.

Anyway, to celebrate my return home, I was joined for a light lunch by my girlfriend, an overqualified receptionist with a body that would turn Sam Donaldson straight (as if that's even possible).

Seeing as how I've been so busy saving America from demonic atheists and liberals — same thing — I haven't really been able to keep an eye on the Homeland Security's terror level, which happened to be raised that day to Orange: "high risk of terrorist attacks." I read about it in the Union Leader while refueling in New Hampshire (98 percent white).

We were at a restaurant with a name you probably can't pronounce in a neighborhood you only wish you could be seen in, eating watermelon soup with vegetables. It's part of this whole Sonoma diet we're into. The sun was out that afternoon, so baby was wearing a stunning Philip Treacy hat and Matsuda sunglasses, and we were discussing the miracle of carbonated natural water.

All of a sudden, a loud, booming siren sounded, as if a tornado had just touched down, a hurricane was about to hit shore or a meteor was racing toward the Earth, and we were all screwed. Only, the weather was perfect, not a cloud in the sky, and nobody from NASA had called to give me a heads up. I knew something was wrong. Could it be my old foe, Al-Qaeda? It kept going and going, and it seemed to be getting louder and louder. My anxiety kicked in, and I didn't have any Xanax around, because baby took them all before the McCain fund-raiser last week.

Out of the corner of my eye I noticed a moving van parking nearby, and the driver got out, wearing a turban. Could that be the Al-Qaeda operative? Instead of taking any chances, I took the offensive and grabbed my chilled salad fork and began sprinting toward him and the truck he drove, which very well could have been full of C4!

I tackled him, put the fork to his neck and screamed, "Not today, Barack!" He screamed like a little girl. I was sure it was due to his guilty conscience, but it turned out to be because of the freezing metal. "I no know what'chu mean," he pleaded, and until I checked to see his vehicle was full of chairs, I didn't believe him, and I kept slapping him to try and get some answers.

Eventually the siren stopped, leaving me puzzled and highly embarrassed. Explaining the situation to the cops only got worse when they began laughing at me, because the siren I freaked out over was in fact the weekly Wednesday-at-noon test of the civil defense siren that's been going on since it was installed during the reign of that commie, Franklin Delano Roosevelt, in case Japan or Germany got ballsy.

Afterward, I looked at the bumper sticker on my Ferrari 612 Scaglietti and knew I hadn't overreacted and that my intentions were in the best interest of the country, no matter what some hippy, liberal douche might say.

~What Would Rumsfeld Do?~


So we meet again.

Well, well, well. I guess it's safe to start talking politics again. My formidable opponent, Chas, must have returned from his six-month retreat, during which he spent time in the South of France (trying for force people to begin using the reference "Freedom Fries"), the Alps, Canada (on accident), and the week-long seminar--a fusion of business and pleasure--held annually in Beavereater, Colo., by the American Association of People Who Hate People With Different Opinions.

I'm hoping that Chas, whenever he's not watching TiVoed reruns of the Colbert Report, can drop in from time to time, proffering words of wisdom, as well as providing his, I'm guessing, horrible take on the new column in the Arkansas Times entitled "All, Right, Arkansas," penned by my former co-intern, Katherine Whitworth. I'm sure he rejects any notion that shows sympathy with liberal tendencies, such as feminism in her most recent column. In that case, I'll have to take to her defense, as I've found after reading a few of her columns that I agree with many of the points she offers.

* * *

In other news, one of the most respected atheists and scientific writers of our time, Prof. Richard Dawkinds of Oxford University, has been gracious enough to lend his time to that tiny little spot on the map that is Little Rock. He'll be at the Clinton School of Public Service, Thursday, April 26, at 6 p.m. Anyone who is interested in the "truth," as he puts it (and I agree), should attend. "Be there, or be scared," I wrote to the Arkansas Times. Or... Be indifferent on the subject of cosmology and teleology, as well as evolutionary biology and quantum theory, and stay preoccupied with something as mundane as watching T.V. Who cares?

If you have no idea who I'm talking about, check out this video. Also, yes, he was the guy that was the main character in the South Park episode about Atheism.


To: You
From: Guess
Date: Duh
Subject: [Insert 30 seconds of thinking up a vapid subject line.]


The Da Vinci Cola ... in stores 12/12/12 (twice as evil)

I got to see The Da Vinci Code last Sunday, and for those of you who've yet to "be a part of it," be thankful. I hardly understand why people are so up in arms about this movie. I understand the implications of the movie and how easily--if proven true, of course--these ideas could destroy Christianity as we know it. But these ideas are nothing new.

Maybe I watch an unhealthy amount of The History Channel, but I knew that there are theories that Mary Magdalene was Jesus' lover, that they had a kid, and that the Knights Templar and Priory of Zion supposedly protected the Holy Grail, or the "Holy Bloodline," since the birth of Jesus' daughter, Sarah.

Why would this be so earth-shattering? Well, of course it would mean that whomever carried the blood of Christ would be holy, and it would make Mary Magdalene a holy figure, kinda fucking up this whole monotheistic ideal (because Jesus is only God in the flesh, right?).

So instead of watching a intellectually provocative movie, all I could think about the entire two-and-some-odd hours was how bad I wanted to bone the chick that co-starred with Tom Hanks, as well as how bad Tom Hanks needed to cut his hair. He looked like and hippie trying to clean up for an interview or something. Nasty shit.
Look at her. ... Totally do-able.
See, since I've had some extra time on my hands lately, I've been catching up on movies I've missed. Before going to see The Omen on 6/6/06, the last time I'd been to the movies was to see King Kong. I finally got to see Capote and Crash, both of which were better than I could have imagined.

I'm outta here. All hail the Lord, Bob Saget.


My favorite time of year

That's my dawg, Samir. Tell 'em who's the boss. (Don't forget to tell yourself, too.)
I love the NBA Playoffs, but that's not why this is my favorite time of year. The playoffs have nothing on the goddamn National Spelling Bee. Talk about thrilling television. I'm picking Samir Patel to go all the way.

Watch it tonight if you get a chance. There's Bonny Jain, who recently won the National Geographic Bee (I think that's what it's called) and who thinks he knows everything, and I'm hoping to see him cry like the little bitch that he is by the end of the second round.

Usually for the spelling bee, I'll pick a white kid to go all the way because it's like rooting for the underdog. Caitlin Campbell is showing some promise, and she shares my last name, but I like this Patel kid. I don't know what it is, but I think he's got it. He's one of those spelling bee kids that's in his own fucking world, and every time he gets a word right, he runs to his chair, nearly knocking everyone off the stage it seems, and commences to talk to himself. If that doesn't spell W-I-N-N-E-R, I don't know what does.

I'm almost saddened when I watch this competition, though. I understand how hard these kids work for the chance to win, but honestly--you know what, I'm not even gonna say it. I'll just say that, if they were my kids, I'd pressure them to do other things that learn Greek roots, like maybe pressuring them to learn social skills, or telling them that talking to yourself is not normal, despite what many think. Social skills will take you a lot further in life than being able to spell "suivez."



An ode ... to actors for The History Channel (THC)

Thank you, thy actors for THC, for giving hope to the hopeless. For I now know that there are hundreds of people that are dumber and less talented than me. You offer proof almost every day. What, with your programs on Civil War heroes, JFK conspiracies, and Knights of the Templar explications. So, again, I say, thanks!

I'm a THC junkie, I just watched a seemingly 15-fucking-hour special on military tactics used in the Bible, and the acting was so bad, I was compelled to come in my boiling hot room, sweat my balls off, and write about it.

Even as a junior in high school, I learned more about drama--the art, things you do, things you don't do--than all these motherfuckers on THC combined. Rule #1 for up-and-coming actors: Take it easy with the facial expressions. You can quickly tell when you are watching an inexperienced actor, by watching his or her eyebrows and frown lines. If they lift their eyebrows a lot, kind of making it look like their foreheads are frozen, they're inexperienced and have probably had little to no training whatsoever.

What do you expect, Spencer? It's the fucking History Channel. I understand, though, that considering the circumstances and how much they're getting paid to play Joshua before the Battle of Jericho, you can't really expect Denzel Washington. But goddamn. I thought THC would have more funds than that. Shit.

Can't wait to see a special about Mormons. Or hippies. ... pieces of shit.
I'm Bob Saget, this is what I do/my house, my car, this is my crew


Will work for p***y and ... err ... yeah (Why did I just censor myself?)

Gotta be honest, guys. (I'm putting on my serious face now.) I'm kinda bummed about not getting the job. It was a serious blow to my ego, which you should know by know is ever-expanding. And since hindsight is always 20-20, I've realized something. As you should know, I did the whole 8 to 5 thing for about a year and a half. I wore a suit and tie every fucking day.

I was happy when I got the internship for the Oxford American. I got to wear whatever the hell I wanted. I got to work weird hours. It was great, and looking back, I think it spoiled me.

But when I heard the alarm sound at 7:05 a.m., I wasn't quick to thrust myself out of bed and jump in the shower. In fact, I hit "snooze". And that's exactly what I did for the next ten minutes. The significance for me telling you that is that, before any new job I've ever had, I've always had trouble sleeping the night before, kinda like the way you were in childhood when the bus for summer camp was leaving the next morning.

However, this job didn't bring that excitement. I was basically going to be four salespeople's bitch all day--read their e-mail, answer their phones, etc. But I would be getting paid. I haven't seen a paycheck with my name on it in months. But (I swear I'm getting to the point now) I'm glad I didn't get the job.

I'm glad I'm not just another suit-and-tie working for the man. Granted, "the man" pays for my food and gas, and he will employ me again one of these days. Alright, goddammit, I can't do this anymore. I'm posting something funny tomorrow, I swear. No more pissin' and whinin' from me.

* * *

This week's Did You Know?: (Insert music you'd expect to hear while riding a merry-go-round at the county fair.) Did you know Chinese finger traps are used for sexual purposes in Catholic churches?