Dazed and confused

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

Ahh... I just turned on "Dazed and Confused" by Led Zeppelin. I'm probably annoying the shit out of my office roommate Charlie, but aaaah... fuh-gedda bout it. I think I have a beautiful voice. harharhar.

That song kinda fits me today. I'm — surprisingly — not in a bad mood. I'm not in a good mood, either ... bitches. I'm a little dazed from my pain medication for my back. Add a sprinkle of confusion — embellished by my Vicodin consumption, and that's the recipe for something I like to call "The Antithesis of Productivity."

In the midst of my hiatus from hatefulness, I managed to squeak in some feelings from hatred; however, the somewhat euphoric feeling I have right now is allowing me to laugh it off. Fighting off hatred, I managed to come up with a thought in the form of a question:

Is Scientology not the dumbest, dorkiest, most ignominious "religion"/cult — whatever the hell it is — that has ever graced the face of society?

This is Part One (because I've got to get the hell outta here), Part Two tomorrow.


MTV Sucks (thanks, Charlie)

To: Bob
From: Joe Bob
Date: Whuh?
Subject: [Insert 30 seconds of thinking up a vapid subject line.]

Thanks to my office cohort Charlie, I have a topic for today's blog. MTV ... What a shit pile. Reflect on that for a minute.

MTV: Music Television. As in, television to show music videos, promote new bands and so forth. The only fucking time I get to see any videos I would ever care about is from about 2 a.m. until 8 a.m. Basically, to watch decent music videos on Music Television, you have to be: a.) working odd shifts that leaves you awake during the wee-hours of the morning; or b.) coming off a crystal meth binge and watching the videos because it's adding excitement to the hallucinations you're already having from sleep deprivation.

Over the Christmas weekend, when the South Park Christmas marathon wasn't on, I looked for decent things to watch. I thought to myself: Hey, MTV might have something interesting, I think I'll check them out. (And no, I don't talk to myself.) So I flip it to channel 76 only to find those goddamn ass pirates from Laguna Beach plastered on the fucking screen.

(Is that not the worst fucking excuse for a show you've ever seen? Shallow, pretentious and deplorable are the words that come to mind when I try to explain that show/atrocity. What is up with America's fascination with people who have it better than us and all their petty problems? Who gives a shit? I'd love the chance to slap the fuck out of each and every one of those cast members.)

MTV has only two shows that I can think of that actually broadcast videos: Total Request Live and Direct Effect. TRL is a goddamn joke. The videos are voted on the shows by adolescent, pimple-faced, wine-cooler sipping numskulls. Therefore, the only bands that even make an appearance on TRL are shitty, label- and money-driven pop bands. At least only about a minute and a half of each video is shown. That, perhaps, is the only upside of the whole fucking show.

Direct Effect, on the other hand, really isn't that bad — that is only if you like rap. I can appreciate rap, contrary to many of my friends. I hate "ice" rap. But I like lyricists and good freestylers. The main problem with Direct Effect is that the videos it shows are voted into the show, rather than picked. Therefore, you see the same goddamn videos for days — or even weeks — in a row. The positives for the show include the fact that they introduce new artists often, have numerous guests and show the entire videos.

Occasionally, MTV will find a decent band and introduce them to their narrow audience. However, they almost always exploit the hell out of that band until they get on your nerves. For example, MTV people love The Killers. I like The Killers. But goddamn, I want to hate them just because so many other people like them... as weird as that sounds. I'm just one of those people that, well, here's an explanation: If I go see a movie and I love it, I'll start to hate it if everyone in the fucking world loves it, too.

Perhaps the most respectable aspect of MTV's broadcasting is MTVNews. It is pretty informative, most of the time. But, MTV, take note — Gideon Yago is a no-talent, uncharismatic ass pirate. He has the personality of a pine cone and the likability of a opossum. The best journalist they have is Kurt Loder; though, he hardly makes an appearance. He's a dick, but he's smart and he doesn't let artists get away with anything.

Anyway ... That's it, though. That's bull shit. Music fucking Television has two shows where they show music videos. MTV2 is what MTV used to be. Entertaining sometimes. Fucking stupid sometimes. However, you can always count on seeing the newest bands, some underground bands and plenty of music.

MTV2 should replace the current MTV, and it's acronym shold be changed to MTV-POP/REALITY BULLSHIT SHOWS.


Fuck you's of the day

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

I gotta find that aggression that sparked my fire in the early days (more like three weeks ago). So I decided to compose a list of Fuck You's for everyone, everything or every belief that I hate.

Without further ado:

George W. Bush, Mike Huckabee and Bill Fray, Fuck You.

Conservatives in general, religious radicals and the bigotry, oppression and closed-mindedness that follows those two, Fuck You.

All of the radio stations in Little Rock, Ark., Fuck You. Play some good fucking music.

While I'm thinking about that, all the major labels, Fuck You — for allowing, and even pressuring, artists to put out shitty music.

That tooth I have in the back of my mouth that starts hurting every time I eat chocolate, Fuck You. I wanted to rip you out this Christmas weekend.

All you goddamn barbie doll girls, like the ones I work with and used to date (thank god I've been enlightened), Fuck You. Get a mind of your own, or at least a mind. Read a book, turn off the fucking TV.

Cancer, Fuck You — for taking the lives of cool people, including Bill Hicks and my aunt.

Metallica, Fuck You. You put out four good CDs, and then you cut your fucking hair and your music goes to shit. Thanks, a lot.

Hippies, Fuck You. Ya know, I've found that everyone hates hippies, with exception for their friends that are hippies. It's the same in my case. I have a few hippy friends that I love to death, but goddamn I hate hippies. Take your fucking hemp sandals and floss your ass, and cut your goddamn hair. Oh yeah, and take a shower for fuck sake.

Soccer moms, Fuck You. I don't know why, I just don't like you. I think it's probably because you represent everything I think is totally wrong with our society: Mediocrity.

FCC, Fuck You. I like hearing profanity. Fuck the kids, I hope every child of a preacher is reading this column in horror.

Hmmm... and last, but not least, Fuck You. Nah, just kidding.

I made it

To: The Holiday Season
From: Your worst fucking nightmare
Date: Next week
Subject: [Insert 30 seconds of thinking up a vapid subject line.]

Well well well, I made it. Through trying times endured over the weekend, I escaped — albeit harmfully — Christmas weekend. Thanks to a present by my cousin, this holiday season wasn’t too bad.

I had my low points, of course. I had to go shop for my girlfriend on Friday, and yes, it was hell. I could’ve made it easier on myself and shopped earlier, but I’m a journalist (translation: I procrastinate all the time). I was forced to sit and chat with people I barely knew — which I hate. Let me rephrase that ... I don’t hate meeting new people. I hate meeting people that I will never be friends with, nor hang out with — especially around the holidays when I feel forced to amicably converse with them as if we were friends or hung out occasionally.

I got to spend some quality time with Pops. I feel kinda bad for my dad around Christmas time. In the last five years, he’s lost his mom, brother, younger sister and best friend from high school — and all either passed away in November or December. Needless to say, the holidays can force a dismal atmosphere to hover over my house.

I got some decent presents. But I did learn a veeeeery valuable lesson. Guys — never, ever, listen to a girl when she tries to hype up what she’s getting you for Christmas. All she’s doing is trying to get you to spend more money on her, and you WILL be let down. I dished out some cash on that girl this Christmas and I know she didn’t spend more than $100 on me. I’m not a big present guy, I wish she and I would just reach an agreement that we get each other one good present every year.

Anyway. Best present I got this year? A joint from my cousin who recently was released from the penitentiary. Simple, sweet, and it made me reminisce about high school. I don’t get a chance to smoke that often anymore, so when I do, it’s fun and it tends to conjure up memories of when I smoke ALL the time in high school.

Worst present I got this year? Candle and candle holder. OK, girls. Listen: GUYS. DON’T. LIKE. CANDLES. Never have, never will. I don’t care if it matches the colors in my room. It is a waste of wrapping paper and a box; moreover, it’s a waste of effort by me just opening the fucking thing. Honestly, my girlfriend must be starting to think I’m becoming a metrosexual or something. Nope. Not happening, that’s just not me.

Best TV of the weekend? South Park marathons. God, I love that fucking show. Red Sleigh Down is arguably the best Christmas special ever. ... Tell me what you know about America Santa. “Well it’s gonna be a long night,” said Santa, “because I don’t know SHIT!” haha

How was the holiday weekend for you? E-mail me and let me know, I’m kinda bored at work.


Gayest Joke of the Day

To: Unsuspecting reader
From: Evil writer
Date: I'm sorry
Subject: [Insert 30 seconds of thinking up a vapid subject line.]

Gay question: What's the difference between dentists and citizens of New York?

Gay answer: Citizens of New York root for the Yanks. Dentists yank for the roots.

I'm sorry you had to read that. I really am. I'll go back to work now.

My babies were in the newspaper ...

To: NA
From: Hi, my name is Spencer
Date: Yesteryear
Subject: [Insert 30 seconds of thinking up a vapid subject line.]

Well my boss is gone for a week and a half. Thank god.

I really don't know what to say today. I'm not that pissed off about anything. Hmmm... Strange. OOHH! I know what I can talk about.

The Arkansas Times (alternative newsweekly for liberals, www.arktimes.com) had a picture of my baby girls on their cover last week. Headline: "PAIN for the pain doctors: But it's the patients who really get hurt by the war on drugs." They have a picture of OxyContin (one of my babies), Dilaudid and Percocet.

Doug Smith, a writer with the Times — who I might add has a prodigious vocabulary, interviewed Dr. Robert Kale, an anesthesiologist trained in pain management. Kale hates the DEA, and for good reason. I'll let him tell you:

"Meth is the big [drug] problem, not Oxycontin. But the DEA likes to go after doctors, not the people making meth. Doctors are in air-conditioned offices, and they don't carry guns. That's a lot better than going out in tick-infested woods looking for somebody who may be armed and hostile. Also, doctors are easily intimidated. So DEA, being the cowards and scum that they are, goes after doctors instead."

Wow ... Couldn't have said it better myself. For those of you who can't tell, I'm a fan of opioids, mainly Vicodin. I like Oxycontin, but I can hardly ever find it — thanks to goddamn DEA agents like Kale mentions.

I'm out for now, I'll post in a little while.



Look... a whole entry without ONE cussword

(Photo caption: Doesn't really have anything to do with the story. Just thought it was funny.)

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

“A Pennsylvania school district cannot teach in science classes a concept that says some aspects of science were created by a supernatural being, a federal judge has ruled.” -- CNN reporting on the Intelligent Design (ID) case in Harrisburg, Pa.

Deep breath. OK ...

It’s totally ludicrous to fathom that this battle is being fought in 21st century courts. This case should have taken place in 1932 and been used as a precedent for today.

Do me a favor. One night, take a drive on a dirt road toward the outskirts of town, away from light pollution. Park your car and gaze at the sky.

Amazing isn’t it? You can’t help but feel paltry compared to the world surrounding you, and questions are sure to pop in your head. Using evidence and theories from years of research, scientists today turn to evolution to attempt to draw a blueprint of how we got here.

Others point to their Bible or anoint some intelligent authority with the honor of being the creator of life. That’s fine ... for them. These “others” have private schools that their children can attend that teaches this. Not public schools.

Not only is it farcical, but it’s completely arrogant to shove your beliefs in the faces of others. And the worst thing is, these people — parents and school board members of Dover School District in Pennsylvania — are trying to veil the fact that ID, or as I like to call it “modern creationism,” is based on dogma, not fact.

Evolution is a theory, yes. How do scientists approach theories? With facts, and more facts, searching, more facts, and intense studies. However, the school board still doesn’t buy it. “Because Darwin’s Theory is a theory, it continues to be tested as new evidence is discovered. The theory is not a fact,” the board said in a statement in October 2004, which was approved with a 6-3 vote. “With respect to any theory, students are encouraged to keep an open mind.”

Isaac Newton has this “theory” about gravity, so I guess we shouldn’t teach that either.

I understand that evolution, alone, cannot explain everything in this world. We live in a complex environment. However, ID does no better job explaining the inexplicable. It was Clarence Dorrow, a famous defense lawyer and stout agnostic that said: “I do not consider it an insult, but rather a compliment to be called an agnostic. I do not pretend to know where many ignorant men are sure — that is all agnosticism means.”

It’s human fundamentalism at its core to question. But why, after inspecting the intricacies of this world, would you want to sum it all up with the notion that one being created it? That’s no fun. That, my friends, is a cop-out. Plain and simple.

You may disagree with me. But there’s no reasonable explanation or suggestion for why it should be constitutional that ID be taught in schools. Period.

You really want your kids to have an open mind? Have them open a book besides the Bible. Otherwise, this world will never evolve into something other than a state of repugnance and futility.

It's my birthday, bitches

(Photo caption: This isn't me, but I did a Google Images search for birthday and found this. Harharhar.)

To: Everybody
From: Birthday boy
Date: Shut up
Subject: [Insert 30 seconds of thinking up a vapid subject line.]

No questions about whether or not I’ve gotten spanked, yet, because believe me, it will happen later tonight. Harharhar.

I have to work all day today, then tonight. I think I’m gonna drink after I get off, though.

I’ll post later. Until then, have a nice fucking day.

— Spence


It's confession time

To: Shut
From: Up
Date: ... now
Subject: [Insert 30 seconds of thinking up a vapid subject line.]

It’s confession time. Ladies, gentlemen, bitches and pricks: I have a problem.

I, honestly, am reaching a point to where I hate, hate, hate almost everything. See look, that’s obsessive-compulsive disorder right there, hate hate hate. That’s a problem, right?

Well, I think I should define my hate because I needn’t hate without reason. Let me see here:

• Politicans ... Hate. None of you tell the truth. You are puppets. See that? PUPPETS. George Bush might as well have a recent Harvard graduate stick his hand up Bush’s ass and make his mouth move. It’d make the writer’s job a lot easier. Well, on the contrary, Bush might like that, and I don’t want him to get any shape or form of pleasure. Maybe his mom could be the speech writer, and SHE could fist him!

• Religious bigots ... Fucking hate. Ya know, I used to have an old saying about someone I didn’t like and thought they weren’t attractive: “Fugly.” Fucking + ugly = Fugly. Well, I “fate” (new meaning for old word, ha!) religious bigots. Stay in your million-dollar temples. If one of you bastards steps on my front porch again with your black tie and white shirt (short-sleeved button-down, what the fuck?), I’m gonna let my shotgun song sang out.

Oh yeah, and instead of building one of those fucking gigantic churches, why don’t you donate that money to help buy school supplies or pay tuition for kids that can’t score a 25 on their ACT? Why don’t you help rebuild some of the homes around your church? Fucking assholes make me sick.

• Rich people ... This relationship is a hate/pity one. I know some extremely rich people. There are two polar opposites when dealing with them. There’s the rich girls I went to high school with or see at the mall that are totally oblivious to the fact that there’s a world outside of Seven jeans. Or Gucci. Or BMWs. They’re too stupid to attempt to explain how this world works. I’ll hate them till the day I die.

Then there’s the benevolent rich folks. Deep down, they’re good people. But I pity them in a way. One guy I know, for instance: He’s filthy rich — well his parents are. The reason I, being a poor white cracker, pity him is because he’s never known what it’s like to want, or even feel like you need, something and not get it. It fucking sucks, but it makes you a better person in the long run. He’ll never know what that’s like ... until he falls in love with a girl that can’t stand him, but that’s a different story.

• Talk radio ... Hate. Rush Limbaugh, if there is a hell, I hope they roast your fast ass till you’re well done and serve you to Howard Dean and John Kerry.

Bill Hicks said it perfectly, “Doesn’t Rush Limbaugh remind you of one of those gay guys that likes to lay in a tub while other guys pee on him?” Love it, Bill. Wish you weren’t dead.

... to be continued whenever I feel like it... I need to get back to work.

A trip to the mall

To: Shoppers
From: Satan's retarded cousin
Date: Tomorrow
Subject: [Insert 30 seconds of thinking up a vapid subject line.]

OK... So I know I’ve went into detail (12 reasons) why I hate Christmas, or just the holiday season in general. But goddamn. I had to go shopping this weekend because, as luck would fucking have it, my girlfriend’s birthday is the 19th (today, the day before my birthday).

Being the piece-of-shit procrastinator that I am, I waited until Saturday to get her presents. Here’s my recount of holiday shopping on Saturday:

9:00 — Wake up. I’m gonna beat these blood-and-energy-sucking shoppers to the mall. Hopefully, I’ll at least park on the mall’s property.

9:34 — “God, son-of-a.., mother — shit!” What the hell? Are they fucking giving away gifts? The parking lot is packed, but I caught some ass pirate backing out and took his spot.

10:15-ish — I’m standing in line at Aeropostale. My girlfriend wanted a matching set — hoodie, gloves, scarf. In front of me, I see the perfect example of those mothers I hate. Naw, not hate. Fucking detest. From behind, I’d guess she was 18 ... 19 tops, guessing from her clothes and physique. Then she turned around. Ugh... that image is haunting. She reminded me of that girl in high school that had a great body but was a butter face (ya know, her body’s good but ‘er face is fucked), so you always thought, “Well, if all else fails, she could be a stripper.” She was on the phone — probably talking to her pussy-whipped, Michael Bolton-loving husband — telling him about all the stuff she had to do that day.
I guess the look on my face showed total abhorrence because the hot girl that rang me up asked if I knew that woman. I gladly replied, “No. Thank god, NO.”

11:40 — I’m in Dillard’s. I’ve got the last gift I need. The line is short. It’s all gravy. Then, I hear a note of the song about to play on their speakers. I literally cringed in disgust. I’d be a damned liar if it wasn’t Bing Fucking Crosby. Where’s a Mormon?, I thought.

... Thankfully, I made it home without choking a Mormon, cussing out a kid, being forced to smoke in a no-smoking establishment or randomly tripping someone and blaming it on someone else.

Need I reiterate it? I fucking hate Christmas.


Jackfuck of the Day

(Picture caption: "Calm down, bitches!" says Whitehouse spokesman Scott McClellan at a recent briefing. He later said he was gay.)
To: You
From: Guess
Date: Duh
Subject: [Insert 30 seconds of thinking up a vapid subject line.]

Mr. Scott McClellan, Whitehouse spokesman and ass pirate, takes the honor today.

Whitehouse press spokesmen — more specifically Ari Fleischer from 2000-2004 and McClellan — have tough jobs. Anyone that has to speak for a bumbling idiot like Bush must contemplate suicide daily. However, working for Bush doesn’t give you the right to be a prick, which is exactly what Fleischer was and McClellan is.

I wonder what the job qualifications are for spokesman for Bush? Here’s what I’m guessing:

• You have to be totally unattractive, which makes it easier for people to hate you.

• You had to have been a frat boy in college. Jackfuck McClellan was president of Sigma Phi Epsilon (Sig Eps) at the University of Texas at Austin. He fits the mold perfectly of a fraternity president. They’re always one of the gayest guys in the house — which means he’s really gay because all frat boys are gay. They actually take the fraternity seriously. They wouldn’t have any friends if they didn’t pay $8,000 a year to party.

• Your whole family must suck up to the president as much as you do, as does McClellan’s brother, Mark, and his mother and father.

• You have to be able to come up with quotes that sound straight out of a 17th century novel on short notice, or be able to sufficiently dodge a question and sound stupid while you’re doing it.

• Lastly, per Bush’s strict judgment, the Whitehouse press secretary has to give a toe-curling blow job.


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

Don't ya just love blue? It's my fave! ... Never again will I use exclamation points. I hate them, almost as much as WRITING IN ALL CAPS. Ugh!--dammit, I used it again. I'm gonna stop now.


I hate kids and tobacco opponents

(Photo caption: If not smoking makes my arms that hairy, give me a lifetime supply of Newports. ... Please.)
To: You
From: Guess
Date: Tomorrow
Subject: [Insert 30 seconds of thinking up a vapid subject line.]

I had a good childhood. My parents were cool, but not “cool.” I had limitations on what I could and couldn’t get away with. They instilled in me a good work ethic, and they encouraged intellectual questioning of authority and reading all kinds of books.

This spilled over into my teens. I could talk to my dad about anything. He didn’t flip out when he had to come get me from jail, or when the house appraiser found my bong when he was surveying our house, or when ... this could go on for a while.

Essentially, what I’m trying to say is that I have no reason to feel like I do, alluding to my hatred of kids and teenagers. They are not the fucking “future.” Of course they’re cute when they’re babies. But as soon as they learn how to talk back, that’s the cut-off time for “cute.” My hate ranges roughly from ages 4-16.

One reason I decided to write about this is because one of the punk-ass kids at my niece’s elementary school gave me pink eye two days ago. I’m still recovering from the illness, or infection, or whatever the hell it is. If you haven’t had pink eye in a while, you should get it. It will humble you considerably.

When it was in full effect, people walking by that saw my eye would look at me like I just killed Bambi and ate babies for breakfast. It’s not fucking herpes on my face. It’s pink eye. Chill out.

You know who else I hate? Non-smokers. Well, maybe that’s a little too broad. I hate non-smokers who look at me with their deprecating expressions because I have a goddamn Newport in my hand. I really don’t think you understand what it’s gonna be like when we can’t smoke, well, pretty much anywhere. You know what my mood is like when I can’t smoke? OK, look at it this way: I’m on the edge already. When I haven’t had a cigarette in two hours, my feet are getting calloused from skipping across rock-bottom. And I am not alone.

I’m not one of those rude smokers, though. If someone (politely) asks me to move or put out my cigarette because it’s bothering them, I usually will. If I’m dating a girl that hates cigarette smoke, I won’t smoke around her. But I just absolutely love it when someone hints that they want me to stop smoking. You know, the fake or exaggerated coughing, the hawk-eyes ... Don’t make me laugh. Actually, it’s good if I laugh because, if I’m not laughing, I’m seriously pondering the repercussions of kicking your ass and deciding whether or not it’s worth it.

The World Health Organization recently announced it has stopped hiring smokers as part of its commitment to controlling tobacco use. “WHO has taken a very public lead in the fight against tobacco use,” spokesman and ass pirate Iain Simpson said. “As a matter of principle, WHO does not want to recruit smokers.”

Well, excuse me Mr. Ass Pirate. That is racism. I don’t like being discriminated against. If I ever see you, A. P., there will be a problem.


Another reason I'm ashamed to be from Arkansas

To: The Outsiders
From: The Insider
Date: April
Subject: [Insert 30 seconds of thinking up a vapid subject line.]

I try to take pride in my roots. I don’t know why. I guess it’s because I’ve always thought that’s what you’re supposed to do. “Be proud of where you’re from,” I think someone once said. “It’s made you who you are.”

Well, I recently came to the conclusion that the thought that you have to be proud of your roots is a load of pig shit. Where you hail from is just another way people will judge you.

In January 2005, some friends and I took a road trip to St. Louis. We were asked numerous times, at bars and clubs and such: “Where are you guys from?” We got one of two reactions every time. Either they looked at us with fear because they had seen Bangin’ in Little Rock and thought we were somehow gangsters or some bullshit, or they thought we were stupid and grew up on a farm.

At the time, I thought, “It’s OK, I’m used to that.” But no, it’s not OK. I don’t fuckin’ judge people or cling to an archaic stereotype when I learn someone is from a different state or country. I’m interested. I want to know what life is like there, like any normal human being should. But that’s what this world is lacking, or should I say needs to get rid of. “Normal human beings.” What the fuck is “normal?” I’ll piss on normal. OK, I’m getting off the subject of why I even started this blog entry.

The other day in the Jacksonville (Ark.) Patriot, a headline caught my eyes: “Mexican flag flying sparks controversy.” Here’s an excerpt to let you get the gist of the story:

“A local business owner has received complaints because of a flag flying in front of his business. Rosendo Delgado, owner of Delgado’s Market ... has flown the Mexican national flag since he first opened the store earlier this year. ... While shopping in the store recently, Wesley Snodgrass pointed out to Delgado that he should not fly the Mexican flag without also flying the American flag either above or to the right to it. ... Snodgrass reportedly contacted the Jacksonville Police Department about the flag."

Snodgrass... What kind of fucking name is that? Anyway, Mr. Snodgrass, where do you get the BALLS to tell a store owner, who happens to be Mexican, that he can't fly the flag of his native country at his own goddamn store? How rash, insensitive, bigoted and chauvinistic of you, Mr. Snodgrass. You need your ass kicked ... badly. That store owner could fly the goddamn Nazi flag if he wanted to. In fact, I think that store owner should make a flag that reads "I hate white fucking crackers" and fly it to the right of the Mexican flag. That'd be cute.

The saddest thing about this situation, though, is that I see jackasses like this Snodgrass fellow every fucking day of my life. In the grocery store. At the gas station. At the bar. Walking down the street. People who thrive on ostracizing those who don't follow their lifestyles. I'd shoot 'em all if I could. (In the leg of course.) They are detrimental to society, and mainly people like me, and my friends, and many of you — those who don't live "the American way of life." Fuck the American way of life, and fuck you if you try to make me live it. K? : )


12 days to Christmas

To: The Masses
From: Poppa
Date: Dur dur durr!
Subject: [Insert 30 seconds of thinking up a vapid subject line.]

With it being Dec. 13, I thought about doing a cute little thing on there being 12 days until Christmas. Then, after intense consideration, I decided not to because, well, that would be pretty gay. Also, I wrote on a yellow post-it note to remember to kick myself in the nuts later for using the word "cute."

I figure I'll give 12 reasons why I hate Christmas — or rather, the holiday season in general:

#12 — Music — I bet Bing Crosby was a nice guy. He probably held the door open for ladies, walked old women across the street, talked to school children about not doing drugs, went to church faithfully, paid all his parking tickets and waved at police officers. But every time I hear a note from one of his goddamn songs, I experience violent, sporadic neck and back spasms. Afterwards, I want to strangle a Mormon.

#11 — Celebrities — Ugh.. wait. I just got that acidic, throw-up taste in my mouth. (one moment, please) ... I'm OK. It just makes me sick when I think about corporate whores and media sluts strutting around singing Christmas carols and acting like they have a conscience, even more that they might have morals and convictions. They try to capture any cameo opportunity available to strut their stunning humility. Ha! Fuck off.

#10 — Television — If I have to watch Christmas "classics" like Rudolph the Red-nosed Reindeer or Miracle on 34th Street one more goddamn time, I'm gonna shoot a squirrel — just because squirrels resemble that clay reindeer a little bit in the face. After that, I'm gonna steal every 34th Street sign in a 50-mile radius, melt them down and make a gargantuan missile to shoot at a St. Nicholas Catholic Church... if I can find one.

#9 — Movies — Are you people not tired of Tim Allen, yet? I mean damn. I'm thinking about staking out at the movie theaters and lighting up movie-goers — kids and all — with paint balls. And no, not just regular paint balls. I'll let them sit in the freezer for a day or two. That way, when I shoot, they hit you and bounce off — leaving a huge, painful, welp (is that how you spell it? 'welp').

#8 — Advertisements — I just can't get enough of "Real Deal Bill"s. Half of half of half of half off just irritates and confuses me. Plus sales that big just get more of the people I fucking hate in the stores I hate to go to in the first place.

#7 — Nativity scenes — They're re-damn-diculous. Especially in Arkansas, where we have nativity scenes on the lawns of our county courthouses. OK, there's heat over kids saying "under God" in the pledge of allegiance, but these jackfucks can go to K-Mart and buy a lighted display of the birth of Jesus Christ and put in on the lawn of the county's central government property? Real smuckin fart.

#6 — X-mas — I just don't understand the statement you're trying to make. OK, smart ass, I get that they're taking Christ out of "Christmas." Firstly, if it bothers you that fucking much, why not just say the amiably accepted "Holiday," as in "Happy Holidays?" I'm not religious, but it doesn't bother me to say Christmas. Ya know why? Because I'm using it colloquially, not literally. You wanna get specific? Stop saying our country is a democracy. We are a republic.

#5 — Santa Claus — Is it just me, or is Santa not just another version of Big Brother? My parents didn't stick with the whole Santa bullshit that much when I was younger. And I thank them. The only time Santa is acceptable is when your dad, the drunk, spent all his Christmas bonus at the titty bar. ... "Sorry, kids," he says, drooling a little, "Santa's fat ass forgot us this year. He'll be back, though." The kids show utter contempt, and after a brief moment of silence, the son steps up and asks: "Daddy, will you beat Santa up?" ... "Of course," the dad says. "Let's go to the mall!"

#4 — Joy — Being a member of the People Who Hate People party, I especially hate people who are extremely happy. They make me nervous. I’ve come to an agreement, with myself I guess, that anyone who is happy all the time is either deaf, blind and/or dumb. I’ll stick by that formula till the day I die.

#3 — Weather — I love cold weather. But I get so fucking tired of people bitching about how cold it is. Listen. We live in Arkansas for shit’s sake. Put on a fucking sweater. Shut up. Also, I hate the easy conversation starters. I’d rather sit in awkward silence with most of you jackasses than talk about the goddamn temperature outside. There, I said it.

#2 — Gifts — If I were part of a religion, and I were going to celebrate the birth of my savior, why the hell would I want to feel like I have to spend money on someone else — or rather, why would I expect someone else to spend money on me? Every fucking year, I have to hear my (now) 7-year-old niece cry because she didn’t get what she wanted from “Santa.” I can’t scold her. That’s what she’s been taught. By her parents. By friends at school. “Be good all year and you’ll get what you want for Christmas,” she hears. Fuck that. How about, “Great job on your report card, Brittany. You know that bike you wanted? You just earned it.”??? Oh, my bad. That totally goes against the grain. Blow me.

#1 — December 25th — I can’t ever buy liquor. I can’t eat at my favorite restaurants. Every person I see says, “Merry Christmas!” or “Man, it’s cold!” My whole family is in a bad mood. I didn’t get anything I wanted. None of my friends can leave their homes because family’s in town. I’m stuck playing Xbox all damn day. God I hate X-mas.


Sad, sad day

To: Durrr
From: Deeee
Date: Next Tuesday
Subject: [Insert 30 seconds of thinking up a vapid subject line.]

My friends:

‘Tis a sad, sad day. Forget the unrelenting tranquility one might find outside — what, with the glorious sunshine, gentle breeze and a sky so blue it seems as though the Gulf of Mexico is looking into a mirror. Forget all that shit.

Never did I imagine the day that newspapers (note “newspapers,” as in plural) would allow a woman — no ... a wicked, horrible wretch — to use up 15-20 column inches weekly, or sometimes daily.

Dull, dumbfounded and disoriented readers — left that way by reading the shit-plate that is our media today, meet Lovina Eichner. The editor’s note at the bottom of her column describes her as such:
“Lovina Eicher is Old Order Amish. She hand-writes this column from her Indiana home. Lovina inherited the column from her mother, Elizabeth, who penned it from 1991 through 2002. Anyone with cultural or cooking questions can send them to ... Middletown, Ohio.”

OK, Mrs. Eicher. I have a “cultural” question. Is it against your culture to torture? Yes or no? I thought so. Then why the hell do you take time out of your irksome, good-for-no-one-but-yourself lifestyle just to torment my eyes and tantalize my brain?

You bitch.

Omit thoughts of Abu Ghraib for a second. This whore takes pleasure in tainting the eyes and minds of thousands of readers each week. I can envision her right now, with her wooden face eternally cemented with the expression you get after eating a big scoop of the white cream in fruit salad (when you thought it was whipped cream). She probably has excellent penmanship, probably good enough to write names on degree certificates. I’m guessing she writes by candlelight for dramatic effect. Well, I’ll piss on your dramatic effect.

Here’s an excerpt from her column, which my co-worker Charley found:
“3 a.m. — It’s time to get up and start another day. My husband Joe goes out to do the morning chores, then comes in and washes up for work. He reminds me to let the chickens out later. We are averaging 25 eggs a day. ... I fix Joe’s breakfast, pack his lunch and fill his jug with ice and water.” I would go on, but I can’t bear it.

Middletown? You gotta be kidding. Her atrocious writing takes a step back in time, around 150 years or so. She even uses the word "forenoon." Ugh! I just don’t fucking understand it. Who are you pleasing, Mrs. Eicher, when you live your life the way you do? Your god? I’m sure your god likes you more than your next-door neighbor because you use a non-electric water softener and the neighbor opted for something commonsensical.

C’mon, everyone. Let’s embrace a cult that sucks every bit of happiness and excitement out of you like a shop-vac picking up powdered sugar. Let us throw away the Industrial Revolution, the evolution of mind and theory and the hard work of our generations past — who spent most of their lives working to make ours better — so we can please a “father” whose face we’ve never seen, nor his presence felt.

I have an idea. I’m gonna build a big, glamorous, neon-lit spectacle. Bright lights, flashy cars, the works ... A new titty bar! Hell yeah. Lovina and Joe can bring their 14 lonesome, incestuous children and let them see fresh meat.

Sound good?



To: News organizations
From: Daddy
Date: Yesterday
Subject: [Insert 30 seconds of thinking up a vapid subject line.]

I’ve always been a fan of the big cheesy headlines. Alliteration, puns, you know the goods. Upon visiting numerous sites today, I’ve found a few. FoxNews, the worst news channel/Web site/conglomerate ever, tops all competitors with its headline about the plane that crashed into a busy intersection in Chicago. (Honestly, this story has been on CNN.com all day. How long do they want us to read about a 6-year-old boy getting crushed? It’s Christmas for fucking sake.) Here are some cheesy, stupid headlines:

“Mayhem at Midway Airport” — FoxNews.com; Oooooooh, chilling. Who says “mayhem” nowadays? Go back to the 1930s, maybe you’ll find a movie title with it. I dunno... Maybe “Mayhem in Manhattan” or something.

“Passenger: Cars were passing us” — CNN.com; Wow... Calm the fuck down, Mr. CNN. What brainiac thought this up? Whomever he or she is, that person needs a raise — quick! Now go get me some fucking coffee. Black, no cream, no sugar.

“Boy: Parents made me stay in ‘box’ ” — CNN.com; OK, I would be totally heartless, and sickeningly cliche, if I made a joke about thinking outside the box. I’ll shut up.

“@#%&*! Typo in stock trade costs firm $225 million” — MSNBC.com; I’ve always wondered if there’s a formula for determining which characters represent which letters in expletives. I’ve always been a fan of the simple “f--k” or asterisks (f***ing). And if you notice, a lot of times, they don’t even use the right number of characters. What cuss word is five letters? Shits? Damns? Crap-o? I think I’m thinking too much about what they’re thinking.

(PUN ALERT) “For British gays, new law rings wedding bells” — MSNBC.com; I think “gays” will be an obsolete term in the future for, well gays, kinda like what happened with Negroes. What will be its replacement? Americans favor long, drawn-out phrases that piss off anyone who has a speech impediment: African-Americans, Latino-Americans, maybe Homosexual-Americans??? Hmmm.

“APB for stolen flamingos” — MSNBC.com; I shit you not.

“Secrecy & National Security” — C-SPAN.org; Admit it. You didn’t even know C-SPAN had a Web site did you? If you did, I bet you’ve never visited. Is it just me or do “Secrecy” and “National Security” not going extremely well together. It would take me less than three seconds to think up a sentence using those words: “Despite staunch attempts of keeping secrecy, the government’s handling of national security was exposed, distastefully, when a 44-year-old Floridian was shot and killed at a Miami airport.” That was easy.


Sorry to get serious, it won't happen often...

To: The Great American Public
From: Pissed of passenger
Date: April
Subject: [Insert 30 seconds of thinking up a vapid subject line.]

OK, I’m gonna try to avoid getting too serious on here, but have you read the story about two air marshals gunning down Rigoberto Alpizar, an American Airlines passenger?

Whew... (deep breath)

This clusterfuck that is our government, our country, our way of life is finally starting to get to me. I have so many questions that I don’t even want an answer to. What the..? Why are..? Then, how..? I’m too frustrated to speak, and I can barely write.

Dave Adams, a spokesman for the Federal Marshal Service, said Alpizar was running through the aisles yelling, “I have a bomb in my bag.” Yet, not one fucking passenger can recall this. Not one passenger aboard a Boeing 757 heard this. But thanks to our handy-dandy Federal Marshal Service for saving the day.

This whole ordeal started with a dispute between Alpizar and his wife. An airplane pilot seated beside his wife comforted her by telling her there were marshals on board and the situation was “covered.”

This is where I become confused. He runs OFF the plane and is confronted by marshals on the boarding bridge. When he “appeared” to reach for his bag, six shots rang out. Well, “two or three shots” if you listen to the Federal Marshal Service. “[A]t least five, up to six, shots” if you listen to a passenger.

Through this thick cloud of bullshit, this is what I see happening:
• Man and wife get in intense argument, rattles passengers.

• Man decides he wants to get off the plane. He’s missed a couple doses of his medication for bi-polar disorder. Wife pleads for him to stay.

• In a manic state, man gets up, grabs one of his bags and storms off the plane. Woman tries to stop him, but remembers to get the rest of their luggage.

• Novice marshals (both were appointed in 2002) follow the man, guns drawn, knowing the situation could get out of control. They hear him speaking as he’s running down the aisle, but they’re behind him. Man pays no attention to marshals.

• They get outside the plane, man is relieved — until he hears screaming marshals. “Get down, now. Get on the fucking floor, now!” Man gets excited.

• Before he gets on the ground, he decides to take the bag that is hanging on the front of his body off, as to lay flat. He’s confused, maniacal, ready to go home.

• Trigger-happy marshals let him have it. “He said he had a bomb, didn’t he?” says Marshal No. 1. “Fucking right he did. And you swear by it,” says Marshal No. 2.

I understand the importance of safety on an aircraft. I completely comprehend the severity of the situation and how bad it could have been if the marshals didn’t do something and the guy ended up actually having a weapon in his backpack.

I don’t, however, understand why he — an unarmed man with a backpack that made it through security screenings (which have been under scrutiny, anyway) — was shot numerous times. They didn’t shoot him to slow him down. “Shoot to kill,” as my great uncle, a former police lieutenant used to say.

Of course, you know the story. The marshals are immortalized for their bravery. Bravery to gun down an unarmed — and visibly disturbed — man, brother, husband, friend. Real fucking brave.

Let the marshals point their fingers at the man who, thanks to them, has no say in this dispute, anymore. None of the passengers will remember what exactly happened. For some of them, this was the most traumatizing event of their lives.

Situations like this, however, are part of the job for U.S. Marshals. One could see passengers getting excited, scared, nervous.
Not a goddamn marshal, the highest level of law enforcement one can achieve.

But look at the situation. Do you think one person on that plane actually believed that guy had a bomb? Or even a weapon?

He got in a fight with his wife and wanted to get off the plane. Thanks to two Barney Fifes, just trying to do the right thing in their eyes, a man is dead who should still be alive. And in jail. For causing problems on an airplane. Because this is America.

“Don’t you remember 9/11?” they will ask. Why, yes. Yes, I do. You remind me every fucking day.

I knew all along...

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


SAN FRANSISCO — Pat Robertson — famous religious broadcaster, philanthropist, educator, religious leader, businessman and author — announced Wednesday that he is homosexual, putting a stop to years of speculation. He said he plans to continue hosting his program, “The 700 Club,” despite his confession.

Robertson, in an official statement released by his spokesman, said: “It feels so great to come clean now. Oopsie! No pun intended. ... Anyhoo, I want all my fans to know I love them bunches, and I hope they don’t look at me differently.”

Conflicting theories of Robertson’s sexual preference began developing in his early childhood. Neighborhood friends said he never played sports, but that he was content on spending time “playing ‘tea party’ with the girls," according to childhood friend Ralph Morton.

Morton said he always thought Robertson was gay. "He was just too damn good at jumproping," he said. "And that's gay."

So who's the main squeeze for the new guy on the block? Robertson is rumored to have a relationship with a production assistant for his program.

Responses to the declaration have been mixed.

“I think it took a lot of courage for him to go out there, all gay-like, and do that,” said Whitehouse spokesman Scott McClellan, quoting President George W. Bush. “I wish I had that courage every waking hour.”

Glennda Testone, director of communications and media programs for GLAAD (Gay and Lesbian Alliance Against Defamation), showed little support, saying only, "I always knew he was a fag."

Apparently, the announcement has sent shockwaves throughout the Christian community with scores of men beginning to question their sexuality. A number of ministers throughout the Bible belt have resigned. Brian "Head" Welch, former KORN guitarist turned modern-day martyr, expressed confusion and perturbation. "What the fuck?" Welch said. "What THE fuck?"

Rev. Jesse Jackson declined to comment on the matter.

Christian executives have expressed stern disapproval. “I’d be lying if I said I were anything but extremely disappointed,” said Jesus H. Christ from Christianity’s corporate headquarters in Heaven. “I guess since we’re losing some of our biggest leaders to sodomy, we should start trying to get those people back.”

Christ announced that the church’s official flag, white with a blue square emblazoned with a red cross in the top-left corner, will undergo a facelift. “We want to spruce it up a little bit. You know, add some flava,” said Christ.

The white in the flag will be replaced with lilac purple, with the blue box being restored with a deeper purple. The cross will be bright yellow, instead of blood red.

Robertson expressed extreme fervor at the announcement of Christ’s plans to change the flag.
“I think it’ll be cute,” he said. “Now, we have to start working on the colors of the American Flag.”


Jackass of the Day (my first entry, eva)

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

Coolest Person of the Day (or week or month or year, possibly):

Valerie Bertinelli, (former) wife of ex-Van Halen guitarist Eddie Van Halen, takes the honor simply for realizing how horrible she looked with him. She’s way too good for him and should have left him as soon as his one of his albums brought him the gold — selling a paltry 500,000 copies.

Eddie is one of those guys that looks like he stinks, literally. Something about gray-tinted skin and the countless infinitesimal wrinkles, wrapping around his neck up to his nose, that shouts "Ugh!" I'm guessing he'd smell like one of those people that just sweat alcohol — even when they haven't had a drink in three days, combined with unfiltered cigarettes and medium roast coffee. Old, stale coffee.

It was never cool that she was with him anyway. His band sucks, with or without David Lee Roth. If she had any sense, she would go for a handsome young buck in Little Rock with the heart of a lion and the sex drive of a toy Chihuahua.

... Accepting honorable mention for Coolest Person of the Day, posthumously, will be comedian Bill Hicks. Damn, he’s funny. If you’ve never heard of him, I’d suggest anything you can find, but especially Rant In E Minor.
Now, (drumroll please) here’s the...

Jackass of the Day (or week or month or year, possibly):

You know who you are. The news came Monday that your recruiting process is “in limbo.” I don’t know whether I should cry or, well, cry and scream expletives. You should be thankful I’m not of the screaming caste, but, dear God, you are tempting me.

Yeah, I’m talking to you, Mr. Mustain. Your audacity amazes me. Did you not see — or hear, for that matter — the crowd of 25,000+ that showed up to watch the 5A state championship? 25,000 fucking people. One quick note: They weren’t there to catch a good game. They were there to see this reputed football prodigy that made a commitment to attend our state’s pride and joy in Fayetteville.

I don’t care if you are the best high school player in the goddamn world. Furthermore, I don’t care if it’s in your best interest to attend Tennessee and work with one of the greatest quarterback coaches of all time. You made a commitment, and it meant so much to me and everyone in this state. Finally, the Razorbacks might — oh man, I don’t even want to say it — ranked?

Now, every drunken conversation I had in the bar is totally futile. I nearly made a USC fan cry and made him shudder at the thought of his team coming to Fayetteville next year to play us. “You’re gonna be sorry,” I said. “Those California surfer-pussies are gonna get stomped.”

I even had all your stats memorized. I could see the awe on others’ faces when they heard what I had to say. “Damn! He’s that good?” they would say. “Damn right, he is,” I’d reply.

Now, all I can think about is what I’ll do if you end up going to Tennessee and I, somehow or some way, see you after that decision. I would take great pleasure in stomping a mudhole in your ass.

Houston Nutt, a close second in the race for Jackass of the Day (or year, possibly), is even hiring your high school football coach, whom you love so dearly, to accommodate you. And what do you go and do? You just pissed on Nutt, your coach, your fans ... and me.

OK. I have to stop. First, I’m going to turn off Pantera. Then, I’m going to smoke a cigarette.

Ah, that’s better. Piss off, Mitch. And add a “g” to the end of your last name. It’s driving me nuts and it will make up for every time I’ve said “Mustang” when I’m drunk.