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?


He shoots... it's up... it looks good... BRICK! Dammit!

"Hi, Spencer! How are you? It's so great to see you, glad to see you're back," she said, glee spilling out her veins.

"I'm fine. It's great to see you, too. Should we get started?" I say, straigtening my tie and fluffing my jacket. Her eyes widen.

"I wasn't here yesterday, so I was unable to get the results of your drug test. Let me run downstairs to personnel. You just have a seat and wait just a minute. K?" she says through a smile. I nod.

I flip through post it notes and curl the phone cord around my finger. Someone's calling, but I can't answer, yet. I catch eyes with a few people walking by, some of whom I haven't seen in months. I get a few back slaps and "Glad you're back!"s.

Ten minutes pass and I see the woman who greeted me walking toward me from across the room, a folder in hand. As she paces closer, I see the irrevocable smile on her face just minutes ago had vanished. Her lips are perched and she refuses to look me in the eye as she passes me and heads straight to the corner office and closes the door behind her.

After a few minutes of awkward looks from others and my uneasiness, the door to the office slings open. My new boss (I hope) approaches me, leans in and, almost whispering, says, "Follow me."

I feel like a third-grader who just got pulled out of class by his principal. One of my friends smirks at me. An older man looks at me as if I'm three feet tall. Our approximately two-minutes trip to the human resources department is eerie and speechless, with exception for a lighthearted conversation stopper and starter, "I've had a headache all day ... But I just took some Tylenol."

We reach human resources and my new boss hands the folder to the HR director, forces a grin at me, and leaves the office.

"Spencer, how are you?" the polite woman asks.

"Great," I reply.

"Well, there were a few problems with your test results," she says, then looks at the other woman in the room, the one whose job it is to assess test results and such. They lock eyes, then both turn to me.

"You can go home now," they say, then before they open their mouths I nearly tell them to stop. I know what they're going to say. I should just walk.

The nice woman pauses. Now, she's ready.

"We'll call you."


Gold Acid

Your piss is not supposed to look like this.
Sorry for the inconsistency guys. Been looking for a job. I found one, nevertheless, and I was offered the job. I accepted. Where am I going with this? I met a brick wall with metal spikes layering the wall. Immediately after I was offered the job, I was required to go take a drug test. Yeah, "Oh, shit!" is right. It wasn't one of those cheap-ass drug tests I always took at Juvey. No, these Nazis send your urine off to a laboratory, and you have to wait at least three days to know your results.

I swear to god it sounded like my piss was fizzing when I gave the sample to the woman. It looked like a half-empy (not half-full) cup filled with gold acid or flat light beer. I'm surprised the shit didn't eat through the cup.

I should've known better, I know. I just didn't think I'd have to take a drug test after my first interview. They usually give a drug screening after the second interview.

Now, I know that no hard drugs—meth, coke, ecstasy, etc.—are gonna show up. I stil may have a chance at getting the job, but I'm nervous as shit. I've taken so many drug tests to date that I know certain procedures that will increase your chances of passing—at least, they worked for me.

First, don't EVER use those goddamn cleansing liquids you can buy at head shops. They cost too much and they don't do anything that drinking tons of water can't do. Some of them can even be picked up by lab tests and, therefore, fail you anyway.

The main thing to remember is drink as much water as possible from the time you know you'll have to test until you finally do. You want to get it to where the water goes almost straight through you—like, after you drink a bottle of water, you pee in 15 minutes. What happens (I suppose) is the water doesn't stay in your system long enough to pick up the toxic agents that are in your fat cells. Your results will usually come out diluted enough to where, even if it is in your system, the agents will be insufficient enough to fail you.

Wow, I know way too much about this shit.


You know what grinds my gears?

To: The Congregation
From: Sir Chas
Date: Thursday, May 4, 2006
Subject: [Insert 30 seconds of thinking up a big-zero, bland, boring, colorless, dead, driveling, flat, flavorless, inane, innocuous, insipid, jejune, least, lifeless, limp, milk-and-water, nothing, nowhere, stale, tame, tasteless, tedious, tiresome, unimaginative, uninspiring, uninteresting, unpalatable, vacant, vacuous, watery, weak, wishy-washy subject line.]

Hello my faithful minions. Did you miss me? Does the sight of my name make you randy? Do you need to be excused from the table?

I apologize for my lack of entries, but try to understand that I've been very, very busy boning your mother. Trust me, it was worth it. Now that I've caught my breath, I'll try to post more often — wink.

After walking my German shorthair around my secluded, fenced-in neighborhood this morning and pouring myself a steaming cup of Starbuck's blend of the week, "Morning Brew," I sat down and read the only publication worth my time ... The Wall Street Journal. Not only do the writers' tone and style dazzle me, but the actual paper goes well with my giant African mahogany breakfast table.

I was extremely bothered by the fact that that no-good, Jesus-hating terrorist Zacarias Moussaoui was sentenced to a life sentence. My face actually turned red, as red as the stripes in the American flag. What bothered me was not that he was given this sentence, but that others had called for his death via execution.

How is putting him out of his misery going to help? Idiotic, animal-like Muslims would only rally around his termination and make him out to be some sort of martyr.

I commend the jury that renderred this verdict, as it is the only punishment that fits his crime (knowing what was going to happen to the men and women inside the World Trace Center's twin towers. I don't care how "limited" his knowledge was — he knew!). Being continuously tortured and brutally sodomized in a 5x9 cell will make him think about what he's done. Bubba will make sure of that!

Maybe one day, after having his o-ring snapped by an extra-gerthy Alabama black snake, he'll realize that what lies ahead of him is going to burn ... real bad ... forever. He should have spent a little bit more time listening to Bob Dylan instead of Osama: "Don't follow leaders and watch you parking meters."

Soon, I calmed down and drove to work in the city in my brand new Hummer. Hey, I don't care about this gas price scare — I'm rich, bitch!


Can we get a round of applause? Bless your li'l hearts...

In all honesty, though, I'm pleasantly surprised. Sometimes, I honestly feel like I'm arguing with a milk jug sometimes. I'm glad you all don't agree with me. That's one thing I hate when I read blogs: everyone agrees with the blogger like he or she's some goddamn William Faulkner of blogs. I'm glad you guys disagree, but, more importantly, I'm glad you still read even though you don't blindly follow my words.

It'd still be cool if you did, though. So, think about it.

For a final thought, just know something. Religion isn't bad in its entirety. If going to church on Sunday and confessing his sins helps Bobby Joe quit his drug addiction, or helps Bill get through a divorce, or helps Maria stop being a filthy fuckin' whore, more power to them. It just bothers me when people think that's the only answer.

• • •

I really need to stop being nice or, rather, agreeable. It's killin' me.

You know, I might as well talk about it because everyone else is. (So, yes, if you're wondering. I do follow the pack. I'm Sheep #69.) Anybody get a chance to watch Stephen Colbert's speech at the White House correspondence dinner? The man has balls, I tell you. Big 'uns.

One of my favorite punchlines was when he compared interviewing the Rev. Jesse Jackson to boxing an ice glacier (sorry, I know "ice glacier" is a redundant statement, but I just don't think they sound right without the other). I absolutely abhor Jesse Jackson. I'm not even gonna get started. Well, a quick one. If he were burning alive, I wouldn't let the incessantly drunk bum that lives next to the hole-in-the-wall bar on my street a chance to piss on the Rev. to put him out. That merely begins to describe my distaste for that shithole of a man. Punk bitch.

However, if you haven't checked out Colbert's speech, here it is.

• • •

Have a nice day. Watch this IKEA commercial. Funny shit.


Mormons and immigrants

These guys put the Rah! in ROCK!
It's so hard to hate Mormons. I mean, I can't lie. They're usually nice, genuine people. But I have a problem with all Christians. I had a conversation with one of my Christian friends the other day, and this is what I told him...

The fact that 90 percent (and don't debate me on this) of Christians do good things—take mission trips, give food and shelter to those in poverty, help storm victims—with a motive other than benevolence is detestable. Think about it. If you told me that these people did this kind of work without thinking they were bettering their chances to go to "Heaven," I'd call you a liar. "God would be so proud of me!" You know that's what they're thinking internally. If you disagree, you're probably one of the people I'm talking about.

It's mind-boggling the audacity they have to go to poverty-ridden countries on missionary trips to spend time with these communities that have nothing compared to society in America and shove their beliefs in their faces and make them think that their lives would be more like ours if they believed in Jesus. Of course, I know, they don't tell people this. But that's what their demonstrating. The missionaries drive into town in beautiful vehicles, with CD players and air conditioners, and hop out and sing songs and tell these people that their god isn't real—no, the God that provided those nice vans and healthy children and two-story brick houses with white picket fences is the real God. Fuck off. Religion is arbitrary. It's given to you by default. Your fate was decided for you before you were concepted, nights after your mom and dad made sloppy drunk love after a night of binge drinking.

... Whew! Anyway, look at this Mormon's pictures. Make fun of him. Encourage him. Do what you will. I've already commented on a few of his pictures—check "The Group @ Sylvan Hills," "Us and the Beckwiths," and "Wings of a Butterfly I."

Also, a new style of preaching: Toothless ex-con shouting vulgarities. (I swear he's not joking.)

• • •

OK, Lindsay brought up a good point in her comment on my Bush rant. "Yeah, we would all like to beat the shit out of Dubya. While America is diverse in its population, the official language is English. Do you not think that its citizens and immigrants should at least know the official language of the country they inhabit?"

My point, Lindsay, is not that they shouldn't learn English. What I was trying to say is we—as in the nation as a whole, and George Bush—should be humbled by the fact that people who've YET to learn English would like to be able to sing our national anthem in their native language. Of course, any country an immigrant moves to, he or she should make a valid attempt to learn that country's native tongue.

But don't ridicule them because they can't (and I'm not saying you are, Linsday). Don't take a good-hearted attempt by them to honor this country and shit all over it. That's my point. To me, his comments could compare to your mom spending all day baking you a cake and the moment you see it, snapping, "I fucking hate that flavor. You should know I only like vanilla!"

Ya see, folks?


You ought 'ta, they ought 'ta

Tell me the name of this place isn't a fuckin' paradox.

I'm about to let it fly, so, yeah, there's your warning.

Goddammit. I'd love to just choke the fuck out of George Bush. I'd like to get him out in a cattle field and chase his little punk-ass around with a rope and, every thirty seconds or so, wrangle him, tie up his legs like a calf, and beat his ass to a bloody pulp—untie him, and do it all again. Punk bitch.

"One of the things that's very important is, when we debate this issue [issuing a government-recognized "National Anthem" is Spanish], that we not lose our national soul," the president exclaimed. "One of the great things about America is that we've been able to take people from all walks of life bound as one nation under God. And that's the challenge ahead of us."

"People from all walks of life" don't want to be under your God, you hillbilly fuck. Oh, but it gets worse. ...

"When the president was asked at a Rose Garden question-and-answer session whether the anthem should be sung in Spanish, he replied: 'I think the national anthem ought to be sung in English, and I think people who want to be a citizen of this country ought to learn English and they ought to learn to sing the national anthem in English.'"

You smug, illiterate son of a bitch. What the fuck makes you think YOU can speak English? Jorjay that busses tables at Applebee's speaks better English than you—and he only knows how to ask for weed. Get over here, Dubya, I'm gon' git you.

Me: "Yo, Georgie-boy, bring your panzy-ass over here. Good boy. Now, sit. Good, Georgie! Here's a glass of oil for being such a good boy."

Bush: "Thank you, Daddy. Did you hear what I said at the Rose Garden? I pretty much said, 'If you can't speak English, then get the fuck out of America!'"

Me: "And you feel better about yourself for saying that?"

Bush: "Well, I suppose. I don't know. Why do you ask me questions like that? You know they confuse me. ... Gettin' all philosoppical on me."

Me: "It's philosophical, shit-for-brains. You know that makes you sound like an arrogant, ignorant American who demands that everyone in the world conform to your way of life. You know shit like what you said is what makes the rest of the world hate us, right? The only fucking people who will agree with you is your goddamn kinfolk in incestial-breeding-gound, barefoot-beatin', goat-fuckin' Texas. Goddammit, George, what am I gonna do with you?"

Bush: "Will you say that again? You lost me at phila... philo...phi—"

Me: "Philosophical, you moronic cum-dumpster. That's it."

Then I commenced to kicking his ass with his own belt. Have a nice day. And weekend. I'll be visiting my three-story mansion on the Jersey shore. No, really. I swear. Bitch. Why don't you believe me? Ah, fuck off.


OK, I'm better now

Hope everyone's weekend went well. Mine did. Kinda. I had to work at the Arkansas Literary Festival all weekend, which was seemingly tedious at times, other times not so much. I met, face-to-face, what I feared I would: literary snobs.

Granted, I did get to meet some very cool, down-to-earth authors, among those being George Singleton, River Jordan, Krista McGruder, Dayne Sherman, and Kevin Brockmeier. I won't mention any names of the ones that were snobs because I know, with my luck, one of their goddamn fans will read this blog and tell them and I'll get an e-mail from my editor and blobbity blobbity blah.

In case none of you have ever heard of John Hope Franklin, here's a little run-through of his bio: "Born in Oklahoma in 1915, Franklin studied at Fisk University and Harvard, taught at some of the nation’s most prestigious universities, served on committees for FDR and Bill Clinton, published seminal histories of blacks in America, and received the Presidential Medal of Freedom for his work in Civil Rights."

I mention him because he was probably one of the most intelligent, inspiring speakers I've ever seen. It was amazing to watch a man who, at age 90, can recall the time a white woman told him she deserved the spot where he was standing at a parade in Oklahoma in 1929 with amazing vividness. Think about it. As much as he's traveled, which is a lot gleaning from what he told the audience, he's experienced nearly every turning point—good or evil—in the civil rights movement.

OK, I'm done being nice. Really. Fuck shit ass bitch motherfucker.

• • •

"Bush's approval ratings slide to new low"

Holy shit! What the hell are we gonna do, Bocephus? Run. Go git ma' and tell 'er we're moovin' ta Mexeecoh!

"President Bush's approval ratings have sunk to a personal low, with only a third of Americans saying they approve of the way he is handling his job, a national poll released Monday said." Does anyone find something wrong with this statement?

Shouldn't it be more like ... I don't know ... "President Bush's disapproval ratings have risen to a national best; however, still one-third of Americans say they approve of the way he is handling his job, a national poll released Monday said." Yeah, that's better.

The president does have one unwavering cheerleader, though, who will remain with Dubya through thick and thin—Sean Hannity, of Fox News's "Hannity & Colmes." Hell, he'd probably stay with Bush if Dubya had a threesome with Hannity's wife and daughter and egregiously violated his daughter's gerbil. Now that's allegiance, my friend!

Here's what the Associated Press published on the issue: "Sean Hannity will not abandon ship. President Bush's approval ratings have sunk into the 30s, but Fox News Channel's tenacious conservative isn't wavering in his support, even while parting ways with the president over immigration and the Dubai ports deal. 'Let me be straight with you -- I like George Bush,' Hannity said. 'I think he's a man of principle, a man of faith. I think he's got a backbone of steel and he's a real, genuine, big-time leader ... He's a consequential figure for his time. We don't see it right now.'"

"[T]enacious conservative"—I like that. Tenacious is one of those overused words that has lost most of its meaning, kind of like the way "love" loses its real meaning amongst high school sweethearts.

You know what I think of Sean Hannity? He reminds me of one of those gay guys that likes to lay in a tub while other men pee on him.


Church Camp (Pt. 3)

We packed everything before the commencement dinner and loaded the bus immediately after we ate. The bus driver looked less than thrilled to be setting off on another voyage, his eyes were stuck on the road as the bus sat parked and teenagers stepped onboard. After finding my seat, I slipped on my headphones and rested my eyes.

No more than thirty minutes after we'd left, I was wakened by a panicked passenger.

"I think there was something in that lasagna," he said. "My stomach doesn't feel right."

The "passenger" was Chad, and he looked like a kid trying to fake his way out of going to school. His armpits were soaked, and it looked like the back of his hands were sweating. I guess he wasn't acting.

"I didn't want to say anything ... but I don't feel good either," Courtney said. More kids chimed in, breaking the silence to announce their tummies didn't feel good either.

Pastor Ryan asked the bus driver to pull over at the closest gas station, which was about 15 minutes away. When we arrived, one by one the ecstatic campers I remembered seeing as we were pulling away from the campgrounds were half-running, half-squeezing their legs together, in a rush toward the bathrooms, all with red, frantic faces. I looked around the bus. Matt had fallen back asleep, or was trying at least. I could see melted chocolate residue left on his fingers from the Whoppers I'd given him when we left. The bus driver still had is eyes facing the road, his face expressionless.

I heard a faint sound coming from the back of the bus. Sniffling. Someone was sniffling. I stood up and looked behind me to see Chad hovered over his legs, shaking his head.

"Chad, I thought your stomach wasn't feeling right," I said coldly.

"It's not," he said. I could tell he was crying.

"Dude, if you don't get out now and use the bathroom and end up making the bus driver have to stop again on the way home, me and you are gonna have a problem. You know, that was real smart, Chad—stuffing your face when you hadn't eaten a meal in a week."

"Stop it, Kerry," he said with an attitude that struck me the wrong way. I walked toward the back of the bus where he was seated, but was taken aback by something in the air.

"Damn, man. Did you step in dog crap or something?" I asked, after which he looked up at me and immediately burst into unrelenting tears. Though his words were interrupted every half-second or so, I think he said, "He—didn't—stop—in—time." I went and told the bus driver and Pastor Ryan, who'd made it back to the bus by this time, that I thought Chad had a little "accident."

"Are you fucking kidding me?" the bus driver shouted. "Get his ass off the bus!" He looked back and made eye contact with Chad. "You nasty son of a bitch. Did yo' mama not potty train yo' ass, boy?"

Chad's cry had turned into more of a moan. Pastor Ryan asked Chad nicely and motioned for him to come off the bus but wouldn't touch him—wouldn't even grab his hand. Chad eventually got up and paced to the front of the bus. When he stepped outside he was greeted with, "Hey that's the kid that shit himself!" from the bus driver. I was glad the bus driver had found a way to have fun on this trip. From that point on, the first day of school was a preparatory comedic routine for anyone who had a class with Chad. I had him one year.

"Chad Carson?" asked the teacher.

"Present," he piped.

"Uh, ma'am," I said, "his real name's Chad Ishitmyself."

• • •

After Chad was clean, we headed back toward Morristown. Matt moved to the seat next to me for the rest of the way home. We sat in silence for a few minutes, sort of talking without saying anything. No one else on the bus was moving or speaking. Chad was still sobbing, but no one would hug him.

Listening to the sounds of the road, and looking around at people on the bus, half of whom looked like they didn't release all their frustrations at the last pit stop, I was overcome with this sense of lucidity that I'd never experienced. I started thinking that this life of the God-fearing American just isn't for me. I wasn't—I couldn't believe I was thinking this at the time—zealous for God. And I was happy about it.

"You see what I was talking about now, don't you?" Matt said, as if he could read my mind. I nodded.

"So, were you cleansed at church camp, Kerry?" he jested.

"Yeah, you could say that," I said, "but in a way that only you and I will ever know."

Some of the talks Matt and I shared were starting to make more sense than ever. He'd tell me that there are people, like Chad and Courtney that need church camp. And bible study. And testimonials. And alter calls on Sunday mornings.

I'm not like Chad or Courtney. I was tired of asking questions that I knew had no answer. People like Chad will never ask those questions, and they'll live happily ever after for it. That's fine. For them, at least. Matt and I, on the other hand, were happy that we felt enlightened enough to at least question what people like Pastor Ronnie were trying to teach us. Everything I've learned from them is just that: learned. That doesn't make it real. And, beside the fact, I find this religion to be, well, farcical.

As soon as we approached the Morristown city limit sign, Matt looked at me and giggled. I knew what he was thinking. I was thinking the same thing. We opened our mouthes and half-closed our eyes. Matt held an imaginary microphone to his lips, and subsequently, I followed suit.

I can only ee-ma-junn, what it will be like...



Church Camp (Pt. 2)

... I caught eyes with a girl from Clarksdale during one of the co-ed competitions. We didn't get to talk much because one of the camp counselors saw us and sent us on our ways. Immediately after that, we had to stop playing because Erica from my church collapsed like a sack of potatoes as she was rounding third base. It pissed me off, too, because I was up to bat next. Pastor Ryan woke her up and shoved crackers in her mouth like she was a parrot that wouldn't shut up. My teammates prayed for her. After she was able to stand on her own, everyone broke into song again.

Our God is an awesum' God,
He reigns from Heaven abuv'
With wizz-dom, power and love,
Our God is an awesome God...

I saw Rachel at dinner that night and asked her to sit with me. I got my plate and found my group's table, which was littered with wrappers from their Saltine crackers, and took a seat.

"So what church you from?" asked Casey, who was one of the fasters. I guess he thought he was doing me a favor by initiating meaningless small talk.

"Clarksdale First Assembly," said Rachel. All the guys at the table were staring at her, acting as if each word that came out of her mouth was more important than the last.

"Hey," I said, trying to liven up the conversation, "have y'all ever realized that the acronym for our church is F.A.G.? Think about it, 'cause you can't include 'of' because it's a preposition."

"Dude, that's not funny," Chad said.

Rachel decided the break the awkward silence that followed. "Why are you eating crackers?" she asked innocently. Do you want some of my spaghetti?"

"No, I don't want your spaghetti," snapped Chad. "We are fasting. Do you know what that is?" Rachel nodded.

"But why?"

"Because it's our way of letting Jesus know we care. He suffered, so we're gonna suffer, too. It's a spiritual thing. You probably wouldn't know anything about it. We eat crackers to keep our bodies going, but when we're just a little bit hungry, we pray," said Chad.

Rachel turned her eyes to me. I couldn't tell if she wanted to slap Chad or laugh at him. I shook my head and ate the bite of spaghetti I'd been twirling on my fork throughout the whole conversation.

For the next half-hour, everyone at my church explained to anyone who'd listen why he or she was fasting and why it was important to suffer like Jesus did. People used many superlatives to describe the fasters—brave, interesting, honorable—but no one used any words that came to my mind.

• • •

I tried tempting everyone to break their fast all week but was unsuccessful. Except for Matt. I knew he'd falter. He kept eating crackers during the day, but at night I'd slip him some of my Whoppers and an oats-and-honey granola bar or two. I didn't even speak to Matt, though, about breaking his fast. He slept on the bunk above me, so the second night we were there, I stood up and placed some Whoppers next to his pillow. I awoke in the morning just in time to hear nothing but the crunch of malted milk and sighs of satisfaction.

"God works in mysterious ways, don't he, Matt?" I said.

After two days of exclusiveness, Rachel and I broke it off. We decided we weren't meant for each other—she said I was unpure. I told her that what we did made her just as unpure as me. I also told her that "unpure" isn't a word (even though I found out later that it is). She said she was gonna pray for me.

To my knowledge, everyone followed through with their fasting. They planned to end their fast on Friday at the commencement dinner. Everyone looked to Matt for patience and guidance, seeing as he was taking this whole fasting thing so well. He might've even added a pound or two.

I showed up a little late to the commencement dinner. No one from my church even noticed. How could they? The cooks had put all their elbow grease together and concocted one hell of a church camp meal: lasagna, corn on the cob, mashed potatoes, and fresh salad. Chad was perhaps taking the most delight in his meal and within minutes was asking for seconds.

I was relieved because my youth group was somewhat normal again, despite their trading stories over who suffered the worst, who lost the most weight, and who's gonna do it again next year. I kept to myself and enjoyed the meal, every once in a while glancing over at Rachel who, each time she saw me, lost her smile and scowled at me.

Just as everyone was getting their desserts, Pastor Ronnie, the leader of the camp, addressed us. He was a pretty odd cat, that Pastor Ronnie. He sweat. A lot. And the hair on his back curled and formed a layer on the outside of his T-shirts; it looked as though a thousand and some-odd miniature Batman figurines had thrown their tiny black hooks over the collar of his shirt to climb out of the jungle-esque surface that was his back. He was a large man, and despite his ever-noticeable bulk and intimidating presence, his voice sounded like a half-retarded, pissed-off Jack Russell Terrier. Now that I look back, I think he became a Christian for the sole reason of scoring chicks. Maybe he thought looks didn't matter to Christian girls, so
he'd hit the jackpot.

"I'm sorry to interrupt, boys and girls," Pastor Ronnie said, "but I gotta say something."

Eyes lit up around the room. Campers looked over and around, probably waiting to see some kid with his head down, crying. I, however, was thinking Pastor Ronnie's cup of faith hath runneth over and he just had to testify.

"Where's the group from Morristown? ... Hey, there! Listen everybody. I want you to take a good look at these kids. Those boys and girls are zealous for Christ." Everyone looked at us, wide-eyed and curious.

Patrick, the kid who wore hearing aids resembling a small kidney on each ear, raised his hand in spiritual affirmation. "I'm jealous of Christ, too, Pastor Ronnie!"

Pastor Ronnie ignored him and continued.

"You know what they did? Each and every one of them fasted this week. They suffered for our Lord, Jesus Christ. Now how many of you can say you'd do that?" I guess the whole audience didn't realize that that was a rhetorical question because nearly everyone in the room raised his or her hand.

"Matt, would you mind coming up here and saying a word or two?" Pastor Ronnie asked. Matt looked scared at first, then shrugged his shoulders and walked up to the podium.

"Everyone, this is Pastor Ryan's son, Matt. Now, Matt, tell everyone about the sacrifice you made to honor Jesus."

Matt walked grudgingly up to the microphone. "Well, I really don't know what to say. Uh, you can't do this alone. I want to thank God, first and foremost.

"Also, I want to thank my buddy, Kerry, for helping me get through it. Stand up, Kerry, let everyone see you." All I could think was how bad I wanted to call Matt a sorry bastard, but I stood up, looked around the room with a forged smile, and winked at Rachel.

"Thanks, man. Really ... thank you. Let's hear it for Kerry."

I wanted to rat him out, but I couldn't make myself do it. I was tired of being a part of his lie, though, even if I was the one that initiated it.

Alright... Shit.

OK. I understand I've been a little infrequent lately. I've got some veritable excuses for my inconsistent blogging: I'm fucking busy. So, I figured I'd post a story I wrote. I'll publish it in parts because it's pretty long. Plus that'll give me a couple days to take a break, after which I'll come back full force. Bitches.

Church Camp (Pt. 1)
I was supposed to come back a better man, and in many ways I think I did. Perhaps, just not like one would expect. I've decided to lock away my bible, hang up the cloak I got for being in the church choir, and stop pretending to speak in tongues. And it wasn't as hard as I would have thought.

You see, where I grew up, going to church on Wednesdays was a social event, or maybe more accurately, an obligation, but it wasn't too bad all the time. Hell, I should even thank the Lord for a vast number of girls I dated through high school. The great majority of my high school "firsts" happened at a church function or was somehow related to church girls or church property. And, to make it worse, the youth pastor's son was the only one out of all of us that had a fake I.D., which was a little awkward at times.

"Hello, Pastor Ryan, sir, is, uh, Matt home? Some of the guys are studying tonight and we wanted to make sure he was coming," I'd say with my voice trembling.
"No, he's not, Kerry. I think he might be on his way. Is there anything I can help you with?" he'd prod.
"Nope. Thanks. The Lord has already blessed me in so many ways, Pastor Ryan."
"That's what I like to hear, Kerry."

Matt wasn't as faithful as his dad. Occasionally, he and I would stay up late after everyone had either left or passed out and belligerently one-up each other over religion. He would ask me questions as though I were the pastor. He'd always harp about how arbitrary religion is, and wondered how different life would be if he and I were born in, say, Turkey. I'd just nod—I didn't even know what the hell "arbitrary" meant, but it sounded like a word I knew. Matt was a smart guy, and fun to be around. I was glad to know him, glad to know I wasn't the only one that questioned religion. I was also pleased because, being that he was the pastor's kid, he was fairly popular in our community and at our school; therefore, I was somewhat popular by default.

Church camp, however, was where you separated yourself from the rest of the pack—where you took a step toward abundant self-satisfaction, landing you somewhere between megalomaniac and holier-than-thou. According to statements from past attendees, you weren't zealous for God unless you packed up and trekked to the retreat in Silk Springs for a week.

I decided to go on a whim. My mother was thrilled at the idea. My father, on the other hand, was extremely wary—"Just what are you tryin' to pull, boy?"

"Stan, leave our son alone. He's trying to make a change in his life," my mom snapped. My dad is a no-bull-shit kind of guy. He saw right through me and suspected I was going for the wrong reasons. I'd convinced myself, if only temporarily, that I was going for the right reasons. I imagined coming back with riveting stories to tell friends of mine who didn't make it to camp—even if I embellished a little. They wouldn't know; they didn't go to church camp.

I packed enough clothes for two weeks. I had this weird phobia any time I went on trips. I thought of all the possible scenarios for when I might need to wear this or that; I ended up catching quips about my petticoat packing job. I went to Wal-Mart and purchased every travel-sized toiletry I could find—not necessarily because I needed to. But who buys anything at Wal-Mart because they needed to?

Silk Springs is about a two-and-a-half hour drive from Morristown. The bus was scheduled to head out at 5 a.m. I tried unsuccessfully to fall asleep around nine the night before and ended up nodding off around 2 a.m. Needless to say, when I arrived at Morristown First Assembly of God at 4:30 in the morning, the excitement that had kept me up until the wee hours of the morning had alluded me and left me sluggish and dangerously irritable. I figured I'd be able to catch a few zzzs on the way up to Silk Springs, hoping I wasn't the only one that had missed out on precious sleep.

We had no more than driven to the on-ramp for the interstate before Courtney, one of the student leaders of our youth group, turned around and, smiling ear to ear, sprang into song:

"I can only ee-ma-junn, what it will be like,
When I walk, by yer side..."

It wasn't long before others joined in. Their voices assembled to create a woeful, inharmonious chant. Right as I felt my ears were about to bleed, I started to doubt more and more this all-loving creature in the heavens above. To add to my despondency, images of corpses coruscated before my eyes, thanks to every funeral I'd attended that played the same song. I could hear Lindsey in the back, the girl who could actually sing, taking this moment as a sign that it was her time to shine for Jesus. She sat up in her chair, closed her eyes half-way to where it looked like her eyes were rolling back in her head, and sang her little heart out. Every thirty seconds or so, I could hear Chad, one of the youth group leaders whom I happened to go to school with, break into a fit of speaking in tongues.

"Shamalakalama. Shing, shong shibbitybobba!" he shouted over and over, with an adamant look of determination on his face. Thankfully, I'd brought my walkman.

I dozed in and out of sleep on the way there, sporadically interrupted by bursts of laughter and loud blasts of music from Derrick touting the latest Christian rock band he'd found. Christian rock—now that's an oxymoron if I've ever heard one.

The last time I woke, I asked where we were. The driver, who was hired and not a member of the church, quickly shouted: "Fifteen minutes! Only fifteen more minutes." I bet he could only ee-ma-junn what it was gonna be like when that bus ride ended.

Chad noticed I had taken off my headphones and asked my neighbor if he could trade seats with him.

"Kerry. Hey, man, listen up. Me and the guys have been talking, and we have an idea," he said, his eyes beaming like he was about to deliver groundbreaking truths that would rewrite history books.
"Dude, we're gonna fast."
"What?" I asked. I knew what he was talking about, but I just wanted to make sure that he did.
"Dude, a fast is when—"
"I know what a fast is, Chad. Why did you decide to do this?"
"Well," Chad said, then moved his eyes away from mine for a second, then looked back at me after he'd figured it out, "it's what Jesus did. We're gonna suffer like Jesus did."
"You're gonna suffer like Jesus did, huh? That's stupid. Suffering in those days was like being forced to eat cereal without milk, wipe your ass with a cactus, and watch non-stop reruns of 'Designing Women' all day. Times ten," I said.
"It is not stupid. So are you gonna do it or not? ... Matt's doing it."
"Is Matt my dad or something? I don't care. No, I'm not fasting."

By the time we reached the camp, twenty-eight of the thirty people on our bus had jumped on the bandwagon. The only two who hadn't were me and the bus driver, and he didn't really count. Everyone decided they wouldn't eat or drink anything except saltine crackers and water. I tried to talk to Matt about it, but he wouldn't. He simply replied, "I need this, man."

Campers exited the bus like it was 1968 and they were headed to an Elvis concert. The guys kept their cool, practically patting each other on the back with every comment, while the girls traded ideas of how fasting that week could affect them for the rest of their lives, all their voices turning into one giddy, high-pitched whine. I grabbed my suitcase and asked one of the counselors to direct me to our room.


Happy Fucking Monday

Well, today really isn't that bad for me. Why, you ask? Tool's new single, Vicarious, was released today. I just listened to it on the radio. For all of you who aren't necessarily fans of Tool, kiss my white ass. I know they're dark. I know they're heavy. That's why I like them. They are one example of a band that can have major success without going mainstream. It also matters what you consider mainstream. I consider mainstream being a band that makes music for the sole purposed to make money.

Tool have extremely complex songs, off-beat time signatures, layered guitars, and lyrics that have myriad meanings. The first time I listened to them, I was impressed, but I didn't really think it was my style. Then I listened to it again. And again. It grows on you. Each time you listen to it, you hear something new. OK, I'm done talking about Tool.

• • •

This is proof that kids are born gay.

Did everyone have a wonderful Easter? That's fucking sweet. I'm amazed, just like Bill Hicks was, that people around the world celebrate Easter by telling our children that a giant bunny rabbit leaves chocolate eggs in the middle of the night. Is it just me, or did the Easter bunny not scare the shit out of you when you were a kid? That's fucking creepy.

Ever wonder what the Easter bunny does the other 364 days of the year? Check it out.

• • •

Weird thought for the day: I bet Maya Angelou was a whore in high school.

... Yeah, I'm goin' to hell.



Anti-Porn Bill Targets Internet 'File Sharing'.

What's wrong with a 12-year-old getting a peek at what's to come? Hell, I think looking at pornography should be mandatory for all seventh graders. Fuck it, go ahead and pass out condoms, too. Might as well get used to them.

... Now you know why my bid for school superintendent failed.

GODDAMMIT. My nightmare has come true. It's official: "The Chappelle Show" will never be again. Ever. I really can't be mad, though. If you hear his reasons, you can tell it was a shitty situation. From what he's saying, he sounds like he felt he was selling himself out. Look:

"In a 10-page spread in the Esquire magazine arriving Saturday, he says he closed 'Chappelle' for reasons cultural, professional and personal.

Culturally: 'The bottom line was, white people own everything, and where can a black person go and be himself or say something that's familiar to him and not have to explain or apologize?'

Professionally: 'I felt like I was really pressured to settle for something that I didn't necessarily feel like I wanted.'

Personally: 'The thing about show business is that, in a way, it forces dysfunctional relationships in people.' "

... I think I even respect him more for saying that. It sucks, yes, but I wouldn't want any artist I like to be in that kind of situation. Essentially, his work would begin to suffer and it just wouldn't be as funny.

You know the corporate heads at Comedy Central are kicking themselves in the nuts right now. "Chappelle Show" had to be a cash cow for them.

Mmmm! A peanut butter-and-crack sandwich!

We'll miss you, Dave. Sniff. Sniff. Fuckin' Sniff.


What kinda name is Lacrosse anyway? ... French pussies

Word on the street is these guys throw one helluva party.

This shit is really beginning to make me ill. First of all, someone needs to explain to me what a female exotic dancer was doing at a lacrosse team party. I thought only homosexuals played lacrosse. Anywho.

Quotes before the DNA tests came back:

“For me, this is not simply a case of sexual violence or just a case of racism. It’s a case of racialized sexual violence, meaning if it had been a white woman in that room, it would not have gone down the same way,” claimed Mark Anthony Neal, an African Studies professor.

“Last weekend was Duke’s minority recruitment,” said local resident Betty Greene. “What a welcome for minority students to walk into this story. I’m trying not to call it racial terrorism, but that’s really what it is.”

Just fucking great. You know, I've heard people say, "Man, if that was black dudes and a white girl, they'd already be sentenced." OK, so what do you think you're (you as in NAACP and other African-Americans who are making this a race issue) doing when you say shit like this? Firstly, you're setting this country back 40 years in terms of race relations. Secondly, you're committing the same persecution you accuse white people of, immediately pointing fingers without hearing out the whole story.

Nevertheless, you should be over this whole racial profiling thing. Remember that guy, oh, what's his name? Oh, Kobe Bryant. Not only did they find Kobe's DNA on a white girl's panties, they also found her blood. And he GOT OFF. So. Shut. The. Fuck. Up. You set yourselves up to be broken down.

(In case you haven't heard, the DNA tests came back. The results couldn't match DNA with one—not even ONE—of the 47 players tested.)

I heard a clip from a press conference today in which the Rev. Jesse Jackson said something along the lines of, "There's a history there between white men and black women. ... It conjures up older, much deeper issues. Yada yada yada." Obviously he's referring to the fact that many plantation owners allegedly raped black women. (Note: They weren't all raped. Also, African-Americans, when you make fun of one of your own for being black as night, they should actually be laughing at you. They, most likely, don't have any slave owner blood in them. So think about that.)

Well, Mr. Jackson, I have question for you. What exact experiences did YOU or your immediate family have that this situation brings up? Oh, it was your ancestors? Did they tell you about it, or did you read it for your African-American Studies course in college? There is no relation between the lacrosse team incident and what happened to slaves decades—and even centuries—ago. You want to find something it relates to?

Anyone remember Tawana Brawley? In 1987, she claimed that six white law enforcement officers abducted and raped her. Those claims and others that her attackers had scrawled racial insults on her body and smeared her with feces were declared a hoax by a grand jury that also exonerated the man at the center of the accusations, then-assistant district attorney Steven Pagones.

Listen to what an African-American "Reverend" said about you, Mr. Jackson:

"Jesse ... is really just a David Duke in black skin," —the Reverend Jesse Lee Peterson.

Couldn't have said it better myself.

I just like this picture.


All the pussy-whipped guys say, "HO!"

What are you waiting for? I'm not gonna say it. No. OK, but real quick. ho...

"I [heart] my wife" ... What's the first thing that goes through your mind when you see that bumper sticker on a car? I don't know about you, but I automatically assume numerous things when I see that:

• The douchebag is a Michael Bolton fan.
• Probably watches Oprah when he's not at work.
• Has the smallest engine available for his vehicle.
• Washes his hands every time he sneezes.
• Is better dressed than his wife.
• Shaves his legs and arm pits.
• Cheats on his wife.

Now, women, I know you don't like to hear stuff like this, but listen. The more pressure you put on a guy to not cheat on you, the more likely it is that he will. Just think when you were a teenager ... This really applies to everything. Rebellion, I guess. When someone tells you not to do something, it makes you want to do it much more. Take, for example, all these little church girls that turn into whores, or take up heavy drug use. They only do it because it was forbade by their parents. It turns into a thrill—"it" meaning drugs, drinking, or even sex.

So, anyway, yeah, umm.. I just laugh when I see those bumper stickers. Or even the religious ones: "God loves you": "God is not a republican"; or even "Jesus is my best friend." Aww... Jesus is my bestest friend. Well, hot damn! You lucky sonuvabitch. He won't answer my phone calls... bastard. In fact, many of the I [heart] my wife bumper stickers are given away by Promise Keepers, these people that hold religious rallies for men across the country. What are you supposed to bring to these events? According to the Web site, "A Bible, pen, a friend and a readiness to release the raw power of your heart." Whoa. The RAW power of yer' heart. I'm in.

Here's my idea for a bumpersticker: "I [heart] my girlfriend ... except for when she's raggin' or when she gets home from 'girls' night out,' where her friends have been talking about how horrible of a person I am. Fuck her friends." ... Or something like that.


MSB00 and I are thinking of taking up poetry.

Poetry, do-ih-tree.
We think we have it figured out. From studying such great poets as Lil' Jon and the Eastside Boys and Dr. Seuss, it's fair enough to say we've gleaned enough knowledge of poetry to last us through the century. So without further adieu, I give to you, Spencer and msboo. ... It's a poetry slam, BITCH.

How come you seem so close
Yet you’re really so far
every night now I put on my hose
and go to a bar.

Fire! What fire
You extinguished my heat
When you left me for
The streets

And now in sorrow
I await tomorrow
So far
In a bar.

• • •

Why is the silence so loud
Why are my tears so dry
Why are the winters so hot
Summers so cold
Life so short
Death so old?

• • •

Beer bottle—awaiting
Oblivion descending
Heaven receding
Hell inviting

Me! Frightening!

• • •

Since night is light
and dogs like to fight
I might have to love
your sister in the night.

Since night is light
and I felt a slight
coming from your mouth
what bitch? wanna fight?

• • •

Sex is pure
So is a cure
For cancer?
Give me an answer
Now bitch
Before I use
The craft of witch
To bury your goddamn
Dog in the ditch

• • •

Silence is loud
What's said is told
Young is old
Shame is proud

Switchblades are dull
Fat is thin
Excitement is lull
I'll never use
Oxymorons again.

• • •

You said I was ugly
You are
Not so much ugly
as you are
and smug..ly.

I said you love me
and you said no
It hurts like a knife
going through a wood flo'.

Tell me the answers
if I ask
And only
if I ask.

• • •

If J.K. Rowling
were my mom
I'd put a
On her bitch ass.

... Thanks everyone. I'm glad msboo and I could open up and let out our true feelings with some fucking kick-ass poetry. Stay tuned, as poetry has overcome my emotions and will be spilling out my pores ... whores. Chores. Doors. I want mores.


Harry Potter is the Devil's fiction

Look in my crystal ball. Now touch it. Yeah, that's the spot. Oooh, Momma like!

Stop the goddamn presses. J.K. Rowling has something to say:

"There is only one thing that annoys me about living in Edinburgh - well, two, but I'm pretty much resigned to the weather now. Why is it so difficult to buy paper in the middle of town? What is a writer who likes to write longhand supposed to do when she hits her stride and then realizes, to her horror, that she has covered every bit of blank paper in her bag? Forty-five minutes it took me, this morning, to find somewhere that would sell me some normal, lined paper. And there's a university here! What do the students use? Don't tell me laptops, it makes me feel like something out of the eighteenth century."

OK, Jackass. That whole writing longhand thing is acceptable ... if you're Amish. That whole statement, which can be found on her Web site (www.jkrowling.com), reaks of, what's the word? ... Pomposity! I hate when I'm talking to a writer and they tell me they write longhand. What do you expect me to say? "Wow, Stupid Writer, that's admirable." Fucking dumbass. Save yourself and your freaky little readers some time and use a goddamn laptop. You know, if something I do "makes me feel like something out of the eighteenth century," I'll probably stop fuckin' doin' it.

Am I the only one that finds J.K. Rowling just a little bit creepy? No, a lot creepy. The first time I saw her, I thought she was pretty attractive in a hey-Brian-can-I-stay-at-your-house-tonight-to-see-your-mom-in-her-underwear kind of way. Not anymore. She just gets on my nerves.

"But, Spencer, look how many kids she got to pick up a book and read." I don't care. It's not like it's great writing or anything that's thought provoking. I mean, I can't expect 10-year-old kids to read William Faulkner, I know. But goddamn, what's wrong with the classics like The Chronicles of Narnia? C.S. Lewis was perfect for me when I was a kid. Those books were enough to spark my imagination, yet not so overbearing in my mind that I became estranged from societal values and norms.

I'm glad I don't go to school with those Harry Potter kids anymore. I'm afraid I'd have to bring out the paintball gun again. (Yes, I am an emotion-deprived, hateful bastard. So what. Bitch.)


Goddamn this shit is hilarious

There are no weapons of mass destruction in Iraq, Chuck Norris lives in Oklahoma.

Serious post... Watch out!

There are certain perks that come along with being a 20-year-old working on a college campus. I see people I know all the time. I also have the chance to meet new people every day. However, college campuses are the targets of many activist groups, many of whom I agree with and many I don't.

I understand how it's everyone's (and anyone's) right to say what he or she wants to say to whomever he or she chooses to say it to. Don't, on the other hand, think that shoving your beliefs in my face will draw accord on my part—hell, you're lucky if you even get my attention.

Walking in from lunch today, I noticed a crowd of people gathered, chatting, holding up enormous posters that I couldn't clearly see. As I paced closer, I clearly saw the two posters a handful of people were hoisting. One poster had a picture of a dead fetus, or what was a dead fetus, showing the bloody head separated from the body, and above the picture, in bold, black letters, was printed "Abortion." On the other, a picture of a healthy baby, one that could presumably be seen on a Gerber commercial, was shown with the word "Life" printed above it.

There were men, women and children of all ages with this pro-life group. One little girl, whom I can't seem to get out of my head, that was toting the "Abortion" poster couldn't have been older than five—the poster was taller than she.

What kills me is how easily I've found it to be to infuriate me. An elderly woman, holding the "Abortion" sign and smiling from ear to ear, tried to stop me as I walked by and give me a pocket-sized bible. Without looking at her I told her to get her hand away from me. As weird as this sounds, I hate hating people based on their beliefs. I have friends—not close friends, but friends—that are Christians. They know not to even bring it up around me.

But, honestly, right now I am sick to my stomach, and not because of the grotesque photos. I'm sick at how hateful I can be, and how I'm totally helpless. Abortion is one of those issues that arises way too much passion in me. I'm not a woman. It doesn't directly affect me. But it affects my mom. One day it could affect my young niece.

It makes me sick to think that 80 percent of Americans (supposedly) are Christians. Of all the religions in the world that are seemingly peaceful and non-invasive—Judaism, Buddhism, Islam (moderates), Hinduism and others, I'm stuck in the country where eight out of ten people claim to be a member of the most supercilious, dangerously ethnocentric, and downright inane religion of all.

If you really want to show the difference between life and death, you should show much more than dead fetuses and healthy babies. You forgot the picture of the 12-year-old girl who's been raped by her step-father on a regular basis for the last five years. You forgot the picture of crackwhores. You forgot the picture of Hitler. And Osama bin Laden. But rationality and logical reasoning aren't primary concerns for these groups. (Yes, I'm saying they're insanely idiotic.)

We're practically setting ourselves back 100 years, in terms of progressive thinking, each time a pro-life rally is held. No one—that's right, no one—can provide a sound argument against abortion without bringing religion into the picture. Don't tell me it's murder. As harsh as it sounds, I'd much rather have a fetus aborted than a grown human being executed for a crime.

I dream of the day when Christianity is irrelevant in the ways of government. I understand how religion adds balance to millions of people's lives. Some people need it. For meaning. For hope. For answers. And, mostly, for emotional insurance.

Some people (like me), on the contrary, don't.

This kid ... goddamn. I'm speechless.

Watch the clip of this interview with President Bush's nephew, Pierce Bush. He looks waaaaaay too much like George W. I'm thinking our president was the milk-man for his brother's neighborhood.


Let's play some frisbee... Fuck yeah!

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

First and foremost, I need to get something off my chest:

GODDAMN YOU, UCLA. I wish you'd all stand in a circle and play frisbee with machine saw blades. Did anyone catch that game? LSU acted like they didn't even want to play.

• • •

Since when is George Clooney relevant? Despite how ludicrous George Clooney's mentioning was in the last South Park episode, they presented a clear message of how extremely outrageous these jackfucks in Hollywood live their lives and think of themselves.

Here is, word for word, George Clooney's acceptance speech at the Academy Awards, where he won an Oscar for best supporting actor: "Wow. Wow. All right, so I'm not winning director. It's the funny thing about winning an Academy Award, it will always be synonymous with your name from here on in. It will be Oscar winner, George Clooney. Sexiest Man Alive, 1997. ... I would say that, you know, we are a little bit out of touch in Hollywood every once in a while. I think it's probably a good thing. We're the ones who talk about AIDS when it was just being whispered, and we talked about civil rights when it wasn't really popular. And we, you know, we bring up subjects. This Academy, this group of people gave Hattie McDaniel an Oscar in 1939 when blacks were still sitting in the backs of theaters. I'm proud to be a part of this Academy. Proud to be part of this community, and proud to be out of touch. And I thank you so much for this."

His audacity bewilders me. He's exactly right: Hollywood is out of touch with society. Therefore, he should take his fucking gold statue, salute his phonies and cronies, and go back to his seat and drink a wine cooler. "We're the ones who talk about AIDS when it was just being whispered"??? Well, excuse us, George, did the selection committee for the Nobel Prize slight you? The saddest thing about it is, however, that there are people in this country that take heed to everything these people say. Like they actually give a goddamn about anyone or anything except for which after part they're attending.

I wish these media whores would stop acting like they want to change the world and continue being the little dancing monkeys that they are.

Even though I think the whole rebellious-girl-trying-to-get-attention thing is pretty much beating a dead horse, I liked what Fiona Apple said during her acceptance speech at the MTV awards. "This world is bullshit, and you shouldn't model your life about what you think that you think we think is cool, and what we're wearing, and what we're saying and everything. Go with yourself."

... But I did have to go pick up those shoes Usher was wearing at the Grammy's. I mean, they were sooooo cool.



I don't have anything to write about today, so just point your finger at this guy and laugh. It'll make you feel better. Promise.



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

I just made up a word. Smugidity. In case you're wondering, Yes, I watched the newest South Park last night. And it was MUCH more fulfilling than last week's episode. If you didn't see it, Kyle's dad gets a hybrid car and becomes a smug asshole—he closes his eyes when he talks and loves the smell of his own farts. (I'm starting to realize that maybe it isn't as funny when you read it.)

Anywho (I brought up Smugidity for a reason), you guys remember when I bitched about a $10 sandwich? OK, I've changed my mind. Give me a ten-fucking-dollar sandwich any day. Last night for our anniversary, my girlfriend and I went to this Brazilian restaurant we'd heard about for a while, Gaucho's Grill. I should've seen it coming, if only its location (in West Little Rock, the snobby part of town) was any indication.

Fifty-four goddamn dollars for me and my girl to eat—and we drank WATER. And not only was it expensive, but the "Smugidity" in there was borderline unbearable. You go in there and they give you a plate and something to drink, then a bunch of people walk around and bring you all these different kinds of meat. They act like you're stupid when you don't know the spices they put on the lamb rotisserie. The waitresses are snobby. The owner walks around and asks everyone how they're doing. I told him my back hurt and I had a rash on the back of my leg that just wouldn't go away, and he just looked at me blankly and moved on. You asked motherfucker.

I remember saying to my girlfriend, "The smug is so thick in here I can barely breathe." Now that I think about it, our waitress did sort of close her eyes when she talked to us. But instead of smelling their own farts, I think they smelled each others' farts.


Big Brother is watching

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

You know, you'd be surprised how easy it is (sometimes) to contact fairly famous people. It's something I learned during my days at the newspaper, but it's becoming more and more evident now that I'm working for a nationally circulated magazine. It's got to be a little scary (I would think) for these notable politicians, huge movie stars, professional athletes, etc. that anyone with a brain and a quick wit could find their e-mail or mail address and/or phone number.

... And I thought they were always paranoid because of the massive amounts of cocaine they ingested! What the fuck was I smoking?

Another thing you learn, though, is how rude people can be. I thought I was rude, but these folks have me beat to hell. I've kinda learned tricks of the trade, though. Say I'm trying to contact Hillary Clinton, I'll look on all her Web sites and look for different names of people I might could contact. Usually they don't have phone numbers for those names—just e-mails. So when I call the main number, I'll just say, "Hi, I'm [blobbity blah], can you forward me to Sam please?" Works every time.

• • •

The New York Times published an article (either today, or it's coming out tomorrow) about this "secret" memo, which reveals President Bush and British Prime Minister Tony Blair plotted to provoke war in Iraq. News flash: Thank you, Captain Obvious.

Anyone remember the Downing Street Memo? Despite the magnitude of said memos, they never reach the heights I would expect them to—most likely because numerous media conglomerates (including Fox News) refuse to give the stories proper or sufficient air time, all the while downplaying the severity of the situations.

Why do people choose to neglect the idea that George Bush and his cabinet lied—flat out lied—to everyone? And even when people do come to that realization, they usually ask, "Well, what the hell can we do about it now?" Impeach that sonuvabitch. OK, Washington was in disarray for months over the Clinton impeachment—and it had absolutely nothing (nada, nil) to do with our country or the way the president was running our country at the time. In this instance our president has lied to everyone (yes, that means you) about his reasons for going to war, and even those presumptions have shown themselves to be totally false.

I know, it's getting old. But it's not beating a dead horse if the fucking horse isn't dead.



The boy is bad, I tell you. I'm thinking an LSU/Florida national championship, with LSU pulling it off in a really really close game.

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

Wow. Is it just me, or doesn't it suck when you go out on a Sunday night and drink so much that, when you wake up in the morning, you forgot you went anywhere and wonder why your tongue feels like sandpaper, you're out of cigarettes, and wondering how in the hell all those crumbs got in your bed? Maybe it's just me. All I have to say is that xanax and liquid cocaines are a deadly combination. Like bad.

Well, despite getting two out of the Final Four right, my bracket is officially on its way to the outskirts of Pulaski County, where I'm sure it'll find a cozy place, nestled somewhere between some baby's dirty diaper and and old t-shirt dampened with beer-puke. I did have Florida and LSU in the Final Four, which places me in first place in my group on the ESPN challenge (out of over 300 people). However, overall, my rank is, like, 75,000th. Do they give any prizes for 75,000th place? A keychain or something? Damn.

• • •

How's everyone been? I've kinda been down lately, hence the sporadic posts. But it's the weather and my girlfriend. Her family's going through a lot of problems and, when you've been with someone for almost five years on and off, they kinda become your problems. But I'm all better now. I got outta town this weekend for a little bit, and I need that.

• • •

Oh yeah, and to answer that question lingering in everybody's mind, I got ARRESTED for an unpaid traffic ticket. I didn't think it was everybody's business, but I mean shit. I've gotten numerous e-mails from people. "So WHAT did you get arrested for?" Like I'm hiding something or something.

• • •

I watched the encore episode of the latest South Park where Chef comes back, leaves, then ultimately falls off the bridge, is mauled by a mountain lion and bear, and shot. I must say, it's a lot funnier the second time. A lot. During the first time I saw it, every time I heard Chef talk, It just kinda fucked me up because they were piecing together his lines, but once you get past that, it's pretty hilarious.

I'm out. Maybe more later.


Jailhouse Rock

Memories, memories. Ah, your favorite blogger got arrested last night. No, no, I wasn't following the Mt. Saint Mary's track-and-field team in my Jeep, whooping and hollering. For those of you that've never been arrested, it's a pretty humbling experience.

My favorite part is when the cop backhandedly consoles you: "Now, if you're good, I'll put these cuffs on a little loose. If you're an asshole, I'll make sure you have bruises on your wrists for the next three weeks." No matter what the hell I say or don't say, I always get three clicks. Three clicks=bruises. I kinda have girly wrists, so I like to think they don't mean to put them on that tight.

Other favorite part? When they put you in the back of the car, (most of the time) if you look above the backside door's window, there's a microphone. I guess it's there to catch people admitting to stuff while the cop is outside searching their car or something. I usually sing into it. While Mr. Police Man was outside talking to my friends, I started singing Jailhouse rock as passionately as I could muster. "Went to a party in the county jail, dahdahdah... and he began to wail? dahdahdahdah dah dah ding. doodoodoodoo let's sing. Everybody let's rock. Everybody let's rock! Everybody in the whole cell block was dancing to the jailhouse rock! Ro-ro-rock!" Now that I think about it, I probably should have sung the national anthem.

See, there are two things you can do when you get arrested: Freak out, get pissed off and yell; or just say, fuck, I'm going to jail, my dad (or friend or whomever you'd call) better pick up when I call, goddammit. The way you talk to a cop is the way he's gonna treat you. You'd be surprised what cops will say when they know you're not a fucking idiot. I had a cop open up to me one time about problems he was having with his wife. He found out I worked for the Democrat-Gazette and thought I was really smart, so he just opened up. I really wanted to tell him to eat shit and die, but I played it off. He still kept my thirty pack.

• • •

In other news, Les Claypool from Primus was voted the coolest-fucking-weird-ass-dude-in-the-world's imaginary friend today. Or somethin' like that.

• • •
You know Matt or Trey one probably farted when they were taking this picture. They are never serious.
Anybody catch the new South Park last night? I was a little let down. You could tell they wanted to fuck Chef over because he left, but I think Scientologists came out looking the worst. It was still funny, but it could've been better, I thought.


Ten-fucking-dollar sandwich

I just ate a ten-dollar sandwich. Excuse me while I kick myself in the balls.

... (waiting) ...

Ah, fuck it. I'll do it later. But it looked soooo good on television. "Try Quizno's new Prime Rib sub, blobbity fucking blah." If you've seen the commercial, you know you want to try it. Don't lie. Liars go to hell. Muahahaha.

The thing is, it wasn't that bad. The fuckin problem? you may ask. It wasn't that good. Not ten-dollar good. Look, if I'm gonna spend ten goddamn Georges on a sandwich. It better be the best sandwich I've ever tasted, or do some really awesome trick. All I could think about while I was eating it was how I spent ten bucks on this shit—that's not what it should've been like.

I should've said: "Wow, this is a hella good sandwich. I'm hella gonna tell my friends about it, 'cause it's hella good." And you'd say, "Spencer, why are you saying 'hella'? It sounds super gay." And I'd say, "Cause I'm hella cool. Bitch."

• • •

It starts tomorrow. My baby (her name's Madness—March Madness that is) is back. Awwww, I missed her so much. So much. I was chatting with a new e-mail friend (whose 'hella' cool), and we were talking about how numerous friends scoff at the thought that we like sports. It makes me wonder. Is there a certain IQ where interest in competitive sports in at its nadir, as well as a certain (lower) IQ where the interest is more than an interest? More than an interest, an obsession?

I know people (like you, Lindsay) that hate sports. But it's hella cool as long as you (not your, Lindsay) don't look down on me for liking sports. Explain to me how its stupid to be able to let yourself go for a minute and not be so serious all the fucking time and get fucking plastered and watch sports. Even if you do provide a decent explanation, I'll still be a hella big sports fan. 'Cause it's hella cool.


In case you can't tell, that's an "I care" face. Bitch.

I went to the Catholic church near my house yesterday. It went something like this:

Me: Forgive me, dude, 'cause I'm sinning. Like, bad.

Father (figure): Child, what is it? Tell daddy what you did.

Me: You ready?

Father (figure): Ready as I'll ever be.

Me: OK. Let me see here. Well, I hold this hatred inside of me that I can't seem to let go. It eats at me, perpetuating my hatred for people in general, but really, it all starts with this one guy. He's not a bad guy, I imagine. But then I think he could be. He acts like he cares, then I know it's just a front.

Father (figure): Who is it, child? Is there anything—and, I mean ANYthing—I can do?

Me: No, no. But, it's Maury. Povich, I think is his last name. I hate that motherfucker. I mean, I want to like him because I think he generally cares for the people that appear on his show. But I know it's a lie! It's all lies. He doesn't give a shit if my mom has three daughters from three different men, who ended up being the minister at our local church, our mailman and her boss—who are BROTHERS. He doesn't give a fuck. He only cares that his teeth are so white that they get that purplish hue when light touches them. He doesn't care that I was a troubled kid and had a drill sergeant yell at me, whose voice smelled like dog patch. He doesn't fucking care, does he! Tell me it's true, father. Tell me!

Father (figure): Are you fuckin' kidding me? Listen, kid, I just had a 12-year-old girl tell me she gives BJs for adderall. And you hate a daytime T.V. host?

Me: Alright, bitch. First, I'm not a kid, or your fuckin' child. I came to you with a problem. And, by God, I want it fixed!

Father (figure): Problem? We're gonna have a fuckin' problem if you curse at me one more time.

Me: Ah, shush. Fuck it. I knew you'd be no help. I just want to know one thing.

Father (figure): What? Bitch.

Me: Would you've been nicer if I told you I liked kiddie porn?



I got this from Charlie's blog.

Good mornin' (2:47 p.m.)

Sorry, guys. I was sick a couple days last week and out of the office. I have a computer and Internet service at home now, but I can't find it in me to write for my blog when an abundant source of midget porn is waiting to be tapped. (No, I don't really look at porn. Well...no.)

I'm thinking about submitting myself to drug rehab. Seriously. (I'm sure you all saw this coming.) I can't take it anymore. After approximately 9:30 p.m. last night, I lost it. Thursday? I fuckin' have to wait 'til Thursday to see third-round games. Are you F*CKING KIDDING? I'm forced to watch ESPN Classic games until THURSDAY. What the fuck am I going to do with myself?

I call my friends. They're no support. My team, the Arkansas Razorbacks (of course), lost. My bracket is shot to hell. I might as well have taken $30, or just six five-dollar bills, and pissed all over them, flushed them down the toilet, seen that they're stuck, then slipped on my fluorescent yellow, arm-length rubber gloves and ripped them to shreds in pissy toilet water. At least I would've be having withdrawals right now, rather I'd be carrying a bottle of hand sanitizer.

Anyone feel my pain? I mean ... it's re-damn-diculous.

• • •

On another note, George Bush, today, announced that he is now a member of the Church of Scientology.

• • •

I hate Mormons. Yeah, I do. Like, really bad. Prejudiced? I know. Fuck off. I hate 'em. What'd they do to me? They took wearing ties with short-sleeve, oxford button-up shirts out of style is what the fuck they did. Bitches.


Mr. Preacher Man

"You, son, are going to hell," he said to the guy wearing a Pi Kappa Alpha shirt. "Fraternity brothers are drunkards who abuse women and look at pornography."

(I'm not making this shit up.)

The preacher man, probably in his mid-20s, is dressed in his Sunday best (on a Wednesday), wearing a maroon Oxford dress shirt, fashionable tie, and weathered black shoes. As one would suspect, he's fair-skinned, despite a reddened face, with blond hair and, presumably, blue eyes—he was standing a good 20 feet away from me.

"You have yet to see happiness until you have invited Jesus into your life," he shouts. "Jesus is alive. He is standing next to you as we speak."

Really? No shit? Jesus! You sneaky bastard, come over here and show yourself. ... Hello? Somebody say something. Anybody?

This preacher man has this aura about him—it reaks of accomplishment (futility) and self-worth (hubris) and, even, intellect (ignorance). He is one that will never question why.

Reminds me of a song: Judith, by A Perfect Circle:

"you're such an inspiration for ways that i will never ever choose to be.
oh so many ways for me to show you how your savior has abandoned you.
Thank(fuck) your god, your lord, your christ,
he did this, took all you had and left you this way.
still you pray, never stray, never taste of the fruit. never thought to question why.
it's not like you killed someone.
it's not like you drove a hateful spear into his side.
praise the one who left you broken down and paralyzed.
he did it all for you.
oh so many ways for me to show you how your dogma has abandoned you.
pray to your christ, to your god.
never taste of the fruit,
never stray, never break,
never choke on a lie,
even though he's the one who did this to you
thought to question why
it's not like you killed someone.
it's not like you drove a spiteful spear into his side.
talk to jesus christ as if he knows the reasons why he
did this all to you.
he did it all for you."


Yo yo yo (yeah, it looks just as stupid as it sounds)

To: Sufferers of Missing White Girl Syndrome
From: The Doc
Date: Duh
Subject: [Insert 30 seconds of thinking up a vapid subject line.]

I just finished reading Anderson Cooper's 360 degrees blog, for which he, himself, never submits ANYthing. The writer today posted on an interesting topic: the alleged "Missing White Woman Syndrome" found in the media today.

"That was the phrase invoked by Sheri Parks, a professor of American studies at the University of Maryland, College Park, during our interview yesterday," according to the blog. She alleges that the media neglects reporting cases of missing "women who are black, Latino, Asian, old, fat, or ugly."

My initial reaction was, "Shut up, bitch. Start a significant argument with someone about the gap in standardized test scores between whites and minorities." However, the more and more I think about it, she's kinda right, but I still think there are bigger issues to tackle.

Honestly, she's fighting for no cause. Who would benefit from constant national exposure in the case of every missing persons case? No one. Most (and probably all) missing persons cases are local, and therefore, are broadcast locally. When those attempts are fruitless, often the story hits the national media. Stories like Natalie Holloway and Laci Peterson hold more weight in national media because they generate more attention—regardless of race or physical appearance.

In some instances, say Elian Gonzales, I think that argument holds merit. Face it, America wouldn't have been as captivated by that story if he had two heads or buck teeth and a Jew 'fro. That's not subjectivity on the media's part, it's merely an editor who knows what people like to hear. Blame the American public, not the media.

• • •

March Madness has begun, thank you, KRISHNA! I know many of you could care less about sports, but I'm sorry. I am a college basketball and football fanatic. Sue me.



Proud to be an Amurrican

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

"I'm committed to strengthening our relationship with the UAE [United Arab Emirates] and explaining why it's important to Congress and the American people." --George Bush

Thanks, George. 'Preciate it. I'm so glad you are taking your sweet ass time to explain why things are important to me, a member of the American people. I'm eternally grateful for your dumbing down to explain things to Congress and me. Without you, I'd be lost.

He reminds me of a third grade teacher trying to explain the difference between apples and oranges.

Bush: "You see, Amurrica, apples are red. Oranges, on the other hand, are orange. See the difference?"

The classroom responds collectively: "Yes, Mister Bush."

Bush: "Good, now go do something good for your country. You kids know that towel-head in Ms. Hoover's class? Kick his ass at recess, OK?"

Classroom: "Yes, Mister Bush."

• • •

In other news, MC Hammer announced today that he is gay.

• • •

Have any of you gotten a chance to watch Walk the Line yet? I thought it was a pretty good movie. I think I went into it, though, expecting way too much. I wasn't let down, but I guess my expecations were brought back down to earth. All I could think about the whole movie was how sexy Reese Witherspoon sounds with a twangy voice. Talk to daddy, Reese. Talk to daddy.