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.