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?