Sunday, July 31, 2005
In chronological order:
Top Ten Tuesdays: Why are we blogging?
Primates Reject Theory of Evolving into Evolution-Denying Humans
The Osbournes Animal Planet
Full Metal Nipples
Spot the persecution
Gene Shalit's parasitic twin reviews Revenge of the Sith
Even I could tell Iraq would be a quagmire, and I lick my own ass
Our very own Aristocrats joke (really, really not work safe)
Official Supreme Court Nominee Questionnaire
Thursday, July 28, 2005
Low risk of a Tom Cruise attack
Presence of Scientology undetectable. Cruise, while occasionally risky, is affable and charming. Methods for obtaining Oscar gold remain within internationally acceptable guidelines. Personal life content and appropriate.
General risk of a Tom Cruise attack
Cruise still personable and likeable, but behavior borders on irresponsible and nefarious. Attempts to obtain Oscar reach dangerous maudlin levels. First signs of erratic behavior become visible.
Significant risk of a Tom Cruise attack
Cruise begins to show alarming interest in the military, espionage, and piloting aircraft. May be conducting dry runs to test limits of box office radius. Relationships and personal appearance often inexplicable and bizarre.
High risk of a Tom Cruise attack
Scientology extremely likely to be discussed with a straight face. Cruise’s behavior increasingly endangers both himself and those around him. Physical appearance and diet may undergo radical change.
Severe risk of Tom Cruise attack
Cruise has already set in process a multimedia rampage. Behavior becomes extremely aggressive, almost primate-like. Thetan has wrested control of mind and destroyed all logic. May be smuggling WMD in the form of a box office bomb.
Note: During Severe status, Cruise should be considered armed and dangerous.
Wednesday, July 27, 2005
A Manifesto on the Criminality of Bringing Small Children to Movies Where They Do not Belong nor Are Wanted
But there comes a time when action is demanded of us, when conflict buys a ticket to our own personal drama and wants—nay, demands!—resolution. That time is when the most clueless, malignant, selfish, and treacherous of humankind bring their spawn to movies where they do not belong.
Do not avert your eyes from these words! Do not pretend to not notice the truth before you, tapping at your leg and sticking its tiny mucous-stained hand into your popcorn. For you know of which I speak. You remember the time you were watching Pulp Fiction, seeing the climactic confrontation of Bruce Willis, Ving Rhames, and The Gimp. You were on the edge of your seat, breathless for the next line, the next action, when next to you, a loud cry emerged, smashing through the Fourth Wall with the force of a wrecking ball: MOMMY, WHY IS THAT MAN WEARING A MASK?
It is a sad spectacle, one that has spun off many sequels, each more horrid than the last. A baby crying over a Will Ferrell punchline in Old School. Two two-year old doing his seat-standing interpretation of Spider-Man. Or the Milk Dud-sucking, syllable-spewing toddler distracting you from critical breast shots in The Wedding Crashers.
And what is our reaction? Harrumphs? Stern looks? Maybe, at our boldest, a hissing “shhhh”? Against the dense, iron skulls of these parents, such civil reactions are akin to hurling stones at the Tripods from War of the Worlds. The time for politeness is over. The system has failed us, and it is only by extreme actions that we can overcome such colossal manifestations of poor judgment. I call you to arms in the following situations:
- The crying baby in any movie—Rather than expel a breath of disgust, stand up! Better to take revenge on your feet than complain from your seat. Move next to the parent of said child, and begin sobbing on their shoulder, squealing and crying until they leave.
- The child asking questions during the adult drama—Do not sit in stony silence, pretending to ignore the queries banging on your eardrums. Instead, ask your own questions of the parent: Did you fail to make it to the letter R when you learned your ABCs? Why did the state not sterilize you? How will you repay each of us in the theater $7.50 plus compensation for mental cruelty because we had to listen to helium-voiced questions from a child that could not follow a Pokemon movie, let alone The Bourne Identity?
- The child frightened by explosions in an adult action movie—If the cries of terror from the orange fireballs and rumbling subwoofers do not wake the sensibilities of the attending parent, then keep up the campaign of psychological carpet bombing. Maneuver behind the child and repeatedly yell “BOOM” as loud as possible, until the child flees in terror, forcing the parent to follow.
- The child frightened by death and disfigurement in an adult horror movie—Follow the same steps as the action movie, but replace “BOOM” with “BOO!”
- The child in a movie for children and adults, but during a show time that is clearly meant for adults—A small child’s presence at Charlie and the Chocolate Factory makes sense at 3:00 p.m. It does not at 10:00 p.m. Here, revenge is dish best served sweet. Help the children in their quest to stay awake by covertly feeding them enough Skittles to keep them (and, subsequently, their parents) sleepless for a week.
- The child who ventures to your aisle seat and asks for candy—Escort the child away from their uncaring parents and offer him or her to a nice stranger who does have candy.
Will these actions change the fiendishly unaware behavior of the parental units who so blindly ignore the misery their offspring inflict on fellow moviegoers? The certainty of that I cannot write. But at the very least, my oppressed brethren, I promise you that these actions will free both of your hands to fight the drooling golem of inappropriate movie attendance by children.
To borrow from the stirring speech of Bill Pullman in Independence Day, “We will not go quietly into the night! We will not vanish without a fight!” And we will not rest until your children are out of our sight!
Tuesday, July 26, 2005
Major League Baseball's trading deadline is approaching this weekend. Why will some players be on new teams?
11) Said our faith compelled us to follow Jesus Christ to Boston.
10) Confessed our love of long, slow, deep, soft, wet kisses that last three days to underage ball boy.
9) Club received one million dollars if they let us spend one night with Mr. Steinbrenner.
8) ERA grew faster than America’s GDP.
7) Misinterpreted “Media Day” as “Kick-the-shit-out-of-the-media Day”.
6) Stole a lot of bases, then proceeded to steal bats, balls, and the coach’s Lexus.
5) Threw too many sliders down our throats.
4) Took money to throw World Series without disclosing we were on the Cubs and would never reach the World Series.
3) Players complained that we filled the dugout with that old people smell.
2) Job was outsourced to Asians and Hispanics.
1) Got caught giving the cream to the owner’s wife.
Thursday, July 21, 2005
Vol. I of Putting the S&M in Shouts and Murmurs
Loosely inspired (and completely not-work safe) by I Foxed (m)Ann Coulter in the Roger Ailes, Hard
Coulter, commentator of my choice, fire of my loins. My spin, my soul. Cole-ter: the tip of my tongue tripping over two of my terrorist-torturing, traitor-trouncing teeth. Coal. Ter.
She was A, plain A in the morning, standing five feet ten in her size eleven combat boots. She was Ms. Coulter in sensible slacks, Commentator Coulter on the air, and Syndicated Columnist and Best-Selling Author Ann Coulter in print. But when I was in her arms, she was always Ann.
(the whole sick tale)
I wasn’t listening to what Senator Kennedy was saying. I knew of what he spoke, for I know of what his kind always speaks: surrender, sedition, and sexual shenanigans. His bulbous, bobbing head filled the video monitor, connected via satellite to his den of treason in Washington, D.C.
No, I was staring at her. Her long blond tresses. Her red tongue, licking her lips like the cheetah, ready to pounce on the labored, tired, obese Irish Wolfhound before her. And the round lump in her throat, so much like mine, but smoother, more supple, free of stubble. God, how I wanted to touch her.
I heard the buzzing from the senator cease. “You know what, Senator Kennedy?” I said. “You are a Four-Alarm Liar. I should get out the fire extinguisher to put out the blaze in your pants—if you were wearing any!”
A babble of nasally Hyannis Port exasperation filled the canal of my ear, but my auditory senses were drowned out by the sharp, sinewy laugh coming from that heavenly blond mouth.
Alan began to snivel in protest, but I cut him off. “That’s all we have time for today,” I announced. “Tune into Hannity and Colmes tomorrow as we discuss America’s universities: centers of learning, or brothels of the Left?”
The red light went off on the camera. “Jesus, Sean!” Alan whined. “Don’t you think you went a little overboard on Kennedy? The man is a senator, for Pete’s sake.”
I pulled my lips back in a smile. Every once in a while, Alan’s spine would straighten, triggering a complaint, a suggestion, any kind of unsolicited idea. I so enjoyed snapping it back into 1000 pieces. “Alan, whose name is first? Who’s the star here?”
He shook and couldn’t look into my eyes. “All I was saying is I think...”
“You think?” I replied. “You think when I ask you to think, and when that camera’s off, that moment is never.” I leaned in close, so only he could hear. “I make one call, one fucking phone call, Alan, and I’ll have Paul Begala here licking my boots. Capice?”
Alan nodded. As he slinked off the set, Ann leaned over the particle board desk and touched my hand. “I loved the way you handled Kennedy,” she said. “Christ, I hate that Chappaquiddick cocksucker. Too bad he knew how to swim.”
I looked down at her hands. Her fingers wrapped completely around my wrist like the roots of an oak. I could feel the heat from her palms sinking through my jacket, into my skin, racing to my heart.
“Thank you,” I said. It was an effort to speak, I wanted to get to my knees and pant, suck in the breath around her.
“What are you doing tonight, Sean?” she asked.
“N-n-nothing,” I stammered. English failed me. I was an infant, learning to talk, walk, cry, eat. My legs wobbled like a foal’s.
“Let’s blow this taco stand,” she said. “I know a place where we can really get away from it all.”
She blindfolded me on the trip. She insisted I not know the location of her compound until I was “initiated.” “Sorry, Sean, baby, but I’ve been burned before. I’m not going to make the same mistake I made with O’Reilly.”
The sensory deprivation allowed me to focus on the deep rasp of her voice. She was so sure of herself, of her beliefs, of the treason of liberalism. I believed it, too, but there were times—few, but still times—when I felt the bubble of doubt rise. Could we be wrong? Did Alan sometimes have a good point?
“I don’t know why you let that schmuck Colmes talk,” Ann said. “I’d tell Ailes that I’d do a show with al-Zarqwi before I’d partner with a stab-you-in-the-back liberal. At least you know where the terrorist stands.”
“Alan’s not so bad,” I said, “he’s harmless. And sometimes he does a better job of making my points than I do.”
She laughed, then coughed, deep and wet. I heard the whine of the electric window, felt the rushing, pungent blast of turnpike air, and heard Ann spit into the wind.
“That’s my impression of moveon.org,” she said. I laughed, maybe too long, but at least the laughter kept me from saying something foolish and irrevocable.
We kept the talk small for the rest of the trip. Tax cuts, war in the Middle East, court nominations, Michael Moore, and why the First Amendment needed serious amending. She told me why Joe McCarthy was a hero, why Jimmy Carter was a traitor, and why Hillary Clinton would be her dream opposition candidate. I didn’t tell Ann that I knew her arguments by heart, memorized like Shakespearean prose, iambic talking points unrhymed.
The car stopped. She pulled off the blindfold. “We’re here.”
The ATF would never be able to burn this place to the ground. It wasn’t a compound, it was a castle, a fortress of freedom. The stone walls stood ten feet if they were an inch, forming a perfect circle around a matching manor house that appeared as solid as it did regal. “The house that Slander built,” Ann said.
“It’s...it’s...wow,” I stammered. God damn it, Hannity, I thought, get a hold of yourself. And apologize to God for swearing. “I mean, I feel like I’m in Europe.”
Ann frowned. “Gee, thanks, just what I wanted, to give the impression of unemployed socialist cowardice.”
“Oh, Ann, I’m sorry, I didn’t mean it like that. I...I...”
“Kidding, Hannity,” she said, punching me in the shoulder. “You have been around Alan too long.”
“No, no!” I retorted. I stood up straight and pushed my chin forward. “Of course I meant Old Europe, when men were men—“
“And the sheep were nervous!” Ann finished. “Good, I was worried you were going Democratic on me there. If there’s one thing I can’t stand, it’s a man who’s soft.”
I swallowed. I stared into her eyes, blue pools of Aryan breeding, too pure to corrupt with my unclean Irish-Catholic genes. I kept up the front, “If there’s one thing I’m not, Ann, it’s soft.”
She smirked. “Come on, I’ll show you the armory.”
She kept her weapons immaculate. Oiled, clean, ready to empty a clip into a government agent or a Muslim terrorist on a moment’s notice. I held a Beretta in my hand, looking down the barrel.
“Confucius say two Berettas in the hand are better than one Robert Byrd in a Bush!” Ann said, handing me my pistol’s twin. “Ever done two at the same time, Hannity?”
I shook my head no. Her unspoken reply told me that she had. “But I’ve fired plenty of guns,” I countered. “Nobody can get a shot off quicker than me.”
She grabbed my free palm and slapped the pistol in it. “The key to shooting, Sean, is control. Especially if you’ve got two hot pieces in your hands.”
She led me to the shooting range, a three-lane field about one hundred yards long. She moved two human-figure targets within pistol distance. “Let’s see you in action,” she said, sitting back to watch.
I took a deep breath and flicked the safeties off. My fingers worked the triggers, bap-bap-bap-bap-bap. I fired controlled bursts at two targets, nailing a dozen head shots. She clapped politely. “Not bad, Sean, for your first time. You should have seen Limbaugh when he tried it. He kept blaming it on the pills!” My ears burned at the sound of another pundit’s name, even if she was criticizing him.
“The real key, though,” she said, unlocking a footlocker next to the range, “is being able to shoot straight without letting your emotions control you.” She pulled out two pictures of Them. Black and white, smiling their deceitful, pseudo-centrist grins. Bill and Hillary. Ann placed them over two new targets, sending them back 50 yards. She moved close to me, her pale lips near my ear, the tingle of breath, the smell of cigarettes and sweet, unfiltered conservatism. “Universal health care,” she whispered. “Somalia. Chinese spies. Whitewater. Gays in the military.” Each word exploded, setting off a fuel dump of rage inside my head. A crimson filter covered the firing range. My blood raced, to my hands, my heart, and into my loins, my anger mixing with desire into a Molotov cocktail of lust.
Ann took a deep breath before one last barrage. “Higher end-of-presidency approval rating than Reagan.”
I let out a howl, my arms flipping up, my fingers a blur. The ends of the pistols were awash in flame. It wasn’t until I heard the click-click-click of empty chambers that I stopped. I leaned over, hands on knees, panting. Looking up, I had landed only a couple body shots on the photos.
“It’s good to feel your hate,” Ann hissed. “To feel your rage. To feel...” Her hand slid over my pants. “...your wants, your needs. But feeling is only half the battle. I’m going to teach you the pleasure of righteous anger mixed with cold-blooded control.”
She went back to the footlocker, pulling back a false bottom. When she stood up, she held a sleek, mammoth, black dildo, attached to a studded leather harness. “Sean,” she said. “Say hello to the Fill-a-Buster.”
My lips quivered. I wanted to run at first—that was my mind talking. Don’t do it. Don’t give in. But I wanted to give in, wanted to feel what she had to offer. Like the red clouding my vision, desire gripped my necktie and pulled me forward. I couldn’t speak. I only nodded mutely.
“Are you sure?” she asked, a coy finger to her lips. Again my head bobbed up and down, as dumb as a dog begging for a treat.
“Reload,” she commanded, “then strip.”
I slid two fresh 15-round clips into the handgrip, set the pistols down, and removed my suit. The cool night breeze sent lightning bolts across my skin. When I picked up the Berettas, the surge of power and desire stirred me to full arousal.
Ann waited until I was finished before stripping her power suit. Her body was completely blonde, the only darkness on her delicate frame coming from her eyes. She was almost boyish in figure, save for the two tell-tale signs of womanhood. She covered one of those with the harness. The Fill-A-Buster stood out, mocking my attempt to compete. It was if I had just bitten into the apple of Eden, my lustful bravado washed away by a flood of eye-opening self-consciousness. I faltered, mentally and physically.
“Don’t get all soft on me now, Sean,” Ann said. She motioned to a bench. “Place your elbows there,” she said, showing me how to crouch against the bench. “Eyes forward!” she snapped as I felt her cold fingers on my hips.
A wave of sensory input stormed my brain, overrunning my synapses: pain, pleasure, shame, acceptance, fear, longing. I had unlocked the cell, let my true feelings dash up the stairs and stand in the sunlight. I was receiving what I had always wanted, from the person I had always wanted.
“Aim,” Ann grunted. Her breath came out in puffs.
“AIM!” she cried. One hand grabbed my hair and pointed my head toward Them. “It’s 2009, Inauguration Day, and there they are again!”
My hands moved with a will of their own. The barrels of the pistols pointed downfield. “Steady,” Ann gasped. “Stay in control, Hannity. Short bursts on my command. Ready? Fire!”
Bap-bap! Head shots.
Bap-bap! Right through the fake, traitorous smiles.
“FIRE! FIRE! FIRE!”
The shots rang out, Ann’s voice growing louder with each retort. Down to my last two bullets, she could no longer speak the command, just a scream toward the moon as I emptied all of my chambers. She fell forward, her face on my back, hot breath on my cold skin.
“That,” she said, “is how you talk to a liberal if you have to.”
I sat in my office, dreaming of her. I could still hear her voice mingled with the shots. I stared at the photo on my desk, her sunlight hair forming a halo over the headstone of a fallen hero, Joe McCarthy.
A shadow crossed my thoughts. Alan stood in the doorway. He held a manila envelope in his hands, the paper slightly dark from palm sweat. “Hello, Sean,” he said. “How was your weekend?”
“What the fuck do you want, Alan?” I shot back. “The show meeting’s not for a half hour.”
He stepped—no, strode—across the room, his mouth broad with a look of anticipation. He turned the manila envelope upside down. Three photos fell out. There I was, firing both guns. There was Ann, directing me from behind. Our faces as clear and crisp as the air that night.
“Remarkable that they came out so well,” Alan said, his words pounding in my head like a speeding wave. “The others are a little more...entertaining...but these captured that classic Hannity face the best.”
“I’ll...I’ll fucking...I swear to God, Alan.”
He put his hands on my desk and leaned forward, his eyes level with mine. I could see the wan silhouette of my face in his glasses. “You better thank God that I haven’t released these to the press. And believe me, if some unfortunate accident befalls me, the vast liberal media will get these.”
“What do you want?” I grunted. My chest felt as if it would collapse.
“A little Aretha Franklin,” Alan said with the grin of a hanging judge. “R-E-S-P-E-C-T, you miserable, bootlicking, up-the-cornhole Irish fuck. There’s going to be some changes around here.”
“That concludes our show for tonight,” Alan announced. “Tune in tomorrow when we discuss the Iraq reconstruction: has the President lead us into a never-ending Middle Eastern quagmire? Our guests will be Wesley Clark, Howard Dean, and Hillary Clinton.”
I stared ahead into space. Three weeks of staring into space. Agreeing with Alan. Acknowledging the legitimacy of dissenting views. Nodding in approval when a parade of donkey Senators criticized the second-best president of my lifetime. I was as empty as one of the spent casings on Ann’s firing range.
I shuffled back to my office, looking down at my feet, noticing the way staff turned sideways to avoid any possibility of touching me in the hallway. I closed the door, slumped in the chair, and picked up the phone.
The dial tone challenged and mocked me. Why would tonight be any different? She wouldn’t even answer my calls anymore, not since that first night. I trusted you, I thought you were a better man than that, I wouldn’t put my paycheck ahead of my principles. The dial tone changed into the shriek of having the phone off the hook. I placed it back in its cradle. It was over.
She was right. I should have told Alan to take his pictures to the world. It would have ruined my career, but my career was already sliding toward ruin. Without my knee-jerk reactionary retorts, I was Alan as he used to be, a conciliatory bit of window dressing. If I had come clean, I would at least still have my dignity. I would at least have her.
I leaned back in my chair, staring at the ceiling. The air conditioning kicked in, the cold air reminding me of that night. I sat there, shivering and staring at her photo.
Tuesday, July 19, 2005
12) Records reveal Harry could not have spent Christmas in Cambodia.
11) Lord Voldemort returns to run on 2008 Republican ticket.
10 Since going through puberty, Harry has trouble controlling his wand.
9) Harry gets caught using performance-enhancing potions during Quidditch matches.
8) The boys discover that Hermoine appeared in a “Wizards Gone Wild” video.
7) Snape spends weekends fronting Nine Inch Nails cover band.
6) Harry now engaged to Katie Holmes.
5) Cornelius Fudge outed Valarie Plame to get discredit Dumbledore.
4) Head wizards secretly reassigned Hagrid to Hogwarts after abuse allegations at several Boston magic schools.
3) Harry and Ron must defeat royalty-seeking ghost of C.S. Lewis.
2) Magic may bring you power, fame, and fortune, but it doesn’t bring you true happiness. Unless you cast a True Happiness spell.
1) Dumbeldore’s fate: death by unga bunga.
Monday, July 18, 2005
George "not Rudy" Pataki conducted a little pressing-of-the-flesh in Des Moines (De Monet, De Monet!) this last weekend. Here's how the objective New York Times described the event:
Expertly sidestepping dried dung at a county fair here Saturday night, the tall, tanned man with a big grin and an outstretched palm looked every inch thecandidate barnstorming before the Iowa presidential caucuses.
"Hi, I'm George Pataki, from New York!" he said, raising his voice over the oinks and bleats and neighs in the livestock barns nearby.
"I know you!" cried Todd Parker, standing amid hog-filled pens. "You're a celebrity. I've seen you on Fox News."
I imagine the Times reporter was also expecting Parker to inform Pataki which hogs was for eatin' and which ones was for fuckin'.
Thursday, July 14, 2005
Rove stormed west of the White House, overturning cars and beating his chest. The rampaging political mastermind stopped at the Watergate Hotel, where he reached through a window and grabbed Valerie Plame, the agent whose identity he is accused of offering to the press. Pulling the screaming Ms. Plame toward him, Rove stopped to caress her blond hair.
Police immediately fired tear gas and rubber bullets, causing Rove to flee eastward, toward the National Mall. Pushing aside dozens of stunned tourists with his giant, hairless hands, he proceeded to scale the Washington Monument, taunting police below with a series of growls and roars. He placed Ms. Plame on the peak of the structure.
President Bush, immediately summoned from a game of hopscotch, faced a dilemma—would he order a military strike against the beast that helped bring him to power? According to sources inside the White House, the President sat at his Oval Office desk, drooling and silent for the next nine hours, while aides awaited orders. The White House dismissed allegations that the President was drooling as “unfounded.”
In the Capitol, Congress furiously debated the situation. Democrats called for Rove’s destruction. Republicans claimed that Rove had not technically broken any laws by climbing the Washington Monument, since it was publicly owned. When Democratic Senator Charles Schumer claimed that Rove was guilty of kidnapping, Senate Majority Leader Dr. Bill Frist said, “I have looked into Valerie Plame’s eyes, and I am convinced that she wants to be on top of that monument.”
Senator John McCain immediately stood on top of his chair and ripped apart his suit, tie and shirt, standing naked to the waist. “The time for gridlock is over, gentlemen!” he proclaimed. “We need bi-partisan action to solve this crisis!” Reaching beneath his chair, he grabbed Senator Joseph Lieberman, hopped on an awaiting Harley Davidson motorcycle, and sped off to Andrew’s Air Force Base.
Arriving at the base, the two senators climbed aboard an F-16 and took off for the Washington Monument. As the jet buzzed by, McCain strafed Rove with 20mm cannon rounds, to no effect, while Rove attempted to swat the senators from the sky. Finally, on the third pass, McCain fired a missile at Rove, striking the analyst in the heart. Looking at Ms. Plame with sad, animal eyes, Rove let go of the monument and fell to the ground. He was pronounced dead on impact.
The incident began when White House Press Secretary Scott McClellan had Rove—held in chains—brought out during a press conference on the Plame incident. Rove appeared to grow frightened by the attention, cringing at the flashing camera bulbs and howling when questions were hurled at him. When one reporter shoved a microphone toward him and asked, “Did you try to get back at Joe Wilson by hurting Ms. Plame?” Rove snapped his bonds and began his rampage.
Ms. Plame reunited with Wilson at the base of the Monument, next to the giant body of Rove. “I know that he was a brute,” Ms. Plame said afterward, “but I believe there was a gentle soul buried inside.”
Plame and Wilson also announced that they had struck a book deal about the incident with Harper Collins editor Judith Regan.
Tuesday, July 12, 2005
9) Holding "win a date with The Spice Girls" contest for all non-exploding Muslims.
8) Authorizing James Bond to search all beautiful Arab women for clues.
7) Requiring all tube and bus riders to hug a rabbi before boarding.
6) Asking Hogwarts to speed up development of new spell, Nutter Spotus Promptus.
5) Starting new public awareness campaign: “They really hate Muslims in Ireland.”
4) Improving identification of suicide bombings with nationwide “all nude, all the time” policy.
3) Conducting cavity searches between tea and biscuits.
2) Allowing Prince Charles to declare prima noctae on all virgins waiting for terrorists in Paradise.
1) Giving those terrorist fucks the finger by continuing their daily routines.
Monday, July 11, 2005
Dear XBox Controller,
Baby, I’m sorry. I know I said I wouldn’t throw you again. But you’ve got to believe me when I say it wasn’t my fault. That goddamned cheating whore of a CPU made me do it.
I know you don’t want to hear any more excuses, but just listen. It was the Super Bowl in Madden. I was on my fifteenth season, okay? Do you know how many hours that is? All those heartbreaking playoff losses along the way? And here I was, in the big game, ready to win it all. Up 20-14, less than a minute to play, I just had to run the clock out, and the 2020 Chicago Bears would hoist the Lombardi Trophy. I could taste the virtual champagne.
And then that AI—that lousy, no good, dirty AI—fucked me. Made me fumble, scooped up the ball, broke five tackles, and ran it back for the winning touchdown.
I know it wasn’t your fault. You responded perfectly when I pressed B to sprint and X to dive for that desperation tackle. You just caught me at a bad time. I was blind with rage, baby, I didn’t know what I was doing.
I know, I know, you’ve heard it before. The last level in Halo. The CIA level in Splinter Cell. Every driving game you’ve played with me. I know you’ve talked to my exes, too: the four Nintendo 64 controllers, the PlayStation 2 controllers (the original and that cheap MadCatz tramp), even the old Genesis gamepad.
But you can’t leave me. I’m nothing without you, you know that. I’ll be stuck with demo mode loops. And what about the good times we had? Online deathmatches in Halo 2. That last gold medal in Project Gotham Racing 2. Slicing that guy up with the chain saw in Grand Theft Auto. We’re a team.
So I mean it, I’ll never hurt you again. Next time that bitch CPU starts pushing me around, I’m going to set you down on a pillow—a nice, velvet pillow I got picked out, just for you—and then I’ll go punch a wall.
What do you say? Can I plug you in again?
Thursday, July 07, 2005
Fucknut News commentator/top Brian Kilmeade and business contributor/bottom Stuart Varney talk about terra in Bri'in (via Media Matters):
KILMEADE: And he [British Prime Minister Tony Blair] made the statement, clearly shaken, but clearly determined. This is his second address in the last hour. First to the people of London, and now at the G8 summit, where their topic Number 1 --believe it or not-- was global warming, the second was African aid. And that was the first time since 9-11 when they should know, and they do know now, that terrorism should be Number 1. But it's important for them all to be together. I think that works to our advantage, in the Western world's advantage, for people to experience something like this together, just 500 miles from where the attacks have happened.
VARNEY: It puts the Number 1 issue right back on the front burner right at the point where all these world leaders are meeting. It takes global warming off the front burner. It takes African aid off the front burner. It sticks terrorism and the fight on the war on terror, right up front all over again.
Not a douchebag
An actual terror victim in Britain
An open letterI love the British.
to the terrorist cunts who tried to kill me today:
Fuck you. You missed me. Better luck next time.
Wednesday, July 06, 2005
Please answer the following questions truthfully unless the truth will cause a scandal. Return the completed form to the nearest Executive Office/church/detention center.
1. Are you:
c) a Democrat (skip all remaining questions and shove questionnaire up ass)
2. I am
a) Caucasian (skip question 3 and pat yourself on the back)
e) Chief Justice Wahoo
3. As a minority, I
a) believe minorities have the same opportunity to succeed as rich white people if they were no longer rich or white
b) want to overturn the legislation that helped me get my job
c) won’t admit it
4. I am a practicing
c) Heb, er, Jew
II. Litmus test
1. My gavel is always
a) hard and ready to bang repeatedly
b) out of commission unless discussing the right to sodomy
c) ready to go both ways
2. The Ten Commandments should be
a) in every courtroom in America
b) in every classroom in America
c) tattooed inside the eyelids of every American
3. Abortion is
a) worse than the Holocaust because it kills non-Jews
b) the reason why all liberals should be put to death
c) a right of every woman that I will make sure is revoked
4. During a disputed presidential election, the Supreme Court should
a) make sure the votes of non-felon, non-welfare, non-liberal citizens are counted accurately
b) speed up the process before some “experts” can investigate
c) go out for coffee
5. Gay marriage is
III. Fill in the blank
Please complete the following sentences.
1. Arab-Americans should _________ internment camps.
2. Freedom _______ free, especially for_______, __________, and definitely __________.
3. Sodomy _________ result in stoning.
4. Immigrants must speak_________or die.
5. I wipe my_________with international treaties and rulings.
6. Journalists should be_________until they can’t feel their extremities.
7. When in doubt, _________ the Book of Leviticus.
IV. Judicial analogies
1. Interrogation : torture ::
a) ice cream : hot fudge
b) grass : ass
c) plausible : deniable
2. Coke : pubic hair ::
a) practical : joke
b) frigid : cunt
c) distant : memory
3. ACLU : traitors ::
a) New York Times : toilet paper
b) professors : brainwashers
c) Michael Moore : Stay Puff Marshmallow Man
4. Flag : burn ::
a) Lady Liberty : rape
b) Jesus : crucify
c) Rush Limbaugh : incarcerate
5. Freedom : speech::
a) Fox : facts
b) dreaming : day
c) Fuck : off
Please describe how and why the President should be allowed to do what he wants, when he wants, especially when he needs to preserve freedom by destroying it. Cite relevant extra-legal examples.
The Supreme Court is not an equal opportunity employer. If you don't like it you have the right to let the door hit you in the ass on the way to Canada. All applicants are required to pass a visual examination and correctly identify the hand that feeds them. All appointments are for life, but in the case of judicial activism, accidents can happen. Remember that when you’re ruling on whether Osama bin Raghead is an enemy combatant or a mystery guest of the Department of Defense.
Tuesday, July 05, 2005
9) Swapped political bon mots with other snarky, powerless liberals.
8) Called up British friend and chanted USA, USA, USA into phone.
7) Made makeshift Roman candles out of detainees.
6) Asked bearded hippie if he was listening to Freedom Rock, then ordered him to turn it up.
5) Begged OPEC to lower oil prices.
4) Told everyone at the barbecue about the real history of psychiatry.
3) Sucked down an eight-ball of funnel cake.
2) Went on patrol after enlistment was involuntarily extended.
1) Covered last bit of free space on the SUV with another fucking flag.