IMPEACH THE O-EMPEROR | I do not think that word means what you think it means

As I was driving to the train station today through the area locally known as Mahopac Falls and Carmel, but more widely referred to as "East Bumblefuck," I passed a sign scrawled haphazardly in what appeared to be bootblack, across a large piece of plywood and nailed to a tree at the edge of the property on which was set back an adorably rustic redneck cabin, overlooking the road.

The sign read, "Impeach the O-Emperor."

Actually, it said "Impeach O- the emperor," but based on the font size, I'm going to assume that graphic design and layout night classes at the local community college were not available to this particular budding Banksy before he–women have far more legible handwriting–dropped out to fulfill a rewarding career as a comparatively cheaper substitute for a forklift.

Now, I get the impression that your intent was the removal of President Obama from office. As such, I find myself compelled to explain that to "impeach" means to level charges against.

Likely, you learned this term during the Clinton trials, when you discovered it was possible to oust a sitting president from office before the expiration of his term for the simple reason that you disagreed with his party affiliation, and found this knowledge more sexually arousing than your browser history's strange and mysterious fixation on Thai ladybois.

Now, to actually remove the president, Obama would have had to do something illegal. And not your Bill O'Reilly talking-box classroom understanding of illegal, mind you, actually illegal. After being charged, he would then have to be tried, and then convicted of those charges. Even then, I am not entirely sure that a prisoner could not also remain President of the United States, though there are certainly measures by which the legislature could remove him once convicted.

Than said, no U.S. president has ever been run out of office through impeachment. Johnson and Clinton, the only two presidents ever impeached despite demands to do so dating all the way back to Washington, were both acquitted in Senate hearings. Worst case scenario, a doomed Commander in Chief could simply resign prior to charges being formally filed, as Nixon did, after appointing Gerald Ford to replace his disgraced Vice President, thus bargaining a pardon upon Ford's own ascension.

Secondly, an "Emperor" isn't an elected office you could impeach, you moron.

Of Those Who Can't Failing to Teach

A family asked me yesterday for a book that would teach their son–for homework that night I learned–the similarities between the branches of government. "Branches" being a word I supplied; they went with "sections" and "parts."

Keep in mind, they also did not understand when I explained thrice that there was nothing in the store and it would have to be ordered, taking longer than 20 minutes to arrive.

The branches are, for those who don't remember 7th grade history class, the Legislative branch (Congress), the Executive branch (the President), and the Judicial branch (the courts). When these two wunderelterns attempted to list them, mom got "Parliamentary" and "Prime Ministreal," which isn't even a word. Dad fared no better with "Communist" in place of Congress and "President," which is actually more horrifying, because in between his wife's attempt and his own, I said them all. To them. They were there. And still, neither one of them even remotely got "Judiciary." I would have taken any variation on "courts." Nothin'.

God help that poor child. If his parents teach him that "Communist" is a branch of American government, we're going to have a little Young Republican on our hands fairly quickly.

The MySpaceification of Facebook

Things are getting out of hand.

"LIKE if you Like it <3"

Let's ignore the lack of punctuation and inconsistent capitalization, although that's so, so special in this phrase. It really is.

"Like if you like" it? Really?

That is literally what liking something means. Not just in reality, but on facebook too. If I didn't like the thing I'm clicking, I wouldn't click the button that says "Like." You want to see how easy that is?

Boom.

That was me, just now, not hitting like on a picture of someone's sonogram. Because I don't give a crap about a sonogram. I don't like it, so I didn't Like it.

What's more upsetting here is the trend I'm starting to see with more 'Victorian woodcut/lithograph figures with amusingly juxtaposed text' e-cards and 'I appreciate my [close relative or sig-oth]'image posts.

I'm waiting for the day facebook releases a security update that secretly converts all of our profile photos into .GIF format and enables "sparkly" as a comment font option.

On Madea

I've had issue with Madea in the past, mostly for being another example of a bossy, ignorant character whose only roll seems to be the Fool archetype, saying the things societal standards would prevent those around her from expressing and ultimately working past.

That's a respectable roll, though. Really, I just hate seeing stupid characters never get punished for being stupid. Keenan and Kel still bothers me, if that's any indication of my grudge's longevity and unreasonableness. I'm getting over it.

What still bothers me is how the hell did Tyler Perry get seven movies out of "Big Momma" when Martin Lawrence only got three?

"Bitch, I ate that little Veruca Salt white girl
and took her coat. Don't cross me."

7 Things You Are Never Allowed to Say in Retail

Cancer Merchants

1. Anything to the effect of, "You can't find the price? It must be free!"

Why: Because fuck you, that's why. We're trying to get you on your way quickly, the machines aren't working right, and it's entirely possible you picked the one without the price tag just to see if it'd ring up at another price. Most likely, you're just filling the awkward silence while we try to sort out your purchase, and we don't need or want to have to respond to a joke that is, truthfully, the rotting, fifty year-old carcass of a dead horse you still insist on beating.

2. "This is probably a stupid question, but…"

Why: You're just emoting humility in an attempt to seem neither ignorant, nor troublesome. Most likely, you've got a very intelligent question and are merely partially informed. A little push and you're golden.

3. "I'm stupid when it comes to [X]."

Why: Yes. Yes, you are. We didn't need the warning. Whatever we had to explain just prior to this utterance was proof enough that you are both out of your element and just barely knowledgeable enough to be dangerous.

Bonus: Note our responses to the above. If we say the word "no," it's just a learning curve and we expect you'll actually get the hang of whatever it is you're doing. However, it's like a fat lady asking you if she looks fat. If you don't hear "no," well, congratulations, we agree that you're an idiot.

4. "I don't want to waste your time."

Why: We're paid to have you waste our time. It's part and parcel with not working in an office. Every second we're with you is just one second we're not doing something equally tedious for someone else, possibly even stupider than you. If we're making smalltalk, actually we'd rather be wasting time with you than who/whatever else is waiting for us.

5. "I'm sorry, could you just [X] again?"


… Yes, but only because we have to or we'd get in trouble. In fact, don't even use the word "just." If a request sounds like it's a lot to ask until the word "just" makes it seem less arduous, it's still exactly that fucking arduous. Accept responsibility for your requests. We are not your servants, but do us the dignity of acknowledging what it is you ask of us.

6. "I know you work for [Company I Am Standing In], but which is better: [Your Product] or [Major Competitor]? Do you gotta say yours?"

Why: I believe in this company, alright? I work here because I respect the integrity and the industry of Our Company in producing the best products and offering the best services in our field, and I wouldn't be here if I didn't truly believe this was the product I should devote my life to hawking day-in and day-out.

Nah, actually, I'd say this one even if I didn't work here. It really is the best for what you're looking for. I just got one for my mom in fact. And we don't earn commission, so you know you can trust me.

7. "Do you make commission?"

Why: No, and please stop reminding us.

The Problem with Nice Weather is it Brings Out the Shut-Ins

"Bugger this, lads! It's Spring! Let's all run into the streets and arsed!"

Pretty much since Easter I've been dealing with the most insane customers I've ever come across. Today, it was explained to me that the reason for this is the recently clement weather patterns: basement-dwellers, those fearful of intemperate climes, and just the generally too-anal-retentive-to-handle-Winter pour forth from their hoarder caverns and venture out into the wider world to bring misery and madness to the naturally more sociable denizens of their provincial realms.

In fancy talk, "all the crazies come out."

Let's see, today I had to argue with a woman that $49 and a $50 gift card, regardless of to what or when they were applied, will always total $99. When I was done, another customer gave me the middle-aged woman equivalent of Mad Props for beating math into another living creature. (This of course caused the Universe to send the original client back for Round 2, but I was expecting this.)

Earlier this week, a woman called and demanded I wander into a particular section of our store to look for a product that may or may not have been there, but refused to think hard enough to try and remember a title, or an author, or any information at all. When I took so long, with help of the department lead mind you, to find said product, she called back, and immediately said to who picked up the phone, "I just spoke to some jerk named David." She then went through the same process with this employee, admitted the product was not in the store and was a special order, but then refused to give her name or contact information because "She runs her own business." Then she used her daughter's name instead, got no result obviously, demanded to speak to the manager, and then hung up in the intervening 30 seconds.

So I'm a jerk now. A jerk who can't do maths.

And screw it. The day after Easter, a woman called in and accused me of being racist. On Easter. Said I helped a white woman before her. Yes, because she rounded a table and got two inched from my face to ask me to get her something instead of waiting on line for my return from the previous customer.

She called me "white boy with curly hair" to my manager. (My other manager was "Tall Skinny Girl.") Called us "those type of people." Said we had no idea what she was feeling.

No ma'am, the two Jewish men have no idea what it's like to be discriminated against. At Easter. And somehow, I don't think she would be consoled by the notion that my family is a smidge African. Had she asked for special treatment I wouldn't even be upset, really; that's just file suit culture. But instead she wished only to yell and complain and to have been victimized.

I have no tolerance for people wishing to play the martyr. I don't even have pity. If you want to self-flagellate, have at it, kid. Go crazy. All I'm going to do is ignore you, and maybe make you out to be a batshit character in a long joke somewhere down the line, and everyone will just assume you're entirely fictitious. All you do is make my life better. So have fun making a scene. I can take any abuse you throw at me, and all I have to to is take three aspirin and a ten minute sigh-break after you leave.

Because your life's so sad, the greatest thing you can aspire to be is a victim.

I'm, just a racist jerk who can't do math, and tells long-ass stories.

On License Plates

When I was 14, I imagined that whatever car I got when I was old enough–likely a "shaggin' wagon," but without all the sex and more of the awesome toys–would have a custom license plate which I could easily remember. Specifically, "R2D2-C3PO." I was a nerd.

But the last year or so I've been noticing that a lot of other people on the road were much bigger nerds than even I was, because they went ahead and got their dorky custom plates done. I know a kid from high school who got "ROADHEAD" branded across the front and back of his car. I saw one plate last weekend that read "TIME2RUN." … No it's not. Actually, if you're in your car, that's the one time it should be impossible for you to run. That's just what it means to drive a car. What's wrong with you? Maybe a week before that I saw a swanky Mercedes where the license plate said "FRESHH," though with tinted windows and my position to the rear, I was unable to verify the potential status of any dice in the mirror. However, since there was that extra H at the end, I feel that it is safe to assume "FRESH" was already taken and thus this car was was anything but rare.

Here's a few more gems.

Okay. So, you're a nanny. In real life. Truthfully, I'm not sure if you're trying to allude to being British and an insanely talented child care expert, or if you modeled your adult life after Fran Drescher's early-ninties sitcom. Were you working at a bridal shop in Flushing, Queens until your boyfriend kicked you out in one of those crushing scenes? Did you then attempt to sell makeup door-to-door in ritzy neighborhoods and pass yourself off as an agent nanny to the single, wealthy widow father with no other option? Did the house mysteriously reverse its layout after the first day and then did you get married to the man after only five years of pussyfooting around the issue? You're driving a Mazda, so I'm guessing the first one.

Here's a winner. Again, I am left with two, maybe three possibilities as to the owner's life. Possibility the first: You are very sure of yourself, like yourself, in fact you have great self esteem. You also speak Spanish as your primary language. Possibility the second: You are exactly what I said above, but you are not Spanish. You are in fact a native English speaker, however you are so happy and contented by your life that when the DMV told you "MAGNIFICENT" was two letters too long and all permitted variations were taken, you sad, "That's fine!" and took what they could give you. Option the third: You are a magician.

Alright, technically this is yet another bumper sticker, which I have expounded upon at length, but I really just don't know what this is. I think it's a wildcat, but there are a lot of different connotations to what kind it is. Tail's too long to be an ocelot of bobcat, so if it's for a third-party democratic political system, they're maybe mountain lions? I guess that'd be some constituency out in the Rockies. I found it in New York, though, so it might be from Appalachia. Have hillbillies discovered sticker printing yet? Maybe it's just suggestive of a strong, third option to the donkeys and elephants, a new possibility for a new age. Maybe it's not for anything particular, but rather a call to break party lines and try something new. Or it's a house cat.
Crazy Cat Lady/Mr. Fluffles 2012!

Also note the "1," implying there was already someone with
an "El Che" license plate in New York. Ah, comodificatio

Oh yes, I'm sure that becoming a vanity plate on some douchebag's Xterra was exactly what Ernesto Guevara had in mind when the Bolivians set him on his knees and shot him in the head, defiantly screaming "Shoot, coward! You are only going to kill a man!" Yes, and no, putting a communist revolutionary's name on your $28,000 gas guzzling, camo-green SUV–which by the way is made in Brasil, just 1,000 miles from where he was executed–is totally rad idea. I'm sure he would have really appreciated the irony. It's not like his head on a million mass produced t-shirts is already too much of a burden. I'm pretty sure if you dug down into his grave, you'd find him spinning so fast you could use him as an electrical superconductor.

And here's my newest find. "LOL FWD." I don't really get it. I'm guessing "LOL WTF" and "LOL FTW" were already taken, but again, never waste a perfectly good wait in line at the DMV. This must be the guy who sends out like 30 emails a day, all of them passed around so many offices so many times that they're filled with 60% indented headers and sparkly, animated signature attachments, so that by the time you finally get down to the original message, which has been gratuitously pumped full of extra line breaks, it's not even worth clicking through the virus scans to get to the poorly photoshopped pictures of kittens being naughty.

That or this guy's just laughing about never driving backwards.


Update! - 2/23/11

Here's a "gem." (So sorry.)

Hypothesis one: somebody really, really thought Jem was truly outrageous.



Hypothesis two: a Jewish diamond merchant is very set on telling letting you know what he does for a living, but might be somewhat conflicted about driving a Volvo.


*Please note, these photos were almost exclusively taken in manners that impeded my natural driving ability, however I'm so good at driving that just meant I drove about as well as the average person. And I mean traffic was pretty much dead, anyway.


Update! - 4/13/11

I was at the doctor's office a while back and noticed this little wonder. "MD 4 Tummy." Sure, you sound like a six year-old or an awkwardly slapped-together crossword puzzle, but in absolute fairness I don't think there's any way to fit "GASTROENTEROLOGIST" on your car's plates. Maybe if you have like three cars. Like strapped to each other. But then I suppose you've got to deal with having license plates that say "GASTRO," "ENTER" and "OLOGIST," and no one really wants to be mistaken for the possible communist dictator of Cuba, a sexually promiscuous individual or a cocky man of infinite accreditation.

 This isn't actually  license plate, but it's just kind of perfect to note here. I actually have a pair of those fuzzy boobs somewhere. I think I got them as a 17th birthday present. Gonna say Dean got them for me. maybe in conjunction with Jay? That sounds like them. And that is, yes, a pair of panties hanging from the rear-view mirror as well.

I actually snapped this photo sitting in  Burger King parking lot late one night as Dean scarfed down about a dozen chicken nuggets and I think a Whopper Jr. Since the car was empty, that implies then that the car belonged to someone who works at Burger King. Is anyone surprised that a man who would work at Burger King drives around with a pair of fuzzy boobs and underpants hanging in the windshield of his Acura? I don't think so….

Just … just FAIL? I'm gonna call it an inadvertent fail.

On Fire

So I sort of set the store I work at on fire yesterday. Just, like, a part of it, though. A small part.

You see, I had just sold the last of a certain product that's kept in a display on the floor and I thought, "This is a really sweet display. We'll probably keep this and use it when we get more in stock." So obviously I decided to stow the case right nearby, under a covered table like we do with everything else. It's goof feng shui, apparently.

Well, I went to lift up the two tablecloths and a throw that were covering the table and I saw that underneath was another huge display, but for something completely different and actually holiday themed. Since yesterday was Christmas Eve Day, I figured it'd be best to try and sell those out on the floor since they'd have to be boxed up for the next ten months if we didn't.

So there I am with one big thing to take out of storage, one to go back in and no hands to hold the tablecloths with. Like we always do in such situations, I just tossed the ends of the cloths up on the table and was pleased to see they didn't fall. As I was swapping the displays, the cloths began to fall, but having mostly completed my chore I caught it with my hand and held it in place while I wrapped everything up.

That's when I noticed my hand was warm. I looked up to make sure I hadn't moved the back of my palm too close to one of the scented candles we usually keep burning throughout the store and, lo and behold, no I hadn't. Instead, the corner of the tapestry through had landed atop the candle and smoldered itself to death, melting the rayon tablecloth and catching the cotton one ablaze.

A small blaze.

I only had to blow on it three times and smother the little embers that were left, but that was my cherry popping ceremony. Everyone who's worked in that store has set something on fire, what with all the clutter and candles. Everyone was actually really nice about it, even the customers who stuck around for like an hour after.

Of course, Hot Woman In Plaid, Glasses, and Hipster Jeggings totally saw it, which didn't feel so great. At least she'll remember me, now.

On Bumper Stickers II: The Bumpening

Two more ripe gems yesterday morning. First up: abortion.

Alright, you're pro-life. I can respect that and, from that perspective, I guess this makes a certain kind of sense. Your people tend to like shock value in your personal belief advertisements which you force on others. Fine.

On the same car: "OBAMA" bumper sticker.

Really? Are you both pro-life and democrat? I mean, I guess it's possible, but that's still not something a person usually sees. Especially since a pro-life democrat isn't likely to be the type to shout such beliefs from their exhaust pipe. More likely, they'd politely mention it while adding that it is their personal belief but they also respect others' opinions. Perhaps it'd make more semse if I got close enough to read the fine print:

Theeeeeeeere we go. Okay. Now we're being consistent. Let the opining begin.

*ahem*

1. I will hand you a petri dish. Please show me where in that dish I can find a human being.
   
    
2. I would be shocked if anyone sporting this first sticker had the technical capacity to show me the difference between artificially combined freeze-dried gametes on a microscope slide and a skin sample randomly taken from my left index finger. Or anything under a microscope, really.
   
3. … You're aware that in order to be impeached an elected official has to have done something illegal, right?
   
4. And oh, good, that's a hammer and sickle inside the Acorn symbol. I was afraid we weren't going to compare government regulation of failing, abusive industries to the political ideologies of fascists better utilized as villains in an Indiana Jones feature. Thank the sweet Christian God for that.

Let's be honest about this. You obviously have no idea how biology, social services, communism, capitalism, fascism or representative democracy actually work. As a matter of fact, I'm surprised you find yourself capable of making your car go vroom in the mornings. (And frankly, I am unimpressed with your ability to achieve that much.)

So you know what, I'm glad you have these bumper stickers on your car. At the very least, it warns everybody around you not to listen to a goddam word you say.

On Fashion Trends

I saw a kid with this haircut in the mall yesterday.

Except he was a Jersey Shore reject and had it spiked like a fauxhawk or a flip.

Oh, did I mention this kid workd in the mall? Yeah, he was obviously walking out for his break from the The Phone Store, which–incidentally–has burned out so much of its sign that the only illuminated words read, "Pone Stor." This could be interpretted as

A) a store of major p0wnage, or
B) a job-description by an adult film star with a speech impediment similar to that of Andre the Giant.

I wanted so badly to turn to this spray-tanned leather man-purse and be like, "Hey, what's wrong with your head?"

"It's a style, man…."

"No, I mean, what's wrong with your head that you think 'retarded' is a style?"

Do you think you're cool, kid? With your Statue of Liberty hair crown? You think you're going to impress her just 'cause you've got an atypical stylist? Let me tell you something, guy, that chick is French. She's seen shit you haven't imagined since the Marquis de Sade was the only prisoner actually freed during the storming of the Bastille.

Oh snap. I went there.

On Telemarketers

Judy found she count make far more money in India than as an
Anne Hathaway stunt double.

I got a telemarketer calling the other day.

Normally, as soon as I find out what their deal is and determine that yes, I do not want any part of it, I say something to the effect of, "No, thank you, I'm really not interested, please don't call again. I'm hanging up now. Goodbye." Usually that works.

I know what you're thinking. "Usually?" Are there circumstances in which hanging up on a person doesn't end the interaction? Well, apparently.

"Hi, Mr. Zucker?" Yes, they new who they were looking for. In fact, the girl was very adamant about not selling me anything. She was verbose, even, in elaborating precisely how much she did not want to take my money. Instead, she wanted to sign me up for their special block list. Turns out, companies have been calling a company that handles magazine subscription services and trying to get people to renew or buy more subscriptions when the ones they had weren't even expiring. This girl wanted to make me feel very comfortable by showing me she had all my special information and subscription data. Being on this list would block those calls, and even calls from this company.

The only problem being she was the only person to bother me about this.

Think about that. Yes, it might be nice to be blocked from the call lists of companies who have no right to call me, but they already don't call me. In fact, if this company hadn't bothered me in my post-dinner stupor, I probably would never have had to deal with anyone.

Plus, I'm already on the federal DO NOT CALL list, but I don't suppose that counts for a lot.

On Texas

I was driving to the post office today when I notices one of these gems on the Hyundai in front of me:

Yeah, that's a "Don't mess with Texas" bumper sticker, alright. On a Hyundai. With New York plates. And where was it? "On the bumper?" you suspect? No, it was on the rear windshield.

Alright, let's start at the top, with this.

You are not in Texas. You have not lived in Texas for several years (if ever) judging by your license plates, nor are you driving a vehicle that would be required for any of the tough, pick-up-type activities one normally would associate with a stereotypically Texan lifestyle. Moreover, you aren't even driving an American car. Best case scenario? You are the wife or girlfriend of someone who grew up in Texas. You yourself are not Texan. You aren't even close enough to be trusted with a Ford Fiesta.

You are also retarded. Now I understand that in Texas they execute the retarded, so perhaps this explains why you are not in Texas right now. It would also explain why you chose to affix your bumper sticker to the windshield instead of, say, your bumper, which I noticed was utterly devoid of clutter supporting George W. Bush, the Astros or the forcible removal to reservation space of the young brown man in the car next to you with paw prints and howling wolf window clings covering his vehicle. In point of fact, all of the developmentally challenged people I have met have had the capacity of mind to know that bumper stickers go on your bumper. This leads me to believe that you might actually just be illiterate, and you trusted that nice man at the store when he told you that sticker actually read, "World's Best Momma/Sister."

Man, fuck Texas.

One of my best friends has lived in Texas for years and she says she loves the place, except for all the Mexicans and all the times she complains about there not being anything to do and nowhere to go to do that not-anything. Basically, if Texas weren't where it was and full of people she hated with so far between anything interesting, Texas might be an almost decent place.

Oh, but the guns. The guns, she says. She loves that everybody has guns. Well you know what? Fuck Texas anyway. You heard me. There are only four places in the U.S. people can argue as being the best city in the world. One is Boston, and the rest of us let them have that because we do enjoy going up there from time to time and using their city like a giant outdoor toilet, plus I mean they've got the Red Sox so let's just lay off them for a bit. The three others are states and they get to fight it out: California, New York and Texas.

California? Fuck them. They talk a big game but if you put a Californian in a room with a New Yorker and a Texan, they're going to get real quiet, real fast. Because Californians are pussies.

But Texas has guns. Texas is big and strong and they will shoot you because they know they're the best state ever.

Fuck that. New Yorkers don't all have guns, they will fight you bare-knuckled. If you have a gun. Texans and New Yorkers get into a big fight and the Texans start shooting? New Yorkers will punch them. They will punch Texans and take their guns and use them as clubs to continue beating on Texans because fuck you, that's why.

Texas thinks it can make fun of New York for our delicious bagels and our expensive water bottles. You know what the best food in Texas is? Mexican.

Jesus Christ, if a Texan ever says anything derogatory to you about where you're from, just look him straight in the eye and say, "Oh yeah? Well you used to be Mexico."

Fuck Texas. Texas couldn't even make it as it's own country. It fought for its independence from Mexico and then immediately said, "Please, United States, we want to be a part of youuuuu."

Man, grow up, Texas. Stop trying to act like you weren't the fat kid we let play with the rest of us just because it was either you or Mexico and Mexico's mom doesn't rub crude oil all over herself while sunbathing out in the front yard.

Fuck you, Texas. Go back to Mexico.

On Goats II: The Maaaa-ening

Well, that's it, you guys. It's all over. The goats have won.

Okay, well, not yet, but it's just a matter of time, now. They've begun their war of extermination, and we're on the menu, delicately seasoned and topped with an expensive cheese made from the milk of our own women.

They will take our least savory bits and boil them in the lining of our own stomachs. This, I promise you.

Sunday Comic Con Snapshot

This is not written in braille. I believe we have reached an impasse.

On Home and Fellowship

This is why I love the hickish side to my hometown, dudes beatin' on other dudes outside the Walmart so hard a man's shoes fly off, so he kicks him in the face and it does nothing.
 


Mofos be trifflin', don't know when to step back.


*NOTE: NY Comic Con coverage begins Friday night! I expect to see horrible things, which I will regale upon you.

On the Discovery Channel

As many of you probably don't know, the man to the left here is James J. Lee, the man who, yesterday, took three hostages at the Discovery Channel Headquarters in Silver Spring, MD.

He was demanding two Shark Weeks a year.



No, in fairness he wasn't. But I guarantee you that's the funniest joke anyone's getting out of this. Jimmy Fallon is going to stumble over a shittier version of that joke some time this week, late at night when everyone else is watching better shows.

Here's the thing: this James Lee guy wasn't your typical deranged sociopath. He had not been personally wronged by he Discovery Channel, nor was he a crazy recluse with advanced degrees and a written manifesto.

Oh, there was a manifesto, alright, but it wasn't exactly the dark but insightful treatise The Unabomber penned. In Lee's online … I can only call it a ranting list of demands, Lee characterizes himself the way others had, as a "Darwinist-Malthusian."

You remember our talk about Thomas Malthus and sterilizing the disabled, don't you? Well James Lee was probably the reason I had so many hits that day. This guy loved Malthusian theory, and he seemed to think it was the Discovery Channel's responsibility, everyone's responsibility to fix the world, chiefly by not having any more "dirty human babies."

He demands the Discovery Channel single handedly find ends to global warming and "human economies," and that it replace every show about birthing babies with shows touting the "truth" of sterilization and living without making more humans "until people get it!"

Essentially, James Lee was the worst type of domestic terrorist. He wasn't charming or a tragedy of ideals wherein the only way he could reconcile his strong beliefs in not-entirely untrue ideas was to give up teaching, live in a shack off-grid and mail letterbombs to people.

No, James Lee was just an insane man with a fixation and some explosives, and all anyone will ever remember him for is trying to get more Shark Week out of his network.

On Running II: The Runnenning

Well at least she's not fucking Kenyan.



Those of you who know me well know that I hate runners. Runners are terrible people. They think they are better than everyone else but they are not, and their smugness only makes their inevitable cardiopulmonary "event" that much more satisfying for the rest of us. I have sworn that I will never become a runner.

So yesterday I went running, guys.


Easily the worst decision I ever made. Worse than shower sexting, worse than building an entire playlist around two cross-genre covers of Miley Cyrus' "Party In the U.S.A." (actually a fantastic idea), worse than the time I tried to ollie a packet of duck sauce on the spine of a hardcover book onto my kitchen table without squishing it.

It started well enough. "It's just running for a while. I can run for a while," I thought. "I run all the time. I'll just be doing it without some other purpose. It'll be fine. I'll be great at it."

Man, I bought my first pair of basketball shorts since I was about twelve. I got powdered Gatorade mix to stick in my refillable water bottle. I found an old clip-on iPod case and my earbuds. I was going to head down to the high school track and be awesome. "I'll just run for the 30 minutes and figure out how far I went later."

Do you have any idea how awful an idea this was? Do you run? If yes, than you don't know. If you don't run, go out and try it. No, wait. Don't do that. It's a terrible idea.

It looked hopeful when I got their. Little 12 year olds on a skateboard and a couple of Razor scooters rode by me asking for high-fives. I figured I'd make their day and put some feeling into it, and for my trouble I was told that I was "cool" and asked to come talk to them and meet their wives. I believe by high-fiving them I completed some kind of "Sure, we'll marry you if you high five [x-number of] random strangers." The wives, for their part, told my my mustache was cool and looked good. (I do not need middle school skanks latching onto me. I look like enough of a pedophile as it is hanging around my old high school with a bachelor's degree and baggy shorts.)

I stretched, I loaded up my Party and Bullshit In the U.S.A. playlist and I set off.

Horrible idea. I have no idea how to run, but I guarantee you I did it wrong. Sure, I can sprint in a game. I do well. But I have no stamina. Zero. In the time it's taken my to write these last two paragraphs I could have started running, gotten tired and quit already. And running around a track is just worse. There is absolutely nothing to do but think about how lousy of an idea running is. Every single step imbues me with nothing more than the fervent desire to stop running. My only thought was of not feeling like this anymore.

So I backed off. I figured I did pretty well for a first lap. I did a whole circuit pretty fast. I past the walker mom and even the track kid already sweating his balls off. I should take walk to ease back and then start again a little slower. I took a half-lap walk, set my drink down in a shady, out of the way spot and resumed a brisker pace, intending to cycle through full-lap runs and half-lap walks. Get a nice little stagger pattern going.

I'm a fucking idiot. I kept telling myself. How can people do this? Why do people do this? This is the worst feeling ever. I want nothing more than to end this feeling immediately. So desperately. Maybe this is a wall? There's a wall these people break through and then it's good. Then you get the endorphins? Dolphins? Milhouse was the real dauphin. But he'll never be a meme … holy Christ I am about to pass out or throw up I need to get hidden in case that actually happens stop running you fucking lunatic.

So yeah, that happened. I got a whole half-lap in of my second heat before I was hit with shin splints, side cramps, chest pains, throat knives and all the good fun that comes with completely over exerting yourself without any proper prep or training. I tried to very calmly walk back to my drink, and then out the back gate of the track so that the little kids and their child brides wouldn't see my skulking away in shame and defeat. I rounded the front of the school and got cruised by some seventeen year old assholes in a busted-up El Camino who might have thought I was someone else. That or they just like idling next to shamed runners.

Moral of the story: running is a horrible, horrible thing and the only people who can actually do it are the kind of people to stupid to listen to their body saying, "Ow this fucking hurts stop it stop it now there has got to be a better way you are hurting me ow!"

For reference, I came home feeling light-headed, nauseated, and in terrible pain throughout my whole chestal region. Also my left shin for some reason. How far did I actually go? Well one lap plus two half-laps makes it a grand total of half a mile. In eight minutes. Give me a pool or a goddam bike any day of the week, brother.

Do you know what I did afterward to make myself feel better/punish the fuck out of running as a general concept? I ordered a large pizza. Half pepperoni, half cold mozzarella on top. With three pickles and a glass of milk. I ate five of them in the first hour. I'm going to eat the last three out of spite.

Running is for chumps.

On 'Dancing With the Stars'

So a simple Wiki search tells me that in the past five years Dancing With the Stars has had ten seasons. That's ridiculous, but let's try to keep some measure of scale going in this discussion. Saying two seasons a year for five years is ridiculous when you refer to a show with contestants like Kate Gosselin, T.O. and Donny Osmond is like saying solar systems are really pretty big things.

Jump ahead.

The two most talked-about possible contestants for Season 11? Mike "The Situation" Sorrentino and political right-to-life disaster Bristol Palin.

Now as for The Sitch, that seems par for the tap-dancing course. He's hot right now, he's in shape and, frankly, he's Italian so his mother very likely demanded he learn how to dance in some way that isn't reminiscent of fucking his partner or beating the roof/floor of the club he's in to a bloody pulp with a clenched fist. Mike is clearly the most prolific 'character' to come out of The Jersey Shore. He's supposedly getting booked to the shows third season (for which the original casting agency was seeking new housemates), has a tongue-in-cheek guide to G-T-L ready to be published, and is on track to make $5M both this year and next. Truthfully, he's a great person to cast on a show only watched by the absolute dregs of mainstream pop-society.

But Bristol? Really? Yes, let's take a teen mother who is also the daughter of the most brain dead and incompetent political figurehead since Dan Quail and stick her on a show where three washed-up media clowns judge you by your ability to learn complex dance maneuvers in a short period of time despite no practical training.

On the other hand, let's look at this from a ratings perspective. I have no idea how Dancing With the Stars works. The only times I've seen it were in the background during the less-than thirty minutes or so between the ending of a good show on another channel and the start of whatever used to follow DWTS. Castle, I think. I know the idea is one celebrity and one classically trained dancer, but I think they do some exhibition stuff too, but I might just be hoping that because I really, really want to see The Situation get all "Dirty Dancing" with Bristol Palin. She's small. He can throw her around. And I feel like it could solve most of the social problems around the girl if The Sitch would just creep on her for like a month straight. Of course this would likely throw her mother back into the spotlight, but hopefully frothing at the mouth about knuckle-dragging Italians will finally kill her career and drive her back into whatever naked mole-rat hole she lives in nine months out of the Alaskan year.

I have a friend who will actually be forced to write about all this for his job. He is a pop-culture blogger type person. He says he can't believe this, but neither could he believe Kate Gosselin participating in the show. Honestly, I get that a lot quicker than I get Bristol Palin. She's only got one celebrity baby. Gosselin had eight. DWTS was probably the first time she got paid to be out of the house and away from the kids since Jon tried to bribe her out of taking sole custody. Eight weeks of aerobics class for $30,000 and daycare? Hell yeah.

On Thomas Malthus

Walking into the Renaissance festival the other day I made a comment about sterilizing stupid people. I don't think I actually suggested it; just seeing all the people in costume led to someone commenting on population control, to which I mentioned "Malthusian belts."

"What?"
"No? Thomas Malthus? Brave New World? Nothing?"
"Who?"
"He was this guy who advocated sterilizing the disabled and mentally handicapped. He was kind of a dick."
"Is- Is this a real thing?"
"The belt? No, it was just a contraceptive device used in the book."

Now, I'm not for sterilizing anyone, but I would still totally be for a basic parenting licensing exam. We put 17 year olds behind the wheel of a car after some minor practice and a five-hour. Would it really be so horrible to demand hopeful parents to attend a cheap/free basic course to ensure they're not horrible, abusive assholes?

Consider this: foster parents have to go through an intense screaning process to ensure that they are physically, financially, and emotionally fit enough to take care of someone else's kid. Meanwhile, a crackhead can produce that same child for about five minutes of "grunt work."

And my family keeps asking when I'm gonna settle down and start having kids. Pfft.

On Zedonks

Christ Wire, sadly not a religiously-themed anti-terrorism television series, has decided that the recent birth of a donkey-zebra hybrid in Georgia is part of a Godless agenda pushing the lie that is evolution.









Problems I Have With This:

• Zedonks and Zonkeys have existed for years. Why wait until now to tear down the lies?
• Zonkeys occur naturally wherever zebras and donkeys exist in close proximity. Clearly, the Devil has been undermining the Word of the Bible himself, utilizing the false truth called 'natural' selection.
• Christ Wire claims this will inevitably lead to demands for the legalization of interspecies marriage and mating, as well as other "perverted" unions. Corret me if I'm wrong, but I thought it was those "other" unions that led to interspecies marriage with dogs and ducks. If we're ever going to tear down the secular humanists, we're going to have to put up a united front, at least until everyone we disagree with has been thoroughly eradicated.
• The Word of God is fact because the Bible says so. Some people don't understand this, and we'll burn convert them with time, but until them we should at least pretend to use their own logic to tear them down. We shouldn't have to condescend to their level, but you can't reason reasonably with the unreasonable.
• This particular abomination is so adorable it must be especially evil.