For all of you who are reading this in a country that is not the United States, here is a quick state of the election:
Barack Obama, "presumptive" Democratic nominee, will say nothing controversial, giving John McCain very little dirt to throw in Obama's face. So instead, McCain has proxy right-wing douchebags attack Obama in cheap ads which try to scare undecided voters into believing that he "might" be Muslim. Yea, don't vote for this guy, he "might" be Muslim, but vote for John McCain, because you KNOW he's dead.
Sidenote: There is no evidence of any sort that Barack Obama is a Muslim. There is, however, overwhelming and undamnable evidence that he IS, infact, Christian. I mean, I wouldn't put it past him to be a sympathizer of the Palestinian plight, and if so, more power to him.
Meanwhile, Obama's foreign policy aids, such as Gen. Wesley Clark, are saying, not attacking, but simply saying, that just because John McCain was shot down and captured and tortured does not make him qualified to be president, which is absolutely true. Of course, there was media uproar, and then, under pressure from McCain, Barack Obama immediately threw the good General under the bus, saying that Clark's statements were wrong and that as long as he is the nominee for POTUSA, he would never question anyone's patriotism. I guess he's just gonna let McCain do that to him the whole time. What a pointless and shitty promise to make, huh? Way to put your gloves down, Barry.
The next day, when the media expected Clark to rescind his comments and kneel down to let John McCain's balls sit in his mouth for a week while Obama watched and whacked off, he merely REITERATED HIS OPINION! FUCK YEA!!
And so now Obama has to live with it, which is beautiful. One of these days, Obama is going to have to echo Clark's declaration of truth. Do not underestimate the public. If you say that McCain is a fraud (and by fraud I mean that he is running on his POW story, not his ability to lead in any way) in the right voice, people will believe you. You have all the evidence in the world that John McCain would bring this country further down the dungpit, now please start using it. Ya know?
Moral of the Story: I want a better reason to vote than Obama's flowery speeches, and I will not vote for Barack Obama if he continues to be a pussy. I don't think I like anyone else in the race, so...perhaps I'll stay home?
It's early yet. Really early. But if I'm already tempted to not even vote already, that's not a good sign.
Friday, June 27, 2008
Wild, Wild Horses Couldn't Drag a Horse To Water
Well well well it looks like blogger.com didn't want me to have that Pat Buchanan ad on my blog, and so they stealthily removed it from my previous entry. Eh, I don't miss it much.
So, I got a new (used) laptop, and it's amazing (to me). I've never had a laptop before. It makes me absolutely hate my six or seven year old desktop machine, which I'll now refer to as my "giant three piece DVD burner" or maybe I'll just call it "a giant piece of shit". Either one works.
Buying this laptop has improved my daily life in that now instead of staying home on my computer all day, I stay everywhere on my computer all day. It has reinstated my waning faith in consumerism. Buying things! WOW! If you could see my pasty, 2-day bearded face right now, accented by my unkempt hair and glazed-over eyes, you would be witnessing life in completion.
Wait, I need snacks.
Okay, as soon as I get those snacks, I'll be happy again. I'll need are snacks, my laptop, my mp3 collection, my dvd collection, my flatscreen tv, my dvd player, my three record players, my record collection (duh), my other computer, a ton of food, atleast a twelve pack of beer, a fat sack of the sticky stuff, a working car, some nice flattering threads, a trendy razor with an inordinate amount of blades, atleast two comfy couches, a variety of lamps and shoes, an internet connection and oh yeah my cell phone, and I'm happy.
If one of those things is missing, fuck you, I want it back. Give it back!
I miss that Pat Buchanan ad. Dammit, blogger.com, GIVE IT BACK!
George Carlin died this week. This is just for my own records, really. But just so I can make it official, his death actually did effect me, and I'm not just saying that because everyone in the media is. I couldn't care less about the seven dirty words bit. I liked him because he was FUNNY. The TV media coverage I saw of his death was depressing, because all they talked about were things that happened over thirty years ago.
Regardless, Carlin was the first standup comic I ever considered to be my favorite. My brother gave handed-me-down a tape of his, On The Road, in 1987, and it had no case, so I had no idea what he looked like (there was no google image back then.) So, all I had was my imagination. In hindsight, I think my basic perception of what he looked like was pretty accurate. I definitely heard his beard in his voice. Regardless of what he looked like, I wanted to be him for a long time. No one was funnier than him, except maybe my brothers, who I still consider way funnier than me any day.
George Carlin will always have a special place in my youtube watching heart. I pretty much never tire of him, and listening to him make every point with laser precision and making me laugh hysterically at the same time, well, is there any better time to be alive than when that happens?
Rest peacefully, George.
----------------
Now playing: Burial - Wounder
So, I got a new (used) laptop, and it's amazing (to me). I've never had a laptop before. It makes me absolutely hate my six or seven year old desktop machine, which I'll now refer to as my "giant three piece DVD burner" or maybe I'll just call it "a giant piece of shit". Either one works.
Buying this laptop has improved my daily life in that now instead of staying home on my computer all day, I stay everywhere on my computer all day. It has reinstated my waning faith in consumerism. Buying things! WOW! If you could see my pasty, 2-day bearded face right now, accented by my unkempt hair and glazed-over eyes, you would be witnessing life in completion.
Wait, I need snacks.
Okay, as soon as I get those snacks, I'll be happy again. I'll need are snacks, my laptop, my mp3 collection, my dvd collection, my flatscreen tv, my dvd player, my three record players, my record collection (duh), my other computer, a ton of food, atleast a twelve pack of beer, a fat sack of the sticky stuff, a working car, some nice flattering threads, a trendy razor with an inordinate amount of blades, atleast two comfy couches, a variety of lamps and shoes, an internet connection and oh yeah my cell phone, and I'm happy.
If one of those things is missing, fuck you, I want it back. Give it back!
I miss that Pat Buchanan ad. Dammit, blogger.com, GIVE IT BACK!
George Carlin died this week. This is just for my own records, really. But just so I can make it official, his death actually did effect me, and I'm not just saying that because everyone in the media is. I couldn't care less about the seven dirty words bit. I liked him because he was FUNNY. The TV media coverage I saw of his death was depressing, because all they talked about were things that happened over thirty years ago.
Regardless, Carlin was the first standup comic I ever considered to be my favorite. My brother gave handed-me-down a tape of his, On The Road, in 1987, and it had no case, so I had no idea what he looked like (there was no google image back then.) So, all I had was my imagination. In hindsight, I think my basic perception of what he looked like was pretty accurate. I definitely heard his beard in his voice. Regardless of what he looked like, I wanted to be him for a long time. No one was funnier than him, except maybe my brothers, who I still consider way funnier than me any day.
George Carlin will always have a special place in my youtube watching heart. I pretty much never tire of him, and listening to him make every point with laser precision and making me laugh hysterically at the same time, well, is there any better time to be alive than when that happens?
Rest peacefully, George.
----------------
Now playing: Burial - Wounder
Friday, June 20, 2008
Hot Nuts
Check this out:
This is an ad that I saw at the top of drudgereport.com. At first, I thought it was a campaign to free Pat Buchanan from prison, ala "Free Mumia". However, it's not, of course, because I'm pretty sure if this guy ever went to prison, nobody would be crying to free him, even if it was unjust.
No, the ad is urging you to sign up to receive Pat Buchanan's rants for FREE! Finally, emails you don't have to pay for! Oh, wait, what's that you say? They're from an out-of-touch racist gasbag?! This deal keeps getting better! What's the catch? There's gotta be a catch...
Monday, June 16, 2008
Jurassic Park Is The Best Movie Ever Made
Earlier this year, I had an infection which required me to go to Wal-Mart to get my prescription filled, something I really wish I didn't have to do. When is Wal-Mart going to start delivering? Seriously.
Anyway, the pharmacy line was long and still as a carcass. I was fourth in line at this point. Upon studying the situation, I learned that the guy at the very front was waiting for what turns out to be about fifteen different prescriptions. That is a lot of pills. This old dude was apparently quite the party animal. Finally, he received his last few bags, and was on his way.
Next in line was who I like to refer to as "the cast of 227". They were three very sassy and chatty and loud women and they took a long time as well, all the while chatting loudly about many mundane things that I cannot recall for obvious reasons. The Asian Hottie Window Clerk, who I think works at every pharmacy I go to, was overwhelmed with 227's prescription, which was probably for diarrhea of the mouth. After a little too long of a wait, they got their pills and were on their way to bother people somewhere else. Bear in mind that I'm not very impatient at this point because
a.) the wait at pharmacies is always long, always has been, and I'm used to it, and if it takes too long there's usually nothing you can do and
b.) Asian Hottie Window Clerk had my deepest sympathies for having to work at probably the least fun department of Wal-Mart.
Now, pretty much the entire time 227 was first in line, the guy directly in front of me, this snooty, rich white-haired dick in a sweater, was mumbling shit to himself, like, "What the fuck does it take to get these ladies their fuckin' pills?"
When it's finally his turn, he approaches the counter, says his name, and AHWC instantly turns around, grabs a big white bag, and hands it to the man as he hands her cash. The whole exchange was done in about forty-five seconds, a minute fifteen tops. He's handed his receipt, turns around and declares out loud, "Now that's how you check out!"
He then sauntered back to the exit, which was about four street blocks away.
I imagine he drove home, pulled his chair up to his desk, clicked on his lamp, opened his moleskin and began writing,
Dear Diary,
Let me tell you about my greatest triumph yet. I was at the market today and I had my good sweater on, and if you know me, you know I like to keep my business brief. Well guess what? I was in and out in a jiff! Let's just say if everyone made transactions like I make transactions, well...heh, I know, it's an impossible dream.
The bad news is I gotta take these pills just to jerk off now. Gone are the days of the ol' natural stiffie. But hey, at least I've still got my corvette. And my rifle. And my penis replica. And my giant fishin' pole. Aaaaand my summer sausage.
PS You should've seen everyone's face when they saw how efficient my exchange was. Fuck I'm good!!!
-------------------
Note: I'm sorry this entry wasn't about Jurassic Park. I could write one if yall want.
Anyway, the pharmacy line was long and still as a carcass. I was fourth in line at this point. Upon studying the situation, I learned that the guy at the very front was waiting for what turns out to be about fifteen different prescriptions. That is a lot of pills. This old dude was apparently quite the party animal. Finally, he received his last few bags, and was on his way.
Next in line was who I like to refer to as "the cast of 227". They were three very sassy and chatty and loud women and they took a long time as well, all the while chatting loudly about many mundane things that I cannot recall for obvious reasons. The Asian Hottie Window Clerk, who I think works at every pharmacy I go to, was overwhelmed with 227's prescription, which was probably for diarrhea of the mouth. After a little too long of a wait, they got their pills and were on their way to bother people somewhere else. Bear in mind that I'm not very impatient at this point because
a.) the wait at pharmacies is always long, always has been, and I'm used to it, and if it takes too long there's usually nothing you can do and
b.) Asian Hottie Window Clerk had my deepest sympathies for having to work at probably the least fun department of Wal-Mart.
Now, pretty much the entire time 227 was first in line, the guy directly in front of me, this snooty, rich white-haired dick in a sweater, was mumbling shit to himself, like, "What the fuck does it take to get these ladies their fuckin' pills?"
When it's finally his turn, he approaches the counter, says his name, and AHWC instantly turns around, grabs a big white bag, and hands it to the man as he hands her cash. The whole exchange was done in about forty-five seconds, a minute fifteen tops. He's handed his receipt, turns around and declares out loud, "Now that's how you check out!"
He then sauntered back to the exit, which was about four street blocks away.
I imagine he drove home, pulled his chair up to his desk, clicked on his lamp, opened his moleskin and began writing,
Dear Diary,
Let me tell you about my greatest triumph yet. I was at the market today and I had my good sweater on, and if you know me, you know I like to keep my business brief. Well guess what? I was in and out in a jiff! Let's just say if everyone made transactions like I make transactions, well...heh, I know, it's an impossible dream.
The bad news is I gotta take these pills just to jerk off now. Gone are the days of the ol' natural stiffie. But hey, at least I've still got my corvette. And my rifle. And my penis replica. And my giant fishin' pole. Aaaaand my summer sausage.
PS You should've seen everyone's face when they saw how efficient my exchange was. Fuck I'm good!!!
-------------------
Note: I'm sorry this entry wasn't about Jurassic Park. I could write one if yall want.
That Guy is a Good Joke
Yesterday, on Fathers Day, I called up my dad to make sure that his day was a good one so far. As is usually the case, unless an idealogical discussion breaks out, my dad was very brief and then handed the phone to my mother, who told me a little about our family history, and corrected some errors that I had lived with for a long time.
For the first time ever, I finally know how my mom and dad met. For years, I thought they had met while my dad was in the seminary, and that he abandoned his goal of priesthood for my mother. Come to find out, he was already out, working as a claims adjuster and living in a tiny apartment in Lake Charles, LA. Not far from there, my mom was working as a secretary for a law firm. By that time they met, in a Catholic study group, my dad had already been through college, law school, signed up and served with the Navy(he saw no action but was stationed off the coast of Japan for a time), and joined and left the seminary. At thirty-two, he was ten years her senior and apparently ready to start a family. They married five months later and began their incredible goal of raising a double-digit number of children.
Something I also didn't know was that my mom's mom was one of TWENTY-ONE. Ten of them from one mom, who died, and then eleven from another, all the same dad, who apparently was a rotten piece of shit. I mean, I've never met him, but every story I've heard about him leads to that conclusion. Apparently his favorite thing to do was just sit on the rocking chair on the porch and be a cold, stoic old man. I wonder what was going through my great-grandfather's head when he had his twenty-first kid. Probably something like, "looks like we got a dang infestation! Hyuk Hyuk!"
Happy Belated Fathers Day to all the good ones who know when to say when (which sometimes is eleven).
For the first time ever, I finally know how my mom and dad met. For years, I thought they had met while my dad was in the seminary, and that he abandoned his goal of priesthood for my mother. Come to find out, he was already out, working as a claims adjuster and living in a tiny apartment in Lake Charles, LA. Not far from there, my mom was working as a secretary for a law firm. By that time they met, in a Catholic study group, my dad had already been through college, law school, signed up and served with the Navy(he saw no action but was stationed off the coast of Japan for a time), and joined and left the seminary. At thirty-two, he was ten years her senior and apparently ready to start a family. They married five months later and began their incredible goal of raising a double-digit number of children.
Something I also didn't know was that my mom's mom was one of TWENTY-ONE. Ten of them from one mom, who died, and then eleven from another, all the same dad, who apparently was a rotten piece of shit. I mean, I've never met him, but every story I've heard about him leads to that conclusion. Apparently his favorite thing to do was just sit on the rocking chair on the porch and be a cold, stoic old man. I wonder what was going through my great-grandfather's head when he had his twenty-first kid. Probably something like, "looks like we got a dang infestation! Hyuk Hyuk!"
Happy Belated Fathers Day to all the good ones who know when to say when (which sometimes is eleven).
Friday, June 13, 2008
Well Job! Great Done!
Ron Paul puts his campaign out of its misery. Rest In Peace, Ron Paul's candidacy. You got me into this presidential election way more than Barack's did. I guess I get more excited about policy than speeches. I don't pretend that Ron Paul might have won, but I do believe if the media treated him differently, we could have seen a really fantastic one on one debate between he and John McCain. Or a really lopsided one, since John McCain is a rusty old man and the even older Ron Paul has the energy of a 20 year old.
In other news, the Supreme Court decided to give Gitmo detainees the same rights as us, which I agree with. As you can imagine, a lot of Republicans are furious. Just republicans, though, so it's fine.
And finally, Tim Russert collapsed and died from an enlarged heart. Rest in Peace, Lil' Russ. This made me so fucking sad. There aren't any other political journalists that were more engaging to watch on television than this man. His professionalism, wealth of knowledge of American political history, and respectful demeanor made hacks like O'Reilly, Hannity and yes, Keith Olbermann look childish. The news world today just lost a major source of credibility. NBC better take a nice long time to pick a replacement. I don't even wanna joke about this. If this show falls in the wrong hands, it could mean terrible things. Meet the Press was never part of the "news as entertainment" phenomenon that has taken over this country. It's a community service and needs to be treated as such.
That said, I think Montel Williams would make a great replacement.
In other news, the Supreme Court decided to give Gitmo detainees the same rights as us, which I agree with. As you can imagine, a lot of Republicans are furious. Just republicans, though, so it's fine.
And finally, Tim Russert collapsed and died from an enlarged heart. Rest in Peace, Lil' Russ. This made me so fucking sad. There aren't any other political journalists that were more engaging to watch on television than this man. His professionalism, wealth of knowledge of American political history, and respectful demeanor made hacks like O'Reilly, Hannity and yes, Keith Olbermann look childish. The news world today just lost a major source of credibility. NBC better take a nice long time to pick a replacement. I don't even wanna joke about this. If this show falls in the wrong hands, it could mean terrible things. Meet the Press was never part of the "news as entertainment" phenomenon that has taken over this country. It's a community service and needs to be treated as such.
That said, I think Montel Williams would make a great replacement.
Wednesday, June 11, 2008
Pain, Suffering, Banana Pancakes
The other day, I was in Target browsing for new boxers and socks. Pretty much the entire time I was there, I was on the phone with my friend Micah. I was conscience of the fact that I was that guy on the cell phone, but I hadn't talked to Micah in a while, and the store was pretty much empty, so I didn't really care if people thought I was an asshole or not (which is no different from my day-to-day attitude, really).
While yapping away, I had been pushing a cart around for twenty minutes or so, and it contained a couple pairs of boxers and my latte that I had just bought at Clementine. I was really enjoying talking on the phone and drinking the latte, so what happened next naturally put me in a rotten mood.
I abandoned the basket for probably about five minutes, and when I say abandoned, I mean I walked fifteen feet away from it to go look at Target's butt ugly jeans. Well, when I was done deciding that every pair of jeans in Target was indeed butt ugly, I started walking back to my cart, but I noticed it wasn't there.
I began wandering around to hunt for the cart, and before I knew it, I had scoured the entire store to no avail. Every single department was investigated; every aisle scrutinized. I was coming up empty, so I decided to ask one of the poor clocked-in saps for help.
I walked over to the nearest employee, a girl with two hideous lip rings with matching dye job, and I reluctantly requested of her to ask if anyone had turned in a cart containing boxers and an iced latte. She did so, and came back with nothing.
I said, "Shit, I guess someone walked off with it", to which she replied, "Hey, that's life."
I didn't want to dwell on what was probably the least helpful thing an employee of a department store can say to a customer, so I just furrowed my brow, turned around and walked away. My basket was gone, and nobody cared but me. Soon, it set in that I didn't really care either. The latte was already half done, and I ended up buying different shorts anyway, so I didn't really lose anything of value.
But who the fuck stole my basket and why? And at what age do people stop picking on you?
-------------------
Also, here is a clip from my most recent feature weekend at the Velveeta Room. It's new stuff.
While yapping away, I had been pushing a cart around for twenty minutes or so, and it contained a couple pairs of boxers and my latte that I had just bought at Clementine. I was really enjoying talking on the phone and drinking the latte, so what happened next naturally put me in a rotten mood.
I abandoned the basket for probably about five minutes, and when I say abandoned, I mean I walked fifteen feet away from it to go look at Target's butt ugly jeans. Well, when I was done deciding that every pair of jeans in Target was indeed butt ugly, I started walking back to my cart, but I noticed it wasn't there.
I began wandering around to hunt for the cart, and before I knew it, I had scoured the entire store to no avail. Every single department was investigated; every aisle scrutinized. I was coming up empty, so I decided to ask one of the poor clocked-in saps for help.
I walked over to the nearest employee, a girl with two hideous lip rings with matching dye job, and I reluctantly requested of her to ask if anyone had turned in a cart containing boxers and an iced latte. She did so, and came back with nothing.
I said, "Shit, I guess someone walked off with it", to which she replied, "Hey, that's life."
I didn't want to dwell on what was probably the least helpful thing an employee of a department store can say to a customer, so I just furrowed my brow, turned around and walked away. My basket was gone, and nobody cared but me. Soon, it set in that I didn't really care either. The latte was already half done, and I ended up buying different shorts anyway, so I didn't really lose anything of value.
But who the fuck stole my basket and why? And at what age do people stop picking on you?
-------------------
Also, here is a clip from my most recent feature weekend at the Velveeta Room. It's new stuff.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
