November 16, 2011
BLOOMBERG ENSURES PARK IS “ACCESSIBLE TO ALL” BY KICKING EVERYONE OUT
NEW YORK - One of the richest individuals in the world, who continues to make a profit by servicing the financial industry*, Mayer4Life Michael Bloomberg sent hundreds of New York City’s gun-running ticket-fixing mostly racists Finest to clear a public park of its protesters.
The Mayor’s legal rational, backed up by a court ruling yesterday, maintained that while the park’s charter stated it must be “accessible to all, all the time” - the protesters presence made it “unavailable to anyone else.” So, obviously, it’s best to arrest 200 people in a 24-hour public space. Good call.
True, not everyone was welcome. The Mayer was recently booed out of the park to chants of “billionaire Bloomberg”. But it is hard to imagine how a movement whose mantra is “we are the 99%” could be viewed as some kind of exclusive entity, blackballing those who want come and chant and play bongos.
The protests that began two months ago at the center of a financial collapse that still costs millions of American jobs a year, may be lacking in specific demands but doesn’t seem to be lacking in things to be pissed at. Among the most prominent is income inequality, the fact that over the past thirty years (read: since Saint Regan), while average wages remained stagnant, the top 1 percent of earners more than doubled their share of the nation’s income. And the top 0.1 earned about 20% more than that. Among them? Oh, right, Mayer Bloomberg. The same guy who bought himself an exemption from New York’s two-term limitation.
Yes, a real voice of the people, a guy who during a blizzard waited a week before remembering that he was also the Mayor of Brooklyn, a guy who spends a quarter of his time in the Caribbean, who raises rates on landlords and renters while giving tax exemptions to condo owners, is standing up for the entire 100% - free now to stroll through Zuccotti park, fly a kite, eat a sandwich,  exorcize a first amendment right…. oh, wait. Scratch that. Well, two out of three aint  bad.
And so daily life grinds on in New York. Wall Street readies for Christmas bonus season, the police plant drugs on residents of Bed-Stuy, the New York Post jizzes it’s pants at the Mayor’s midnight raid and says that a major problem in Zuccotti park was “freaks” and “the homeless moving in” - because those are categories of Americans without rights, particularly the homeless, the products of a weak job market and a lack of government services, the exact things the OWS movement is all about. And Santas all across America start jogging in the morning, because they’ll all be having to tighten their belts yet again. But not Mister Bloomberg. If the past is any indication, he’ll be in the Caribbean. Sodomizing his girlfriend. The former New York State superintendent of Banks - one of the lead regulators during the housing/derivatives/securities boom.
The sodomy part is a joke. The rest should be.
*Fact that sounds like a joke: Traders at big financial firms don’t “ichat” or “gchat”, they “Bloomberg”… like a verb.

BLOOMBERG ENSURES PARK IS “ACCESSIBLE TO ALL” BY KICKING EVERYONE OUT

NEW YORK - One of the richest individuals in the world, who continues to make a profit by servicing the financial industry*, Mayer4Life Michael Bloomberg sent hundreds of New York City’s gun-running ticket-fixing mostly racists Finest to clear a public park of its protesters.

The Mayor’s legal rational, backed up by a court ruling yesterday, maintained that while the park’s charter stated it must be “accessible to all, all the time” - the protesters presence made it “unavailable to anyone else.” So, obviously, it’s best to arrest 200 people in a 24-hour public space. Good call.

True, not everyone was welcome. The Mayer was recently booed out of the park to chants of “billionaire Bloomberg”. But it is hard to imagine how a movement whose mantra is “we are the 99%” could be viewed as some kind of exclusive entity, blackballing those who want come and chant and play bongos.

The protests that began two months ago at the center of a financial collapse that still costs millions of American jobs a year, may be lacking in specific demands but doesn’t seem to be lacking in things to be pissed at. Among the most prominent is income inequality, the fact that over the past thirty years (read: since Saint Regan), while average wages remained stagnant, the top 1 percent of earners more than doubled their share of the nation’s income. And the top 0.1 earned about 20% more than that. Among them? Oh, right, Mayer Bloomberg. The same guy who bought himself an exemption from New York’s two-term limitation.

Yes, a real voice of the people, a guy who during a blizzard waited a week before remembering that he was also the Mayor of Brooklyn, a guy who spends a quarter of his time in the Caribbean, who raises rates on landlords and renters while giving tax exemptions to condo owners, is standing up for the entire 100% - free now to stroll through Zuccotti park, fly a kite, eat a sandwich, exorcize a first amendment right…. oh, wait. Scratch that. Well, two out of three aint bad.

And so daily life grinds on in New York. Wall Street readies for Christmas bonus season, the police plant drugs on residents of Bed-Stuy, the New York Post jizzes it’s pants at the Mayor’s midnight raid and says that a major problem in Zuccotti park was “freaks” and “the homeless moving in” - because those are categories of Americans without rights, particularly the homeless, the products of a weak job market and a lack of government services, the exact things the OWS movement is all about. And Santas all across America start jogging in the morning, because they’ll all be having to tighten their belts yet again. But not Mister Bloomberg. If the past is any indication, he’ll be in the Caribbean. Sodomizing his girlfriend. The former New York State superintendent of Banks - one of the lead regulators during the housing/derivatives/securities boom.

The sodomy part is a joke. The rest should be.

*Fact that sounds like a joke: Traders at big financial firms don’t “ichat” or “gchat”, they “Bloomberg”… like a verb.

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November 7, 2011
SANTA WANTS TO KICK THE SHIT OUT OF YOUR KIDTennessee preacher Michael Pearl, pictured above, a proponent of the age-old adages “Spare the rod, spoil the child” and “if you want to make a cake you got to murder a few children,” is under fire for legitimately crazy things. Like suggesting parents beat insolent 6-month-olds with a switch and advice as to which pieces are plumbing are ideally suited for child-pummeling.
And just in time for Christmas, this truely terrifying christian looks like he could be in a mall near you with your child on his lap. God help your kid if he cries. Michael Pearl has a candy cane and he knows how to use it.
And also the candy cane is made of titanium.

SANTA WANTS TO KICK THE SHIT OUT OF YOUR KID

Tennessee preacher Michael Pearl, pictured above, a proponent of the age-old adages “Spare the rod, spoil the child” and “if you want to make a cake you got to murder a few children,” is under fire for legitimately crazy things. Like suggesting parents beat insolent 6-month-olds with a switch and advice as to which pieces are plumbing are ideally suited for child-pummeling.

And just in time for Christmas, this truely terrifying christian looks like he could be in a mall near you with your child on his lap. God help your kid if he cries. Michael Pearl has a candy cane and he knows how to use it.

And also the candy cane is made of titanium.

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October 7, 2011
TODAY IN STUFF I DID
I have been eating McDonald’s for a fucking week trying to get god damn Monopoly game pieces and now all I have to show for it is a hole in my esophagus. I read somewhere that you can send a self-addressed stamped envilope to McDonald’s and they will MAIL you FREE Monopoly pieces.
But I figured I would play to the McDonalds people’s sympathy and love for children by pretending to be near dead orphans
If this is my last post it is because A) I have been mailed Boardwalk and am now a millionaire and so fuck you; or B) the FBI came to my house and arrested me for the murder of orphans.
I like my chances.

TODAY IN STUFF I DID

I have been eating McDonald’s for a fucking week trying to get god damn Monopoly game pieces and now all I have to show for it is a hole in my esophagus. I read somewhere that you can send a self-addressed stamped envilope to McDonald’s and they will MAIL you FREE Monopoly pieces.

But I figured I would play to the McDonalds people’s sympathy and love for children by pretending to be near dead orphans

If this is my last post it is because A) I have been mailed Boardwalk and am now a millionaire and so fuck you; or B) the FBI came to my house and arrested me for the murder of orphans.

I like my chances.

October 6, 2011
JOBS LOSS
The alleged death of Steve Jobs is an alleged national tragedy. Everyone, most especially Apple’s home page, is totally overwhelmed by the news that everyone saw coming that a guy you don’t know who has taken your money from your wallet and in return sold really well advertised arbage, is dead. (sorry, the G in my keyboard fell off)
I say “alleged death” because, lets face it, Steve Jobs did not die of cancer. He has more money than god (note: Has. Present tense) (Also note: not dead). You don’t think he could handle that shit? No. He’d get an iLiver. Or an iKidney. Or an iWhateverPartyOfHisBodyHadCancer.
Here’s what happened:
Steve, in his ailing health, spent all of his personal funds on charity building a machine that could house his consciousness for all eternity. Battlestar alactica style. Why do you think they couldn’t be bothered with an iPhone5? They were too busy making the App version of Steve Jobs. He’ll spread like Smith in the Matrix. Or like syphilis. Whatever floats your iBoat. Show up on all computers all at once and cut out the middle man of selling you shitty electronics that other people made better and actually invented first but forgot to put in fancy white boxes that say “made in California” even though they’re actually made by underfed Chinese ladies.
OK but lets take it at Apple’s word that Steve Jobs is dead. And lets  put aside the fact that you know he is really just pulling a Tupac and  is going to drop some of his greatest shit posthumously. And lets have a moment of reflection for the loss of Little Stevie.
After all, who will sell us overpriced basically useless shit now that Steve jobs is dead?
Oh, right, everybody else.
Never mind.

JOBS LOSS

The alleged death of Steve Jobs is an alleged national tragedy. Everyone, most especially Apple’s home page, is totally overwhelmed by the news that everyone saw coming that a guy you don’t know who has taken your money from your wallet and in return sold really well advertised arbage, is dead. (sorry, the G in my keyboard fell off)

I say “alleged death” because, lets face it, Steve Jobs did not die of cancer. He has more money than god (note: Has. Present tense) (Also note: not dead). You don’t think he could handle that shit? No. He’d get an iLiver. Or an iKidney. Or an iWhateverPartyOfHisBodyHadCancer.

Here’s what happened:

Steve, in his ailing health, spent all of his personal funds on charity building a machine that could house his consciousness for all eternity. Battlestar alactica style. Why do you think they couldn’t be bothered with an iPhone5? They were too busy making the App version of Steve Jobs. He’ll spread like Smith in the Matrix. Or like syphilis. Whatever floats your iBoat. Show up on all computers all at once and cut out the middle man of selling you shitty electronics that other people made better and actually invented first but forgot to put in fancy white boxes that say “made in California” even though they’re actually made by underfed Chinese ladies.

OK but lets take it at Apple’s word that Steve Jobs is dead. And lets put aside the fact that you know he is really just pulling a Tupac and is going to drop some of his greatest shit posthumously. And lets have a moment of reflection for the loss of Little Stevie.

After all, who will sell us overpriced basically useless shit now that Steve jobs is dead?

Oh, right, everybody else.

Never mind.

September 15, 2011
AN OPEN LETTER TO THE CREATIVE TEAM AT DRAFT FCB CHICAGO BEHIND THE “BAR EXAM ADDS”
Esteemed ladies and gentlemen,
Hey guys,
As an American Male, I like nothing more than beer and football. And that’s culled from a list that includes sex with attractive women with whom I am in a committed relationship, so right off the bat I’m sure we have a ton in common.
And so it is with great sadness and a heavy heart that after watching your latest effort for Coors Light, I have decided to take my own life.
I am not reaching out for some kind of compensation for my family or because I wish to make some kind of statement regarding your advertisement. I am no martyr. It simply has made me lose the will to remain on earth and have to breathe oxygen. Or to, god forbid, meet another human being who, when this advertisement comes up when I’m at a sports bar or some such public establishment, says “Oh man I love this commercial! Everybody shut up for a sec!” That is a moment I will not be able to handle. So I have decided to kill myself as a preventative measure.
You know the one I’m talking about. Although I’m sure you have been making advertisements for the Coors family of beverages for some time, this particular advertisement must be of a particular point of personal disgust. A Rocky Mountain Rock Bottom, if you will.
Let me recap it for you, just in case, because I saw it on every single commercial break this Sunday when I was watching football, and now it plays on repeat in my brain like some horrible mobius film strip loaded into the devil’s projector that he usually reserves only for the gruesomest of snuff films. I have taken some liberties to describe the commercial as I recall it:
Judy is a sexy thing in her late 20s who always excelled at school but felt that her personal acheivements are in owing more to her good looks and sublime skills at putting penises in her mouth and suckling out the warm liquid therein than with brain power. Or at least that’s what her father would tell her, before holding her and crying, saying over and over like a prayer or a mantra in varying degrees of fright and rage: Daddy loves his Judy, Daddy loves his Judy…
Judy felt over-matched at the meeting today. She could tell that others saw right through the veneer of her bachelors degree and right to the inside of her rotten, devoid, shallow whore of a soul. And there was Donald from accounts there again with his hair line receding and some discomforting stew of sweat and grease hanging over his massive shining forehead, licking his yellow teeth, trying to make out the outline of Judy’s nipples through the slip of a dress that separated her firm naked body from the terrible piercing eyes of Donald and the others. She would be fired that day, she could tell.
Yes, it was a long day at the office but she survived unscathed and un-harassed at least physically and she’ll take that as a win as she finally, hurriedly, flustered and not quite sure why, she enters the solitude of her apartment (possibly shared? who can remember anymore… keep it together Jude, keep it together… try not to freak out). She calls her boyfriend, Gary, who reminds her of her daddy but only in the way he uses her for sex and the way he doesn’t respect her opinions on things that matter to him and is indifferent to the things that matter to her, but he loves her, he’s sworn up and down how much he loves her even when he sodomizes her in her sleep and calls her a whore when they make vaginal love and even that one time he accidentally hit her - “I deserved it,” Judy thought, “He loves me.” - so she carefully attempts to not bother the man lest she unleash his rage, that rage she knew which hovered always behind a thin veil of affability like her dress’s fabric that separated her trembling nipples from Donald’s piercing yellow gaze.
"Hi," says Gary, in that voice like he could do nothing wrong. He couldn’t hurt a baby ever again. What did Judy have to fear. This Gary was the one. He wasn’t like the others. From Gary's surroundings we, as a fourth-wall witness to this passive dance of loniness, might assume to be a library… but we would be wrong…
"Hi are we still on for dinner?" Judy replies in one trembling breath, trying desperately to sound and behave the way a normal human girlfriend would behave. She forgets here and now that she is a catch. Judy, you are a beautiful and successful woman you need nothing else, NOTHING ELSE, in this world but your wonderful heart and perhaps your mail, the same mail that you pick up from the table by the hall that you only lift and hold to remember what it is like to lift and hold a thing, to remember that you are a human, that you occupy space. She blew it already, she could tell, he would not be home for dinner.
And then he says it, affirming all of the nightmares and insecurities she has about life and men and sex and love, and it’s the way he says it like a baby that couldn’t harm a man ever again: “Ugh, I can’t. You know I’ve got the bar exam.” …the bar exam? Isn’t that the exam that prospective lawyers study for for like months and months? I should have known about this. Right? Am I really going mad? Judy wonders all this as she faces the silence left in the wake of his words. This is when normal human girlfriends reply, Judy, think of something, be that girl he fell in love with, the one he met at that ski lodge those months ago before you knew of each others personal demons and the evil you were both capable of…
"Well, good luck."
Nailed it, Judy, nailed it. Now you go march into the bedroom and fire up your vibrator and scream your father’s name and regret the day you and your sisters murdered him with his birthday present. A warning to proscriptive fathers: do not accept gifts from your jilted daughters when those gifts are chain saws.
"Thank you," says Gary. And with that all hopes that Judy had of feeling she won the exchange had ended. He thanked her. For allowing him to take the Bar Exam. Which if he was actually doing, would make him a lawyer and thereby a much richer and more desirable partner. The sheer absurdity of it is what made it work, what made these two individual lives continue their separate ways in separate spacial locations but Judy always trying to occupy Gary's inner self, and understand just what he was thinking. If he did love her. Suddenly, and with great sorrow, she very much doubted it.
And now we are with Gary. More context and the richness that surrounds his actual location makes it clear - why we did not see this before makes us feel foolish and like punishing ourselves - that he has been at a bar all this time. Perhaps this was the “Bar” he eluded to. Cleverly played Gary, you are a cunning little devil indeed.
He turns to the bartender with ravenous anticipation, this is the moment he has been waiting for, the reason he has chosen to not spend the evening sodomizing his beautiful girlfriend who he is pretty sure he loved but needed some space god damn it or else he would make the same old mistakes over and over again and need to spend years apologizing to god and whoever else would listen and wasn’t life funny in the way that people never quite change those most horrible private pieces of themselves.
"Okay, one more time," the bartender says as he flings the towel over his shoulder. Gary is too sick and enraptured to realize that real human bartenders don’t actually ever do that and that this bartender is in fact an actor, playing a very delicate part… “one more time,” he said, just “one more time,” as though they have been at this all day. Is this at last the “bar exam” we’ve heard so much about? The one that still was vexing Judy, uptown, in her apartment, as she changed the batteries in “Daddy”… “he isn’t even in law school…” she thinks… contemplating how painful suicide would be if she jumped off of her balcony, fearing most of all that she would change her mind halfway down.
Finally, after an achingly long time, an infinity of sub-moments hidden between seconds and nanoseconds, Gary rubs his hands together - this too not being a thing people actually do - the test is administered:
"This bar means-?" Asks the actor/bartender, pointing to a bottle of Coors Light and the cold-activated indicator at it’s base. "This BAR," must finally be the bar in question. Oh what a tangled web.
"Coors Light is cold?" Gary answers like a question and remembers all those moments when as a child he gave the wrong answer at school and was met with venomous replies from teachers who saw in the boy no promise of a brighter future for America, but could never have anticipated the kind of man that would grow from that seed…
Poor sick sad Gary is unable to decipher the meaning behind the cold-activated tab on a bottle of Coors Light. The tab that says “Cold”, is the one he’s been having trouble with. He needs to study for an entire day in a bar with an actor butchering the part of a bartender in order to understand that it means his beer is cold. Poor Gary is too demented at this point to understand that this is all a ruse, that Jenny is a figment of his imagination, that he does not even own a cellphone. And that this charade is being held at every commercial break for every football game for, presumably, the entire 2011/2012 NFL season, and it can not be to sell Coors Light, because how and in what horrible parallel dimension would such a scenario sell beer?
No. This is all done for the amusement of the actor. He builds this bar in a sound stage and plays the part of a bartender for his own pleasure. To watch Gary sweat. To watch his terrible decaying mind try and parse out even the simplest questions like: “Read this thing I am pointing at.”
"And this bar-?" the actor asks. Now he’s just playing with him. But this is how it goes. This is how it must be. Forever and ever must these two play this game. One man dominates and the other man bows under the pressure of his superior strength and intelligence. 
"That the beer is SUPER COLD?" Dance little monkey…
"Congrats" says the actor with a Christian Slater-ey smoothness, slightly arousing poor mentally handicapped Gary whose fist-sized brain tumor is growing bored of this game, planning it’s great escape when it can slide across the bar and hold the actor by the collar and say PLEASE MAKE IT STOP! But all he says is, in his low sensual growl, "You just passed the bar exam" and the actor slides the beer across the bar and Gary yelps a yelp of glee that contains within it a million secret sorrows and questions about what it means to really be a man in a world in a bar and then he takes the bottle of Coors Light, which is another thing no person actually does.
He also pumps his fist.
And a Coors Light is removed from its refrigeration chamber and driven deep into a pit of ice that one suspects must only exist in the ice-fishing holes Inuits use to catch their sustenance in the arctic as we see the process of a Coors Light going from “Cold” to “Super Cold”  -  we watch this process and it dawns on us - the audience - that these people are actually using this as a strategy to SELL US BEER!!! When did promoting something as cold become a means of selling your beer?? And havn’t we developed the technology to test coldness hundreds of millions of years ago and it’s called “TOUCH IT YOU IDIOT?”??? The coldness of the beer has much more to do with the way my grocery store keeps them and the way in which I store them in my home or at the local bar but this is all simply academic because NOBODY DRINKS THIS BEER.
Nobody, of course, but poor Gary, with his tumor growing with each ritualistic reenactment of this soul-sucking scenario. Over and over again good sweet kind Gary who never meant to hurt that baby but he doesn’t know his own hulking strength is fooled into jubilation and rewarded with cold-piss in a bottle and yelps his sad enthusiastic yelp like a man being tortured who is too deeply stupid to even know that he is being tortured.
And at the end of the spot when he approaches two attractive girls with an impossible confused look on his face like he’s forgotten about dead molested invented Judy and his imagined affair with her and we as an audience are expected to either know this or be OK with this developmentally retarded young man seeking sex with sports bar harlots. We are supposed to be rooting for this character. This sad man. What kind of a world and what kind of a beer and what kind of a godless universe could we possibly be co-existing in with Gary and Judy and Donald and the Creative Directors at Draft FCB Chicago?
And when they ask: “So, you’re a lawyer?” Because they’ve heard him discussing the bar exam using their super-human hearing, it does not dawn on Gary that these women are evil robot clone slaves who are here to liberate him and take him to a world where beer is advertised because it’s fucking BEER and not because it shares properties with Pluto; a world where they will perform brain surgery on him and remove his tumor and free him from this terrible play where the actors can’t act, the beer tastes like shit and the jokes are not funny; where the jokes cannot even be called jokes, in the way that stories of the old testament cannot be called stories but now in light of intelligent civilization must be called “allegories”. It is the only way THE ONLY WAY this advertisement can be said to be an advertisement or to even exist. Whose decision was it to advertise beer this way? What happened to the Silver Bullet? Nothing makes a man ready to crack open a cold foamer than a hard night of hunting down werewolves. Do we have nowhere to turn to in this world for a mother’s love or a womb’s warmth? Is this kind of thing an infinitely repeating feature of modernity and we are all like terrified retarded Gary's answering asinine questions posed by bad actors because that is where we would rather be instead of having sex with our beautiful imaginary girlfriends? IS THERE NOWHERE, GARY???
"Huh?" he asks, at the end of the spot. "No!" And walks off, like an idiot, going to, who knows, the bathroom, perhaps. Or, perhaps, the revolving door where he is doomed to repeat this ad infinitum, as we are.
Or, perhaps, to a train speeding through the arctic, because maybe that’s where he lives. Maybe he is really that Inuit who keeps his beer in his fishing hole and takes a silver train to work every day. We can only assume because this is the thing we see next. After the bar. A train in the snow. Because only here, in this twisted version of logic-bludgeoned reality does this make sense. Because that is the fundamental thing in purchasing beer: I don’t care how it tastes, man - how is it transported???
I DEMAND THAT MY BEER BE TRANSPORTED ON THE POLAR EXPRESS OR DON’T BOTHER TO TRANSPORT IT AT ALL!!!
And, finally, a tagline: “The world’s most refreshing beer.”
An empty sentiment. “Refreshing.” A word that means essentially nothing. Describes nothing. And a world equally empty, equally without meaning. 
And mercifully, the spot is over. But it is a cruel sort of mercy, because we know it will be back. At halftime.
…You know, that one.
Love & Death,Michael

AN OPEN LETTER TO THE CREATIVE TEAM AT DRAFT FCB CHICAGO BEHIND THE “BAR EXAM ADDS”

Esteemed ladies and gentlemen,

Hey guys,

As an American Male, I like nothing more than beer and football. And that’s culled from a list that includes sex with attractive women with whom I am in a committed relationship, so right off the bat I’m sure we have a ton in common.

And so it is with great sadness and a heavy heart that after watching your latest effort for Coors Light, I have decided to take my own life.

I am not reaching out for some kind of compensation for my family or because I wish to make some kind of statement regarding your advertisement. I am no martyr. It simply has made me lose the will to remain on earth and have to breathe oxygen. Or to, god forbid, meet another human being who, when this advertisement comes up when I’m at a sports bar or some such public establishment, says “Oh man I love this commercial! Everybody shut up for a sec!” That is a moment I will not be able to handle. So I have decided to kill myself as a preventative measure.

You know the one I’m talking about. Although I’m sure you have been making advertisements for the Coors family of beverages for some time, this particular advertisement must be of a particular point of personal disgust. A Rocky Mountain Rock Bottom, if you will.

Let me recap it for you, just in case, because I saw it on every single commercial break this Sunday when I was watching football, and now it plays on repeat in my brain like some horrible mobius film strip loaded into the devil’s projector that he usually reserves only for the gruesomest of snuff films. I have taken some liberties to describe the commercial as I recall it:

Judy is a sexy thing in her late 20s who always excelled at school but felt that her personal acheivements are in owing more to her good looks and sublime skills at putting penises in her mouth and suckling out the warm liquid therein than with brain power. Or at least that’s what her father would tell her, before holding her and crying, saying over and over like a prayer or a mantra in varying degrees of fright and rage: Daddy loves his Judy, Daddy loves his Judy…

Judy felt over-matched at the meeting today. She could tell that others saw right through the veneer of her bachelors degree and right to the inside of her rotten, devoid, shallow whore of a soul. And there was Donald from accounts there again with his hair line receding and some discomforting stew of sweat and grease hanging over his massive shining forehead, licking his yellow teeth, trying to make out the outline of Judy’s nipples through the slip of a dress that separated her firm naked body from the terrible piercing eyes of Donald and the others. She would be fired that day, she could tell.

Yes, it was a long day at the office but she survived unscathed and un-harassed at least physically and she’ll take that as a win as she finally, hurriedly, flustered and not quite sure why, she enters the solitude of her apartment (possibly shared? who can remember anymore… keep it together Jude, keep it together… try not to freak out). She calls her boyfriend, Gary, who reminds her of her daddy but only in the way he uses her for sex and the way he doesn’t respect her opinions on things that matter to him and is indifferent to the things that matter to her, but he loves her, he’s sworn up and down how much he loves her even when he sodomizes her in her sleep and calls her a whore when they make vaginal love and even that one time he accidentally hit her - “I deserved it,” Judy thought, “He loves me.” - so she carefully attempts to not bother the man lest she unleash his rage, that rage she knew which hovered always behind a thin veil of affability like her dress’s fabric that separated her trembling nipples from Donald’s piercing yellow gaze.

"Hi," says Gary, in that voice like he could do nothing wrong. He couldn’t hurt a baby ever again. What did Judy have to fear. This Gary was the one. He wasn’t like the others. From Gary's surroundings we, as a fourth-wall witness to this passive dance of loniness, might assume to be a library… but we would be wrong…

"Hi are we still on for dinner?" Judy replies in one trembling breath, trying desperately to sound and behave the way a normal human girlfriend would behave. She forgets here and now that she is a catch. Judy, you are a beautiful and successful woman you need nothing else, NOTHING ELSE, in this world but your wonderful heart and perhaps your mail, the same mail that you pick up from the table by the hall that you only lift and hold to remember what it is like to lift and hold a thing, to remember that you are a human, that you occupy space. She blew it already, she could tell, he would not be home for dinner.

And then he says it, affirming all of the nightmares and insecurities she has about life and men and sex and love, and it’s the way he says it like a baby that couldn’t harm a man ever again: “Ugh, I can’t. You know I’ve got the bar exam.” …the bar exam? Isn’t that the exam that prospective lawyers study for for like months and months? I should have known about this. Right? Am I really going mad? Judy wonders all this as she faces the silence left in the wake of his words. This is when normal human girlfriends reply, Judy, think of something, be that girl he fell in love with, the one he met at that ski lodge those months ago before you knew of each others personal demons and the evil you were both capable of…

"Well, good luck."

Nailed it, Judy, nailed it. Now you go march into the bedroom and fire up your vibrator and scream your father’s name and regret the day you and your sisters murdered him with his birthday present. A warning to proscriptive fathers: do not accept gifts from your jilted daughters when those gifts are chain saws.

"Thank you," says Gary. And with that all hopes that Judy had of feeling she won the exchange had ended. He thanked her. For allowing him to take the Bar Exam. Which if he was actually doing, would make him a lawyer and thereby a much richer and more desirable partner. The sheer absurdity of it is what made it work, what made these two individual lives continue their separate ways in separate spacial locations but Judy always trying to occupy Gary's inner self, and understand just what he was thinking. If he did love her. Suddenly, and with great sorrow, she very much doubted it.

And now we are with Gary. More context and the richness that surrounds his actual location makes it clear - why we did not see this before makes us feel foolish and like punishing ourselves - that he has been at a bar all this time. Perhaps this was the “Bar” he eluded to. Cleverly played Gary, you are a cunning little devil indeed.

He turns to the bartender with ravenous anticipation, this is the moment he has been waiting for, the reason he has chosen to not spend the evening sodomizing his beautiful girlfriend who he is pretty sure he loved but needed some space god damn it or else he would make the same old mistakes over and over again and need to spend years apologizing to god and whoever else would listen and wasn’t life funny in the way that people never quite change those most horrible private pieces of themselves.

"Okay, one more time," the bartender says as he flings the towel over his shoulder. Gary is too sick and enraptured to realize that real human bartenders don’t actually ever do that and that this bartender is in fact an actor, playing a very delicate part… “one more time,” he said, just “one more time,” as though they have been at this all day. Is this at last the “bar exam” we’ve heard so much about? The one that still was vexing Judy, uptown, in her apartment, as she changed the batteries in “Daddy”… “he isn’t even in law school…” she thinks… contemplating how painful suicide would be if she jumped off of her balcony, fearing most of all that she would change her mind halfway down.

Finally, after an achingly long time, an infinity of sub-moments hidden between seconds and nanoseconds, Gary rubs his hands together - this too not being a thing people actually do - the test is administered:

"This bar means-?" Asks the actor/bartender, pointing to a bottle of Coors Light and the cold-activated indicator at it’s base. "This BAR," must finally be the bar in question. Oh what a tangled web.

"Coors Light is cold?" Gary answers like a question and remembers all those moments when as a child he gave the wrong answer at school and was met with venomous replies from teachers who saw in the boy no promise of a brighter future for America, but could never have anticipated the kind of man that would grow from that seed…

Poor sick sad Gary is unable to decipher the meaning behind the cold-activated tab on a bottle of Coors Light. The tab that says “Cold”, is the one he’s been having trouble with. He needs to study for an entire day in a bar with an actor butchering the part of a bartender in order to understand that it means his beer is cold. Poor Gary is too demented at this point to understand that this is all a ruse, that Jenny is a figment of his imagination, that he does not even own a cellphone. And that this charade is being held at every commercial break for every football game for, presumably, the entire 2011/2012 NFL season, and it can not be to sell Coors Light, because how and in what horrible parallel dimension would such a scenario sell beer?

No. This is all done for the amusement of the actor. He builds this bar in a sound stage and plays the part of a bartender for his own pleasure. To watch Gary sweat. To watch his terrible decaying mind try and parse out even the simplest questions like: “Read this thing I am pointing at.”

"And this bar-?" the actor asks. Now he’s just playing with him. But this is how it goes. This is how it must be. Forever and ever must these two play this game. One man dominates and the other man bows under the pressure of his superior strength and intelligence.

"That the beer is SUPER COLD?" Dance little monkey…

"Congrats" says the actor with a Christian Slater-ey smoothness, slightly arousing poor mentally handicapped Gary whose fist-sized brain tumor is growing bored of this game, planning it’s great escape when it can slide across the bar and hold the actor by the collar and say PLEASE MAKE IT STOP! But all he says is, in his low sensual growl, "You just passed the bar exam" and the actor slides the beer across the bar and Gary yelps a yelp of glee that contains within it a million secret sorrows and questions about what it means to really be a man in a world in a bar and then he takes the bottle of Coors Light, which is another thing no person actually does.

He also pumps his fist.

And a Coors Light is removed from its refrigeration chamber and driven deep into a pit of ice that one suspects must only exist in the ice-fishing holes Inuits use to catch their sustenance in the arctic as we see the process of a Coors Light going from “Cold” to “Super Cold”  -  we watch this process and it dawns on us - the audience - that these people are actually using this as a strategy to SELL US BEER!!! When did promoting something as cold become a means of selling your beer?? And havn’t we developed the technology to test coldness hundreds of millions of years ago and it’s called “TOUCH IT YOU IDIOT?”??? The coldness of the beer has much more to do with the way my grocery store keeps them and the way in which I store them in my home or at the local bar but this is all simply academic because NOBODY DRINKS THIS BEER.

Nobody, of course, but poor Gary, with his tumor growing with each ritualistic reenactment of this soul-sucking scenario. Over and over again good sweet kind Gary who never meant to hurt that baby but he doesn’t know his own hulking strength is fooled into jubilation and rewarded with cold-piss in a bottle and yelps his sad enthusiastic yelp like a man being tortured who is too deeply stupid to even know that he is being tortured.

And at the end of the spot when he approaches two attractive girls with an impossible confused look on his face like he’s forgotten about dead molested invented Judy and his imagined affair with her and we as an audience are expected to either know this or be OK with this developmentally retarded young man seeking sex with sports bar harlots. We are supposed to be rooting for this character. This sad man. What kind of a world and what kind of a beer and what kind of a godless universe could we possibly be co-existing in with Gary and Judy and Donald and the Creative Directors at Draft FCB Chicago?

And when they ask: “So, you’re a lawyer?” Because they’ve heard him discussing the bar exam using their super-human hearing, it does not dawn on Gary that these women are evil robot clone slaves who are here to liberate him and take him to a world where beer is advertised because it’s fucking BEER and not because it shares properties with Pluto; a world where they will perform brain surgery on him and remove his tumor and free him from this terrible play where the actors can’t act, the beer tastes like shit and the jokes are not funny; where the jokes cannot even be called jokes, in the way that stories of the old testament cannot be called stories but now in light of intelligent civilization must be called “allegories”. It is the only way THE ONLY WAY this advertisement can be said to be an advertisement or to even exist. Whose decision was it to advertise beer this way? What happened to the Silver Bullet? Nothing makes a man ready to crack open a cold foamer than a hard night of hunting down werewolves. Do we have nowhere to turn to in this world for a mother’s love or a womb’s warmth? Is this kind of thing an infinitely repeating feature of modernity and we are all like terrified retarded Gary's answering asinine questions posed by bad actors because that is where we would rather be instead of having sex with our beautiful imaginary girlfriends? IS THERE NOWHERE, GARY???

"Huh?" he asks, at the end of the spot. "No!" And walks off, like an idiot, going to, who knows, the bathroom, perhaps. Or, perhaps, the revolving door where he is doomed to repeat this ad infinitum, as we are.

Or, perhaps, to a train speeding through the arctic, because maybe that’s where he lives. Maybe he is really that Inuit who keeps his beer in his fishing hole and takes a silver train to work every day. We can only assume because this is the thing we see next. After the bar. A train in the snow. Because only here, in this twisted version of logic-bludgeoned reality does this make sense. Because that is the fundamental thing in purchasing beer: I don’t care how it tastes, man - how is it transported???

I DEMAND THAT MY BEER BE TRANSPORTED ON THE POLAR EXPRESS OR DON’T BOTHER TO TRANSPORT IT AT ALL!!!

And, finally, a tagline: “The world’s most refreshing beer.”

An empty sentiment. “Refreshing.” A word that means essentially nothing. Describes nothing. And a world equally empty, equally without meaning.

And mercifully, the spot is over. But it is a cruel sort of mercy, because we know it will be back. At halftime.


…You know, that one.

Love & Death,
Michael

September 13, 2011
TODAY IN IDIOTS: This guy.
Scenario:You are a state senator in a state where 2.6 million people (see also: a Shit Ton) (see also: it’s in the metric system) do not have health insurance, and the federal government has initiated a program that would set up low-cost exchanges where individuals can purchase said insurance policies for less money, and (get this) wants to GIVE YOU MONEY to set it up.
Take it easy Scenario Buffs. I know what you’re thinking: “No Brainer. This is why I don’t do the Scenarios on Tuesday. Too easy.”
Well you would be wrong, Scenario Buffs (See also: that’s a thing, right?), when thinking you would probably let the government give you that money so you can help provide a basic service to the Shit Ton of human beings in your state who would otherwise have to go to the emergency room and cost your state and ultimately its businesses and taxpayers more money.
Listen here, Scenario Buffs, you need to stop thinking with your brain and start thinking with the play dough you’ve had surgically implanted into your head in place of a brain, because in this scenario you are Republican New York State Senatior Gregory R. Ball (pictured, handsomely, above) or any of his colleagues.
“I would fight very vociferously to make sure that we’re not seen as implementing and expediting Obamacare,”said Mr. Ball. And not like, that was in a conversation he had with a buddy and somebody tape recorded it and played it the next day to his total embarrassment. He said that shit OUT LOUD and to members of the media.
To paraphrase: “I would rather actively harm this state’s fiscal position AND not help sick people get affordable health care because I don’t want to be SEEN as implementing something my party is irrationally against.”
And if you’re looking for cheap Balls jokes. Like “man this guy has balls.” Or, “look at the balls on that guy.” Or, “cool penis”. Look elsewhere. Because this is serious business. Blind partisanship at its best and an affront on logic and decency at it’s mediumist. I don’t want to talk about what it is at it’s worst. There are robots involved.
Tomorrow’s scenario: What happens when a major political party stops being polite and starts fucking your shit up? Readers beware you’re in for a scare.

TODAY IN IDIOTS: This guy.

Scenario:
You are a state senator in a state where 2.6 million people (see also: a Shit Ton) (see also: it’s in the metric system) do not have health insurance, and the federal government has initiated a program that would set up low-cost exchanges where individuals can purchase said insurance policies for less money, and (get this) wants to GIVE YOU MONEY to set it up.

Take it easy Scenario Buffs. I know what you’re thinking: “No Brainer. This is why I don’t do the Scenarios on Tuesday. Too easy.”

Well you would be wrong, Scenario Buffs (See also: that’s a thing, right?), when thinking you would probably let the government give you that money so you can help provide a basic service to the Shit Ton of human beings in your state who would otherwise have to go to the emergency room and cost your state and ultimately its businesses and taxpayers more money.

Listen here, Scenario Buffs, you need to stop thinking with your brain and start thinking with the play dough you’ve had surgically implanted into your head in place of a brain, because in this scenario you are Republican New York State Senatior Gregory R. Ball (pictured, handsomely, above) or any of his colleagues.

“I would fight very vociferously to make sure that we’re not seen as implementing and expediting Obamacare,”said Mr. Ball. And not like, that was in a conversation he had with a buddy and somebody tape recorded it and played it the next day to his total embarrassment. He said that shit OUT LOUD and to members of the media.

To paraphrase: “I would rather actively harm this state’s fiscal position AND not help sick people get affordable health care because I don’t want to be SEEN as implementing something my party is irrationally against.”

And if you’re looking for cheap Balls jokes. Like “man this guy has balls.” Or, “look at the balls on that guy.” Or, “cool penis”. Look elsewhere. Because this is serious business. Blind partisanship at its best and an affront on logic and decency at it’s mediumist. I don’t want to talk about what it is at it’s worst. There are robots involved.

Tomorrow’s scenario: What happens when a major political party stops being polite and starts fucking your shit up? Readers beware you’re in for a scare.

September 9, 2011
AN OPEN LETTER TO RICK PERRY Dearest Richard, Big fan of your work. Particularly the laser-guided handguns that you use to murder coyotes. Although I’m not sure it’s a totally even stevens because (and I haven’t been to a zoo in a while Rick so I could be wrong) coyotes have yet to fully embrace laser technology. Maybe they’ll evolve it. More on that later. Anyway, I saw you last night on the Republican debate (lower-case D because, c’mon) and I was wondering if you could answer a question for a regular old American voter like myself. I’ll make it multiple choice because I know you are busy. Rick Perry Is ______ A. Crazy/Stupid B. Stupid/Crazy C. Actually a highly sophisticated robot built for destruction D. Secretly in love with Michele Bachman (it was a dead giveaway when you pretended she wasn’t in the room last night, classic “too cool for school” Perry. Also, that could be your slogan because I’m fairly certain you are not educated… in fact… just so you know, you’re supposed to choose a letter that completes the sentence above… ask your proctor if you have questions.) My question is stemmed from a few… (shall I call them “Troubling”? I don’t know, Rick, what do you think? Let’s stick with troubling.)…  troubling things you have said in the past that have lead me to the conclusion that you are one of either A, B, or C. Because we all know you’re D. …You dirty dog you… One such quotation: “If this guy [Ben Bernakie] prints more money between now and the election, I dunno what y’all would do to him in Iowa but we would treat him pretty ugly down in Texas. Printing more money to play politics at this particular time in American history is almost treasonous in my opinion.” …couple things… By “printing more money” I assume you were referring to Quantitative Easing, a process which is the equivalent of lowering the interest rates, only remarkably less effective than, you know, lowering interest rates, which is, in a time of high unemployment and low inflation, kind of it’s job. And by less effective, I mean really quite ineffective. So it’s kind of like doing that thing that every other Fed Chief has ever done only doing it while also trying to tap his head and rub his belly while singing the Star Spangled Banner. I’d actually like to see Ben Bernakie do that. But, okay, Master P, lets assume Ben Bernakie was “printing money” and dropping it out of helicopters… you would consider that treason. Really. You are aware of what “treason” actually means. If you can find a dictionary in Texas (ZING!), you should look it up some time. Because attempting to help a stagnant economy to grow sounds like the opposite of treason. What’s the opposite of treason, Rick? “A thing that you’re supposed to do”? I don’t have my book of antonyms handy but that sounds like a decent working assumption. Seriously, are you crazy? What are you so afraid of? Wouldn’t more consumer demand be a good thing? Wouldn’t businesses borrowing at lower rates be a good thing when nobody wants to spend money on so much as a giant sticky trap to keep the foreclosure man from coming to their front door? You know, things people need?Or are you stupid. Do you not understand what the economy, like, IS. Maybe I can put it in terms you can understand: The economy is a giant throbbing texas member. You with me? Cool. And lately, that member has lost it’s raging housing-bubble hard-on and has now only managed like a 1/2 semi which, come on Rick, both you and I know doesn’t fuck the mustard. And no matter how much pornography private enterprise shoves in your filthy little face, no matter how hard Obama tries to stimulate you with his package, you still can’t fully get it on. There’s no use in denying it Rick. No use in saying “hang on baby just give me a few more seconds”, you need help. You need Cialis. I know you’re a proud man. But a little help doesn’t hurt. That’s where Benny Boy comes in. He’s your man with the little blue pill that is going to make it all OK until you can get through this rough patch and fuck all the dead coyotes or whatever you’re into you want. Not judging. We’re all friends here. So don’t fight it, Rick, the economy needs help. We tried the no regulation and low taxes thing for, wait where’s my calendar…. here it is… 30 years. And look where it’s taken us. Limp-dicked and unsatisfied. Time to accept that it’s not that big a deal. It’s actually pretty conventional policy. It’s actually rather weak, ineffective policy. And we still have a much bigger dick than China. I’m mixing my metaphors, but you get the picture, Rick.  And not to linger on one Crazy/Stupid/Stupid/Crazy quote here, but in what way would that be Ben Bernakie playing politics? The man was appointed by George Bush (Hey, didn’t that guy used to live in your house! Small world!), and has pursued conventional, pretty timid policy over the past three years. Also. He doesn’t get elected. How does a guy who doesn’t get elected play politics? How does a guy who was appointed by a Republican play politics by helping the economy when a Democrat is president? I literally have no idea where you’re coming from here, Rick. Which leaves me with the possibility that you are a highly sophisticated robot built for destruction. You certainly have the firearms and the shoulders for it. You have a clear strategy: be slightly less outwardly crazy than the crazy republicans, but act stupider than Romney or Huntsman. You got that sweet spot. And I commend you for it. But so pick C if that’s the answer, Rick, and I can go home and purchase a firearm and prepare myself for the impending collapse of civilization which is bound to happen when one of you people takes office and decides to cut all social services and we are reduced to the barter system and we’re at war with coyotes. But there are lots of arguments for keeping you in the Crazy/Stupid camp. I mean, you killed like a couple hundred people in Texas and said you don’t lose sleep over it. That’s pretty crazy. James Bond didn’t even kill that many Russians in Russia. And if he did he’d at least have a deep contemplative think over it. But it’s also borderline sophisticated-destruction-robot-behavior. And yet, healthy Debate as this is, there are plenty of other reasons to believe you are more likely Stupid/Crazy. I mean, for one, you believe that “the science is still out” on global warming. What are we waiting for Rick? Thermometers? We have the technology, Ricky boy. It’s hot in here, it’s not just you. So when you say things like: “The idea that we would put Americans’ economy at jeopardy based on scientific theory that’s not settled yet to me is just nonsense.” You sound, you know, Stupid/Crazy. Not sure that creating an alternative fuel industry and a market-based system of incentives for companies to be environmentally responsible quite qualifies as putting “Americans’ economy at jeopardy [sic]”. Wait hang on a second I need to find my book of antonyms for the word “jeopardy”… never mind. That that isn’t the stupidest/craziest thing in your sentence is an accomplishment of stupid/crazy proportions. Or wait, not “accomplishment”… there I go again.
Anyway. The stupidest/craziest/craziest/stupidest thing is that part about a “scientific theory that’s not settled yet.” This from a guy who also calls evolution just a “theory that’s out there.” You know, just some theory. Like the heliocentric model of the solar system or that we need oxygen to breathe. Where do you get your information about what a theory is? This isn’t like when you were ten and you had a theory that you could jump off the roof if you had a cape on and then discovered it was false. This is like the theory that you would fall and break your leg. That theory called gravity.
And in case you were curious, that theory changes too, like when Einstein discovered that gravity is actually a bend in space-time and not just two objects arbitrarily attracted to each other (try and stay with me Rick, almost done) just like how in evolution and climate sometimes scientists change their minds about the specifics of it in light of evidence. It doesn’t mean you don’t break your leg if you jump off the roof and it doesn’t mean that you didn’t descend from a monkey and doesn’t mean that the world is not getting hotter and we’re not doing it. And the CRAZIEST thing is when you said “Galileo got outvoted for a spell.” No, actually, he didn’t. He got excommunicated because the established order did not have room for his science… sound familiar, Rick? You’re not Galileo in this scenario where you have the actual truths of the universe and the rest of the world is just wandering around with their thumbs up their asses, you’re one of the Crazy/Stupid religious nutbags who found Galileo in his house while he was playing with his telescope and put him in front of the Pope and said: “YOUR HOLINESS THIS MAN IS MAKING MY BRAINS HURT!” It’s crazy that somebody so stupid can be so legitimately close to becoming the president of the most powerful and wealthy nation in the history of mankind. I can not have such a low regard for my fellow man. And that is why you must be a sophisticated evil robot. Good luck with that, Michael
PS. I’m naked. Deal with it.

AN OPEN LETTER TO RICK PERRY

Dearest Richard,

Big fan of your work. Particularly the laser-guided handguns that you use to murder coyotes. Although I’m not sure it’s a totally even stevens because (and I haven’t been to a zoo in a while Rick so I could be wrong) coyotes have yet to fully embrace laser technology. Maybe they’ll evolve it. More on that later.

Anyway, I saw you last night on the Republican debate (lower-case D because, c’mon) and I was wondering if you could answer a question for a regular old American voter like myself. I’ll make it multiple choice because I know you are busy.

Rick Perry Is ______

A. Crazy/Stupid
B. Stupid/Crazy
C. Actually a highly sophisticated robot built for destruction
D. Secretly in love with Michele Bachman (it was a dead giveaway when you pretended she wasn’t in the room last night, classic “too cool for school” Perry. Also, that could be your slogan because I’m fairly certain you are not educated… in fact… just so you know, you’re supposed to choose a letter that completes the sentence above… ask your proctor if you have questions.)


My question is stemmed from a few… (shall I call them “Troubling”? I don’t know, Rick, what do you think? Let’s stick with troubling.)…  troubling things you have said in the past that have lead me to the conclusion that you are one of either A, B, or C. Because we all know you’re D. …You dirty dog you…

One such quotation:
“If this guy [Ben Bernakie] prints more money between now and the election, I dunno what y’all would do to him in Iowa but we would treat him pretty ugly down in Texas. Printing more money to play politics at this particular time in American history is almost treasonous in my opinion.”

…couple things…

By “printing more money” I assume you were referring to Quantitative Easing, a process which is the equivalent of lowering the interest rates, only remarkably less effective than, you know, lowering interest rates, which is, in a time of high unemployment and low inflation, kind of it’s job. And by less effective, I mean really quite ineffective. So it’s kind of like doing that thing that every other Fed Chief has ever done only doing it while also trying to tap his head and rub his belly while singing the Star Spangled Banner. I’d actually like to see Ben Bernakie do that.

But, okay, Master P, lets assume Ben Bernakie was “printing money” and dropping it out of helicopters… you would consider that treason. Really. You are aware of what “treason” actually means. If you can find a dictionary in Texas (ZING!), you should look it up some time. Because attempting to help a stagnant economy to grow sounds like the opposite of treason. What’s the opposite of treason, Rick? “A thing that you’re supposed to do”? I don’t have my book of antonyms handy but that sounds like a decent working assumption.

Seriously, are you crazy? What are you so afraid of? Wouldn’t more consumer demand be a good thing? Wouldn’t businesses borrowing at lower rates be a good thing when nobody wants to spend money on so much as a giant sticky trap to keep the foreclosure man from coming to their front door? You know, things people need?

Or are you stupid. Do you not understand what the economy, like, IS.

Maybe I can put it in terms you can understand:

The economy is a giant throbbing texas member. You with me? Cool.
And lately, that member has lost it’s raging housing-bubble hard-on and has now only managed like a 1/2 semi which, come on Rick, both you and I know doesn’t fuck the mustard. And no matter how much pornography private enterprise shoves in your filthy little face, no matter how hard Obama tries to stimulate you with his package, you still can’t fully get it on. There’s no use in denying it Rick. No use in saying “hang on baby just give me a few more seconds”, you need help. You need Cialis. I know you’re a proud man. But a little help doesn’t hurt. That’s where Benny Boy comes in. He’s your man with the little blue pill that is going to make it all OK until you can get through this rough patch and fuck all the dead coyotes or whatever you’re into you want. Not judging. We’re all friends here.

So don’t fight it, Rick, the economy needs help. We tried the no regulation and low taxes thing for, wait where’s my calendar…. here it is… 30 years. And look where it’s taken us. Limp-dicked and unsatisfied. Time to accept that it’s not that big a deal. It’s actually pretty conventional policy. It’s actually rather weak, ineffective policy. And we still have a much bigger dick than China. I’m mixing my metaphors, but you get the picture, Rick.

And not to linger on one Crazy/Stupid/Stupid/Crazy quote here, but in what way would that be Ben Bernakie playing politics? The man was appointed by George Bush (Hey, didn’t that guy used to live in your house! Small world!), and has pursued conventional, pretty timid policy over the past three years. Also. He doesn’t get elected. How does a guy who doesn’t get elected play politics? How does a guy who was appointed by a Republican play politics by helping the economy when a Democrat is president? I literally have no idea where you’re coming from here, Rick.

Which leaves me with the possibility that you are a highly sophisticated robot built for destruction. You certainly have the firearms and the shoulders for it. You have a clear strategy: be slightly less outwardly crazy than the crazy republicans, but act stupider than Romney or Huntsman. You got that sweet spot. And I commend you for it. But so pick C if that’s the answer, Rick, and I can go home and purchase a firearm and prepare myself for the impending collapse of civilization which is bound to happen when one of you people takes office and decides to cut all social services and we are reduced to the barter system and we’re at war with coyotes.

But there are lots of arguments for keeping you in the Crazy/Stupid camp.

I mean, you killed like a couple hundred people in Texas and said you don’t lose sleep over it. That’s pretty crazy. James Bond didn’t even kill that many Russians in Russia. And if he did he’d at least have a deep contemplative think over it. But it’s also borderline sophisticated-destruction-robot-behavior.

And yet, healthy Debate as this is, there are plenty of other reasons to believe you are more likely Stupid/Crazy.

I mean, for one, you believe that “the science is still out” on global warming. What are we waiting for Rick? Thermometers? We have the technology, Ricky boy. It’s hot in here, it’s not just you. So when you say things like: “The idea that we would put Americans’ economy at jeopardy based on scientific theory that’s not settled yet to me is just nonsense.” You sound, you know, Stupid/Crazy.

Not sure that creating an alternative fuel industry and a market-based system of incentives for companies to be environmentally responsible quite qualifies as putting “Americans’ economy at jeopardy [sic]”. Wait hang on a second I need to find my book of antonyms for the word “jeopardy”… never mind.
That that isn’t the stupidest/craziest thing in your sentence is an accomplishment of stupid/crazy proportions. Or wait, not “accomplishment”… there I go again.

Anyway. The stupidest/craziest/craziest/stupidest thing is that part about a “scientific theory that’s not settled yet.” This from a guy who also calls evolution just a “theory that’s out there.” You know, just some theory. Like the heliocentric model of the solar system or that we need oxygen to breathe. Where do you get your information about what a theory is? This isn’t like when you were ten and you had a theory that you could jump off the roof if you had a cape on and then discovered it was false. This is like the theory that you would fall and break your leg. That theory called gravity.

And in case you were curious, that theory changes too, like when Einstein discovered that gravity is actually a bend in space-time and not just two objects arbitrarily attracted to each other (try and stay with me Rick, almost done) just like how in evolution and climate sometimes scientists change their minds about the specifics of it in light of evidence. It doesn’t mean you don’t break your leg if you jump off the roof and it doesn’t mean that you didn’t descend from a monkey and doesn’t mean that the world is not getting hotter and we’re not doing it.

And the CRAZIEST thing is when you said “Galileo got outvoted for a spell.”
No, actually, he didn’t. He got excommunicated because the established order did not have room for his science… sound familiar, Rick? You’re not Galileo in this scenario where you have the actual truths of the universe and the rest of the world is just wandering around with their thumbs up their asses, you’re one of the Crazy/Stupid religious nutbags who found Galileo in his house while he was playing with his telescope and put him in front of the Pope and said: “YOUR HOLINESS THIS MAN IS MAKING MY BRAINS HURT!”

It’s crazy that somebody so stupid can be so legitimately close to becoming the president of the most powerful and wealthy nation in the history of mankind. I can not have such a low regard for my fellow man. And that is why you must be a sophisticated evil robot.

Good luck with that,
Michael

PS. I’m naked. Deal with it.

June 29, 2011
DEFYING ALL ODDS, LIFE GETS WORSE FOR NORTH KOREAN WOMEN’S SOCCER PLAYERS
DRESDEN, Germany - As though living an isolated military dictatorship that has been plagued by inflation, famine and oppression was not awful enough, the North Korean Women’s Soccer Team was knocked out of the Woman’s World Cup (see also: yes, they have that) 2-0 on Wednesday to the United States, proving once again to these poor women that life is a godless bullshit machine.
To try and imagine how miserable life must be in this famously secretive and repressive regime as a female athlete, would be an exorcize in morbid futility - which, coincidentally, is the name of the work-out regiment these women have been on ever since they were plucked from their homes before puberty and groomed for this exact moment - a moment in which failure was never presented as an option.
While young, pretty suburban white girls who had every little thing handed to them in life, dance around in jubilation, the North Korean team could only look at them with scorn, and wish that they could crawl into their Nike sport bags and be taken to America in order to avoid getting shot in the head on North Korean State Television.
"Life is just so good!!!" One of the star American athle-ettes said in a press conference after the game, after which she was awarded lucrative endorsement contracts from Nike™, Gatorade™, Disney World™, Chevrolet™ and Bags of Money™.
Meanwhile, in the North Korean locker room, there was stunned silence, as the small terrified women packed their Kim Jong Il Brand napsacks with their Kim Jong Il Apparel cleats, in preparation to board Kim Jong Il One to Kim Kong Il Airport, to return to their life of unimaginable sorrows.
Long live sport.

DEFYING ALL ODDS, LIFE GETS WORSE FOR NORTH KOREAN WOMEN’S SOCCER PLAYERS

DRESDEN, Germany - As though living an isolated military dictatorship that has been plagued by inflation, famine and oppression was not awful enough, the North Korean Women’s Soccer Team was knocked out of the Woman’s World Cup (see also: yes, they have that) 2-0 on Wednesday to the United States, proving once again to these poor women that life is a godless bullshit machine.

To try and imagine how miserable life must be in this famously secretive and repressive regime as a female athlete, would be an exorcize in morbid futility - which, coincidentally, is the name of the work-out regiment these women have been on ever since they were plucked from their homes before puberty and groomed for this exact moment - a moment in which failure was never presented as an option.

While young, pretty suburban white girls who had every little thing handed to them in life, dance around in jubilation, the North Korean team could only look at them with scorn, and wish that they could crawl into their Nike sport bags and be taken to America in order to avoid getting shot in the head on North Korean State Television.

"Life is just so good!!!" One of the star American athle-ettes said in a press conference after the game, after which she was awarded lucrative endorsement contracts from Nike™, Gatorade™, Disney World™, Chevrolet™ and Bags of Money™.

Meanwhile, in the North Korean locker room, there was stunned silence, as the small terrified women packed their Kim Jong Il Brand napsacks with their Kim Jong Il Apparel cleats, in preparation to board Kim Jong Il One to Kim Kong Il Airport, to return to their life of unimaginable sorrows.

Long live sport.

June 7, 2011
TODAY IN REAL QUOTES“We can start by applying what I call the Google test. If you can find a good or service on the Internet, then the federal government probably doesn’t need to be doing it.”-Tim Pawlenty, todayOther than pushing the idea that contracting government spending will help create jobs (go ask a British person how that’s working out)  and that tax decreases will somehow lower the deficit (go ask THESE GUYS to explain how that works) - the “Google Test” is truley mind-boggling.If we were to take President Pawlenty at his word, here are the things the government shouldn’t be paying for - because if you can find it on the internet, it was “built for a time in our country when the private sector did not adequately provide those products. That’s no longer the case.”lets see:Education.Why should the government pay for this when you can just pay a private company to do the same thing? if you can’t afford it, well, there are plenty of jobs that don’t require reading.Medicare.You can google health insurance, so old people should just be letting the market dictate price like the rest of us do. And if they can’t afford it? Well, Grandma’s lived long enough, hasn’t she?Social Security.If you have no savings and you’re past working age. There is an obvious market-based solution.The Military.
FYI. If you have enough money,  you can hire a military on the internet. This therefore fails Pawlenty’s “Google Test”.It doesn’t prove that Pawlenty is suggesting we cut or privatize the military, but it does prove that he’s a fucking idiot.…now we’ll just have to wait and see if anyone calls him on it.

TODAY IN REAL QUOTES

“We can start by applying what I call the Google test. If you can find a good or service on the Internet, then the federal government probably doesn’t need to be doing it.”
-Tim Pawlenty, today

Other than pushing the idea that contracting government spending will help create jobs (go ask a British person how that’s working out)  and that tax decreases will somehow lower the deficit (go ask THESE GUYS to explain how that works) - the “Google Test” is truley mind-boggling.

If we were to take President Pawlenty at his word, here are the things the government shouldn’t be paying for - because if you can find it on the internet, it was “built for a time in our country when the private sector did not adequately provide those products. That’s no longer the case.”

lets see:

Education.
Why should the government pay for this when you can just pay a private company to do the same thing? if you can’t afford it, well, there are plenty of jobs that don’t require reading.

Medicare.
You can google health insurance, so old people should just be letting the market dictate price like the rest of us do. And if they can’t afford it? Well, Grandma’s lived long enough, hasn’t she?

Social Security.
If you have no savings and you’re past working age. There is an obvious market-based solution.

The Military.

FYI. If you have enough money,  you can hire a military on the internet. This therefore fails Pawlenty’s “Google Test”.
It doesn’t prove that Pawlenty is suggesting we cut or privatize the military, but it does prove that he’s a fucking idiot.

…now we’ll just have to wait and see if anyone calls him on it.

June 2, 2011
JUDGE LEAVES TWO HANGING
QUEENS - In a small district court here in Jamaica, Judge Leslie Purificacion* broke with decades of tradition by not ceremoniously slapping-five either the defendant or the prosecution, resulting in a major burn that could take years for the victims to recover from.In an increasing trend toward quicker trails with less nods toward time-consuming tradition, many judges are opting toward a less formal “Shut up and sit down” greeting upon approaching the bench, bypassing more traditional entrances of fog machines, tee-shirt guns and, of course, copious hand-slapping."Budget cuts have left behind many things we deeply care about" said Jose Moncada, the defendant and recent victim of having been left hanging, "after the judge told me to put my hand down, I thought he would settle for a fist-pump, but even that was too much for him. We just got right down to business. And I was like, for serious, Your Honor? I’m still way up high here for you.""It seems like in these crazy days of cutting budgets, nothing is sacred anymore." Said one member of the New York Bar & High Five Association.  "At what point do we stop being a society, and start just being animals? Am I right? Up high."*real name of real judge.

JUDGE LEAVES TWO HANGING

QUEENS - In a small district court here in Jamaica, Judge Leslie Purificacion* broke with decades of tradition by not ceremoniously slapping-five either the defendant or the prosecution, resulting in a major burn that could take years for the victims to recover from.

In an increasing trend toward quicker trails with less nods toward time-consuming tradition, many judges are opting toward a less formal “Shut up and sit down” greeting upon approaching the bench, bypassing more traditional entrances of fog machines, tee-shirt guns and, of course, copious hand-slapping.

"Budget cuts have left behind many things we deeply care about" said Jose Moncada, the defendant and recent victim of having been left hanging, "after the judge told me to put my hand down, I thought he would settle for a fist-pump, but even that was too much for him. We just got right down to business. And I was like, for serious, Your Honor? I’m still way up high here for you."

"It seems like in these crazy days of cutting budgets, nothing is sacred anymore." Said one member of the New York Bar & High Five Association.  "At what point do we stop being a society, and start just being animals? Am I right? Up high."

*real name of real judge.

May 26, 2011
DICK CHENEY DECLARES WAR ON TORNADOSWASHINGTON - In major policy speech delivered to his bathroom mirror, President-In-His-Sick-Decrepit-Brain Dick Cheney has outlined America’s stance to it’s newest most dangerousest threat yet."500 Americans have died so far this year by the hands of radical tornadoes who have no agenda other than to disrupt our way of life," Mr. Cheney said into his toothbrush, approximating an echo sound as though in a stadium packed with adoring fans. "It is time that we stand up to these threats to our peace and security and freedom -eedom - eedom -eedom… and bring these lawless bastards to justice -ustice -ustice -ustice…"Mr. Cheney then went on to outline a plan to spend several trillions of dollars for the next ten years to “disrupt and disturb tornado operations across the midwest,” and bomb random countries that have similar-looking but unrelated tornadoes, as well as a system of secret prisons and advanced interrogation techniques to identify, capture, and hold without evidence other dangerous weather patterns before they have a chance to cause the kind of damage that has ripped through America’s heartland."I saw an especially suspicious cloud formation the other day. It looked like it could have just been a PM Iso T-Storm, but you can never be too sure -ure -ure -ure."Stupid-face liberal pundits in Mr. Cheney’s brain have argued that his plan to risk more American lives and strain its alliances in order to destroy something that is, while incredibly dangerous, almost impossible to predict and perhaps an unavoidable feature of nature which we should simply construct better safety measures for at home. However Mr. Cheney countered these critics by smashing his head against the mirror until they exited his brain out of the blood-luge which formed out of his left ear."You’re either with us, or you’re a tornado sympathizer, in which case, get the hell out of my country," he said in a follow-up interview in the bathtub while his nurse scrubbed beneath the ample flaps hanging off of his pasty speckled skin. "Also, we should probably invade Iraq again, for good measure -easure -easure…"

DICK CHENEY DECLARES WAR ON TORNADOS

WASHINGTON - In major policy speech delivered to his bathroom mirror, President-In-His-Sick-Decrepit-Brain Dick Cheney has outlined America’s stance to it’s newest most dangerousest threat yet.

"500 Americans have died so far this year by the hands of radical tornadoes who have no agenda other than to disrupt our way of life," Mr. Cheney said into his toothbrush, approximating an echo sound as though in a stadium packed with adoring fans. "It is time that we stand up to these threats to our peace and security and freedom -eedom - eedom -eedom… and bring these lawless bastards to justice -ustice -ustice -ustice…"

Mr. Cheney then went on to outline a plan to spend several trillions of dollars for the next ten years to “disrupt and disturb tornado operations across the midwest,” and bomb random countries that have similar-looking but unrelated tornadoes, as well as a system of secret prisons and advanced interrogation techniques to identify, capture, and hold without evidence other dangerous weather patterns before they have a chance to cause the kind of damage that has ripped through America’s heartland.

"I saw an especially suspicious cloud formation the other day. It looked like it could have just been a PM Iso T-Storm, but you can never be too sure -ure -ure -ure."

Stupid-face liberal pundits in Mr. Cheney’s brain have argued that his plan to risk more American lives and strain its alliances in order to destroy something that is, while incredibly dangerous, almost impossible to predict and perhaps an unavoidable feature of nature which we should simply construct better safety measures for at home. However Mr. Cheney countered these critics by smashing his head against the mirror until they exited his brain out of the blood-luge which formed out of his left ear.

"You’re either with us, or you’re a tornado sympathizer, in which case, get the hell out of my country," he said in a follow-up interview in the bathtub while his nurse scrubbed beneath the ample flaps hanging off of his pasty speckled skin. "Also, we should probably invade Iraq again, for good measure -easure -easure…"

May 25, 2011
REPUBLICANS CONCERNED THAT ELIZABETH WARREN IS NOT A CORPORATE SHILLWASHINGTON - A heated debate broke out in Congress on Tuesday between Elizabeth Warren, who is directing the start of a new consumer bureau outlined in last year’s Dodd-Frank Act, and Representative Patrick T. McHenry, a North Carolina Republican and chairman of a subcommittee of the House oversight committee’s committee on overseeing the committee of oversight for the House. Committee.The debate has highlighted concerns amongst Republicans about the effectiveness of the Dodd-Frank bill - in that they are concerned it will be effective."I am deeply worried," said Mr. McHenry in opening statements. "Ms. Warren’s history as a regulator and consumer advocate makes her entirely too appropriate to lead a bureau meant to regulate business and protect consumers. To be honest, we’re totally freaking out over here. You have to understand, we’re used to regulatory agencies that are just there for show. But to actually regulate business? How are we supposed to react to that? What happens if it works? I need a hug. Let the record show that I need a hug."A terse back-and-forth between Ms Warren and Mr McHenry then followed, wherein Ms Warren said “Umm, do I really have be here and get berated by you like a child, or will you let me go do my actual job?”With which Mr. McHenry replied, “Still waiting on that hug.”Tuesday’s debate seemed to highlight the deep divide between parties on this issue. While Democrats, who passed the bill, are working to avoid another recession of the kind that continues to decimate America’s economy, Republicans would rather focus on other problems. Particularly those that don’t make them look bad, hurt their campaign funds, or make them rethink their economic philosophy in the face of fact."It’s almost as though you don’t care at all that I get reelected," Mr McHenry said in concluding comments whilst embracing a stuffed Paddington Bear.
"Don’t listen to the mean lady, Paddington." He went on. "I wont let her hurt our free market. And when I’m done, I’ll buy you gold-plated wellies."

REPUBLICANS CONCERNED THAT ELIZABETH WARREN IS NOT A CORPORATE SHILL

WASHINGTON - A heated debate broke out in Congress on Tuesday between Elizabeth Warren, who is directing the start of a new consumer bureau outlined in last year’s Dodd-Frank Act, and Representative Patrick T. McHenry, a North Carolina Republican and chairman of a subcommittee of the House oversight committee’s committee on overseeing the committee of oversight for the House. Committee.

The debate has highlighted concerns amongst Republicans about the effectiveness of the Dodd-Frank bill - in that they are concerned it will be effective.

"I am deeply worried," said Mr. McHenry in opening statements. "Ms. Warren’s history as a regulator and consumer advocate makes her entirely too appropriate to lead a bureau meant to regulate business and protect consumers. To be honest, we’re totally freaking out over here. You have to understand, we’re used to regulatory agencies that are just there for show. But to actually regulate business? How are we supposed to react to that? What happens if it works? I need a hug. Let the record show that I need a hug."

A terse back-and-forth between Ms Warren and Mr McHenry then followed, wherein Ms Warren said “Umm, do I really have be here and get berated by you like a child, or will you let me go do my actual job?”

With which Mr. McHenry replied, “Still waiting on that hug.”

Tuesday’s debate seemed to highlight the deep divide between parties on this issue. While Democrats, who passed the bill, are working to avoid another recession of the kind that continues to decimate America’s economy, Republicans would rather focus on other problems. Particularly those that don’t make them look bad, hurt their campaign funds, or make them rethink their economic philosophy in the face of fact.

"It’s almost as though you don’t care at all that I get reelected," Mr McHenry said in concluding comments whilst embracing a stuffed Paddington Bear.

"Don’t listen to the mean lady, Paddington." He went on. "I wont let her hurt our free market. And when I’m done, I’ll buy you gold-plated wellies."

May 19, 2011
TODAY IN MIXED METAPHORS
Newt Gingrich’s press secretary, Rick Tyler, actually wrote these words down, presumably re-read them, and then said to himself, confidently, “yes, this is a series of coherent thoughts that form a logical conclusion.” Count the metaphors:
“The literati sent out their minions to do their bidding. Washington cannot tolerate threats from outsiders who might  disrupt their comfortable world. The firefight started when the cowardly  sensed weakness. They fired timidly at first, then the sheep not  wanting to be dropped from the establishment’s cocktail party invite  list unloaded their entire clip, firing without taking aim their  distortions and falsehoods. Now they are left exposed by their bylines  and handles. But surely they had killed him off. This is the way it  always worked. A lesser person could not have survived the first few  minutes of the onslaught. But out of the billowing smoke and dust of  tweets and trivia emerged Gingrich, once again ready to lead those who  won’t be intimated by the political elite and are ready to take on the  challenges America faces.”

TODAY IN MIXED METAPHORS

Newt Gingrich’s press secretary, Rick Tyler, actually wrote these words down, presumably re-read them, and then said to himself, confidently, “yes, this is a series of coherent thoughts that form a logical conclusion.” Count the metaphors:

“The literati sent out their minions to do their bidding. Washington cannot tolerate threats from outsiders who might disrupt their comfortable world. The firefight started when the cowardly sensed weakness. They fired timidly at first, then the sheep not wanting to be dropped from the establishment’s cocktail party invite list unloaded their entire clip, firing without taking aim their distortions and falsehoods. Now they are left exposed by their bylines and handles. But surely they had killed him off. This is the way it always worked. A lesser person could not have survived the first few minutes of the onslaught. But out of the billowing smoke and dust of tweets and trivia emerged Gingrich, once again ready to lead those who won’t be intimated by the political elite and are ready to take on the challenges America faces.