Michael Jackson’s nose is gone – No one surprised

Considering the News…

Michael Jackson is a man of confidence. A selfless guy. One who captivates a room of any size, no matter how many stars grace the floor. He teaches us that vanity is by no means a virtue, and for that we are all better people.

Thus, we praise not only his music catalog but look to him for guidance in navigating this cruelest of worlds. That a man of unmatched talent and unrivaled stardom should turn to plastic surgery seemingly every other week can only mean one thing – he is showing us the path to spiritual liberation.

The entire Jackson family is comprised of upstanding citizens and role models, strong-willed folks who put humanity and goodness before selfish wants and desires.

But only Michael could make such a prolific sacrifice – his cherished nose. Sad reports are surfacing and the outlook is grim. It appears Michael’s frequent trips under the knife have finally got the best of him, and a ruthless skin disease threatens the lovely little nose we have come to accept as a vision of perfection.

Because of Michael I will seek a more perfect face. Because of him I will have no rhinoplasty no matter how large and ominous my nose might often seem. Because of him I have seen the light, and there is a fine nose beneath it.

It is the nose given to me at birth. The nose god meant for me to have. And for that I shall never face the dire day when I have no nose at all.

The Colonel’s fried chicken secret is safe – Plus, why nobody cares

Considering the News…

Fried chicken enthusiasts can rest easy today, thanks to comforting reports the beloved KFC recipe has at last been safely transported and secured in a secret vault somewhere in the enchanted hills of Kentucky.

Learning the exact contents of this hand-written document – penned by the mystical Colonel himself – has sent fried chicken impersonators through the depths of hell, as countless combinations have failed in the honorable quest of authentically replicating the mythical 11-herb mixture.

Few things have incited greater culinary madness through the ages, with some comparing the importance of the scintillating chicken recipe to that of Jesus’ bread, Emeril’s Caribbean-style chicken, and Bo Jackson’s signature BO Burger.

Naturally, every precaution was taken in transporting the historical document – with many security guards and a handcuff briefcase involved in the covert mission – before it was finally laid to rest in a high-tech vault that will be guarded around the clock by living personnel. And thank God for that.

At any given time, but only two living KFC executives harness the dear privilege of knowing the full recipe, which no doubt qualifies them both for the ‘Luckiest Damn Person Alive Competition’ held annually in Waukee, Iowa.

Merely disclosing a single element of the recipe means instant death by way of the guillotine, a long-standing Kentucky law that has surely survived many Supreme Court challenges, as it is no secret Rehnquist loved nothing more than a late-night bucket of crispy and succulent fried chicken.

Yes, this 68-year-old legend of a recipe is poised to remain a well-kept treasure for at least another 10 years, when slumping sales inspire KFC executives to move the document yet again, to any even bigger vault, with even more human security guards – reminding Americans the Colonel’s chicken is still accessible at your local KFC chain store.Today. And right now.

I myself haven’t eaten the filth in years. Maintaing a good cholesterol level just doesn’t allow for it, I’m afraid. Plus, the grocery store fried chicken tastes just as good, if not much better.

Octuplets move to mystery mansion – Plus, why everyone with six kids should have another eight

Considering the News…

Scintillating details of the California octuplets remain shrouded in mystery, now four days removed from the babies’ removal from the mother’s womb.

Traditionally patient and polite news media is growing uncharacteristically anxious. Many pressing questions remain unanswered. What are their names? Who are the eight fathers? Are they Clippers or Lakers fans?

Yet the family is proceeding with painstaking secrecy and caution, striving to protect the anonymity of these eight little miracles, and paying no mind to the joyful reporters calmly seeking an interview.

The latest rumor seasoning this savory story is word the parents already have six little miracles – meaning their humble home has now contributed 14 healthy and happy and necessary additions to the otherwise scarcely populated state of California.

Unfortunately, heartless skeptics now wrongly question the family’s sincerity, speculating the true incentive for breeding eight little miracles simultaneously is an unbridled desire for fame and undeserved gifts. But that’s not the honest Christian thing to do, now is it.

Representing this batch of miracles is the grandfather ( identifying himself as Ed), who has offered few guarantees or promises thus far, aside from leaking word of a huge mystery mansion existing somewhere in the remote hills of the countryside, well beyond the mental and physical limits of lazy media members.

There, he says, his two dozen or so grandchildren will live in unchallenged secrecy, never bothering with the unworthy outside world. That 16 miracles can move anywhere in this country without anyone noticing is a relatively common feat destined for absolute, unhindered success. They will probably never be found, seen, or heard from again.

They certainly will never stoop to repeating the same trite interview again and again for any TV station agreeing to donate to the college fund, a college fund that will undoubtedly go toward the octuplets’ education alone, and not to any extravagant trips or boats or new cars or an even bigger mystery mansion in the even more remote hills of the countryside.

I wish the family only the absolute best. A great service they have done for the world. Think of how much less crime there would be if every family with six children made the admirable decision to take fertility drugs (true story) and have another eight.

We can only wonder how many less cars would be on the road. How much food everyone would have. How much cheaper college tuition would be. How many less people would be on welfare. How many more people would be employed. How many more people would be able to visit Wal-Mart and buy Chinese toys and appliances.

Indeed, we can only wonder.

Rod Blagojevich: Public Menace, National Hero, or Both? Plus a brief list of things that under no circumstances can be sold on the otherwise open market

Considering the News…

Embattled Illinois Governor and renowned public ass Rod Blagojevich fancies himself to be somewhat of a hero.

Actually, that statement does him no justice whatsoever. Many apologies to his family for selling the man so short.

He fancies himself to be one of the most prolific and undeniably great heroes in American history – make that world history while we’re at it – a stalwart supporter of due process, civil liberties, and everything that is right and just in the universe.

This righteous man, one of the humblest you could hope to meet,  freely compares himself to Nelson Mandela, Martin Luther King Jr. and Ghandi. Yes, I know. That Ghandi.

And rightly so.  These fine gentlemen were imprisoned for their persistence and pursuit of spreading revolutionary ideals. Blago is being impeached for corruption.

These profound men inspired millions, spawned mass movements and permanently transformed antiquated public opinions. Blago sacrificed his dignity so late night talk show hosts might never again suffer a shortage of hair jokes.

These selfless men endured the brutal wrath of millions, faced endless death threats, and bared the burden of so many, all in hopes of leaving behind a more tolerant world. Blago skipped the opening of his Senate impeachment hearings to go on “The View” and condemn unfair trials to Barbara Walters.

Because Rod Blagojevich is a veritable man of the people. Always has been, really.

“I’m talking to Americans to let them know what’s happening in the land of Lincoln,” he said so valiantly. “If they can do it to a governor, they can do it to you.”

Transcendent words from a brilliant man. If they can do it to a governor, they can do it to you. Any of you!

That most Americans never have the opportunity to appoint a U.S. Senator doesn’t undermine his point, it reinforces it.

That most Americans have never been caught on federal wiretaps attempting to sell such an appointment to the highest bidder doesn’t compromise his defense, it only endears him to the state senators charged by the citizens of Illinois to deliver a fair verdict.

There is much to learn from the Rod Blagojevich saga. Thoughts on traditional common sense and ethics have been forever altered.  For that we must thank the man. Even if he is no hero, he is still the delusional ass with a silly haircut who reminded Americans that a free market doesn’t necessarily mean everything is for sale. Just one more thing to teach my kids one day.

Things that under no circumstances can be sold on the otherwise open market (In order of my learning them):

1. Anything belonging to my sister, with extra emphasis on her internal organs.

2. Any automobile not immediately belonging to me, with extra emphasis on automobiles rightfully owned by my parents.

3. Any small child, with extra emphasis on children entrusted to you by parents paying for services from the daycare you may or may not be employed at.

4. Any sexual favors, with extra emphasis on favors you are not readily willing to perform but are eagerly awaiting to be performed by women you may or may not have met on random street corners.

5. Any federal appointments, with extra emphasis on any federal appointment discussed in a room where federal wiretaps may or may not be present.

As is always the case, this list is amendable at any time. Thanks again for your submission, Rod.

President Bush delivers inspiring farewell speech – Few listen and some laugh uproariously

Considering the News…

President George W. Bush delivered a heart-warming, belly-tingling, buns-tickling farewell to the nation yesterday, and I’m both alarmed and appalled that this magnanimous leader – general of all things mighty, admiral of all that is right – was given second ticket to an airplane landing in the Hudson River of all places.

Never mind that America has gone terror free since that infamous September day back in 2001. No, we wouldn’t want to pay Sir Bush any gratitude for that startling accomplishment. And that’s to mention nothing of the sweeping social progress in Afghanistan and Iraq, where swimming pools and McDonald’s restaurants are being built daily. I know, right, we’re bringing recreation and exquisite dining to the Middle East and still lacking is the litany of cards thanking Bush for his heroic labors.

And did I mention this airplane incident didn’t even amount to any fatalities? What happened to the old “Blood leads” creed that has been an indisputable ratings booster since the inception of this thing television? What happened to sticking to your guns, both figuratively and literally? Why, George Bush has over 4,000 gruesome deaths on his watch, and still he can’t even get 13 uninterrupted minutes to bid us farewell.

That American media is in shambles, faltering, sinking, capsizing with a torrent crash, need not be said. And now we know why. In lieu of the traditional blood and guts that endeared a country so obsessively to one medium, the news media chose a deathless plane ride that ended with pictures of people cruising safely across the Hudson River in boats.

Well, if America desires feel-good sunshine stories over the bungled artistry of a master manipulator like George W. Bush, then I say good riddance to the whole blasted thing. Here we have one of the most extraordinary criminal minds of our time hanging up his crowbar and wiretap, and we do no more than sit idly by, sharing trivial God bless Americas because some fortunate citizens managed to ride on a plane and boat in the same hour.

I give up.

Economy Down but Chlamydia Up – Fair Trade Off

Considering the News…

Having grown weary from the exhaustive news coverage of our economy being in shambles and  the fate of everyone essentially being doomed, I was more than pleased to learn chlamydia is surging like a blind horse in heat.

One can read about new record  lows only so many times before he goes madly insane, so this recent report that America’s favorite venereal disease is on the up and up comes at an ideal time. That this economic turmoil has incited a myriad of suicides but hasn’t yet extinguished our desire to have rampant, unprotected, hate sex is just the good news we need right now.

To be quite blunt, I was dangerously close to losing my wits prior to learning of the unparalleled promiscuity and debauchery spreading joy in America. Trudging through an endless stream of depression stories, I likely risked sacrificing my own good heart, clear conscience and generally affable nature before much longer. Something, needless to say, I wasn’t incredibly excited about enduring.

So fortunately my playful dreams will be disrupted by the economic horror stories no longer. Sunshine stories still do come along every now and again. They still do come along.

Tim Tebow, future President of the United States?

Considering the News…

I’m now convinced Florida Gators football superstar, American legend, and Christian goodfella, Tim Tebow, will be President a day not too far from today. No doubts. No reservations about that one.

The guy exudes confidence. Spouts leadership. Is to charisma what Amy Winehouse is to crackheads – the definition.

Now some will say, hey, what about him being born in the Philippines? No way he can be President. Just not constitutional. Can’t happen.

Well, such minutiae, no matter how damning, is never impugn to the smearing and twisting of a genuine spin doctor – at least not one worth his or her weight in venom and wax. Was Barack Obama born within domestic borders? Kenya? Malaysia? Hawaii? Ah, who cares, the guy weaves rhetorical gold at the podium. The same will hold true for Florida’s chosen son, the natural hybrid of Abe Lincoln and Johnny Unitas.

Then some will say, hey, the guy’s like 21 years old. That’s way too young to be President.

Yes, such restrictions can hinder progress at times. But what about the Chinese Olympic Gymnastics team? Talent can make 12 the new 16 with few hardships when the right people rework the script. Thus I’m confident Tebow can smile and fist-pump his way to 40 in no time. Little effort required, to say the least.

Then some might say, hey, can he even win any southern state other than Florida after pummeling their football teams every year for seemingly an entire decade?

Football is next to religion down south, and Tebow’s dominance makes him somewhat of a demagogue in the region. Touchdowns are the new doctrine, you see. He’ll sweep every state by at least 95-5, with the other 5 percent going to Mike Huckabee and Jeb Bush.

So there you have it, Tim Tebow is destined to become President. No force, formidable as it may be, is going to impede his mystical ascension to the pinnacle of national prominence. Not even  a few minor rules and technicalities can stop him. Maybe not even Jesus.

Ok, probably Jesus. But nothing else.

Either way, I can’t imagine voting for him. Can’t stand the Gators.

Applying for a dream job – FBI here I come

FBI:

It recently came to my attention the Federal Bureau of Investigation is aggressively seeking talented new agents, and I must say this joyous news couldn’t have come at a better time. Believe it or not, I have myself been aggressively seeking the right agency for my services, yet the economic uncertainty of today has made the task rather cumbersome and tiring (The search has forced several naps into my daily schedule).

As the FBI is the finest institution in the land, comprised of the most capable agents the earth has ever known (much more so than those bastards at the CIA – wink, wink!), I can fathom no better place to invest my prodigious abilities.  Our union truly will prove divine, as my qualifications easily exceed even your most stringent requisites.

Now I see in the job posting that fluency in a foreign language is desired, which incidentally benefits me a great deal since I recently mastered the lyrics to Feliz Navidad this past holiday season – no small task, I can assure you that. I am also quite familiar with the French language, having twice taken an introductory course on the subject in college. Should any covert operations require an agent to order a baguette or express an affinity for soccer (football over there), then look no further than my sterling record.

The posting also indicated a need for advanced computer skills. Well, not only am I a wizard with Microsoft Word, but I can balance a checkbook and research porn super secret stuff per the CPU as well. Without sounding arrogant, I feel it necessary to note my No. 87 ranking in World of Warcraft, where I honed my combat skills with a variety of weapons and gadgets. Needless to say, the enemy shall fear my wrath.

And lastly, the posting was vehement in stating that only candidates with previous intelligence experience will be considered for the plethora of openings. Ho, ho, ho! Not only am I somewhat of an expert in everything James Bond, but I have also studied thoroughly the artistry of Axel Foley and Maxwell Smart – two of the nation’s finest intelligence agents.

Additional achievements and qualifications can be found in the attached resume. Should you feel like I feel (that was a bit Peter Frampton-esque, eh?) that I would fit seamlessly into your agency’s hierarchy, please contact me via the provided phone number or email address. Oh, and I also respond to the Bat signal.

Look forward to hearing from you,

God Speed!

Six-Day Weeks and Failed 2009 Resolutions

Considering the state of things…

Unlike tens of millions of my fellow Americans who chose yet again to celebrate this new year by embarking on ridiculous quests for self-improvement -  like losing weight or quitting smoking or quitting drinking or limiting sexual conquests or quitting sex altogether or renouncing organized religion or endorsing the metric system or accomplishing any of a number of other preposterous goals – I elected to merely scrub clean the stubborn mind state that has devastated and stunted my growth and maturity since a very early age.

With but one benevolent twist of perception I truly felt great strides could be taken – no longer could I justify any reasons for delaying this necessary transformation. Change seemed certainly imminent, as I deemed the new year as a convenient time to finally confront my distaste for my least favorite day of the week.

You see, it has been documented rather exhaustively that my main, and perhaps lone, archrival in this cruel world is that annoying first day of the week, known by most in the English-speaking world as Monday. Given there are some Mondays I have grown infinitely fond of, such as Labor Day and Memorial Day and my birthday every 8 or 9 years, yet I would be errant in claiming to enjoy the day as a whole any more than I do a pint of bubbling sewer water.

I cannot rightly claim, however, that Monday has it out solely for me. I understand its indiscriminate nature. Monday never saves any of my counterparts in the workforce from the mental anguish of rising and realizing the weekend has become but a juicy memory, ripe with tales of drink, sport and perhaps some unexpected, albeit welcomed, debauchery.

Monday is eagerly awaited by few, and of those few I suspect three quarters suffer from some chilling mental disabilities we should all be so lucky to avoid. The difference, I am now certain, is that while I may not be alone in despising the day, I have been negligent in learning to accept its unholiness with a grain of salt like some of my stronger co-inhabitants of this planet.

Mondays, I feel, are for the assertive, the spirited, the eager-handed willing to wrestle the bull to the ground by its own menacing horns; Mondays are for the alert, the rested, the restless species of man that uses weekends not for celebration, but for preparation for the ensuing week.

Further self-analysis has alerted me to the demoralizing fact I likely belong to none of these esteemed crowds.

So there it is, not but five days into the new year and already have I abandoned my resolution, my futile quest to appreciate Monday – embrace every Monday – for the fresh, new opportunities found there within.

Indeed, Monday would be wise to avoid me at all costs, for I wish nothing except grave harm for its merciless being and all those willingly associated with it.

I say good day, day! Chalk up one more failed attempt at change.

Barrels of Oil – The Gift that Keeps on Giving

Considering the News…

For the first time since 2004, you can get your hands on a barrel of oil for under 40 bucks a pop, and all economic signs point to it becoming the most fashionable and trendy gift this holiday season.

Considered the “ripoff of the summer” when Americans couldn’t hump there way into a barrel for under 140, now oil is flying off the shelves at bewildering rates, prompting some experts to call it the hottest Christmas item since the original Tickle Me Elmo.

Thus I anticipate considerable joy next week, as I celebrate the Yuletides and whatnot by showering my loved ones, all my loved ones, with a their own barrel  of bubbling oil.

Indeed, each wayward drop of black gold that flutters to the white carpet below will be but one more symbol of my love and appreciation for those close to me. This is going to be a damn fine holiday season.

2008 – The Year of Experience and Merit in Politics

Considering the News…

2008 will be remembered for a plethora of historic achievements – A Philadelphia team not choking in the championship, Oprah becoming the first talk show host to eclipse 200 pounds more than 12 times in a career, Detroit auto companies selling more cars than ever – but perhaps this year’s most distinguished contributions to history have come per the political spectrum.

Yessir, 2008 is going down as the year experience and merit propelled savvy politicians to the mountain’s top.

There was Barack Obama dismissing the notion community organizers aren’t people, too, as he raised ungodly sums of money to spearhead his successful presidential campaign, ultimately shocking the world by becoming the country’s first black commander-in-chief.

There was Sarah Palin proving intelligence and familiarity with the U.S. Constitution is by no means a requisite for political dominance, having quickly claimed the throne of the Conservative Kingdom of Yahoos, ridding the world of barriers that hindered the likes of Forrest Gump, Britney Spears, and the French.

And now there is Caroline Kennedy laboring to extend her family’s rule in the Senate, scoffing at any indignant asshole who might contend there is more to public office than a surname and a shit-ton of money, laughing at those poor souls who are quick to remind us she has accomplished nothing of substance outside of writing a book or two and being born a Kennedy, mocking us simpletons who ever believed Democracy was devised to elect the best and the brightest – and not merely those with a familiar name and, yes, a shit ton of money.

What a year 2008 has been. Surely it will go down in infamy as the year pragmatisim had a heart attack on the john.

Bush given jubilant Middle East farewell…Many endearing gifts thrown

Considering the News…

The warm welcome President Bush received during visits to Middle Eastern warzones amplified the cuddly affection Iraqi citizens foster for the man besk known for delivering their freedom from tyranny.

“This is your farewell kiss, you dog!” One thrilled Iraqi reporter shouted in Arabic, as he playfully tossed his shoes at the President.

Tossing shoes is evidently a friendly gesture expressing the thrower’s appreciation and gratitude for the recipient, while dogs are historically viewed as a step below only the Gods, making the reporter’s choice of words all the more impressive.

The sentiments behind this ceremonious hurling of the shoes was mirrored in the streets, as thankful Iraqis chanted, “Bush, Bush, listen well: Two shoes on your head!”

As a man of common sense might rightly conclude, two shoes to the head is much better than merely one; therefore, we in America need not be MIT mathematicians to deduce just how much the Iraqis thank President Bush for his strident persistence and clear vision of bringing freedom and democracy to the traditionally confused areas of the Middle East.

Needless to say, President-elect Barack Obama has one tough act to follow, especially with all the nonsense he’s been uttering about ending Mission Iraqi Freedom. I suspect if that’s truly Obama’s intentions once sworn into office, we should not then expect the citizens of Iraq to be hurling any shoes his way anytime soon.

Indeed, Obama likely won’t see even one shoe tossed his way, let alone two.

Obama is British and Harry Potter is a Muggle

Considering the News…

The grandest court in all the land has rejected an emergency appeal from a New Jersey man who claims to know more about the President-elect than even, say, the President-elect.

No, he’s not a biographer, per se, but he understands natural citizenship more than most, which makes it a damn shame his case won’t be heard in earnest by the U.S. Supreme Court.

Leo Donofrio (yes, that’s his real name) of Brunswick, N.J., contends that as Obama’s mother was American but his father was Kenyan, and thus a British subject, in no way whatsoever can Obama really be a pure-blood American, rendering him ineligible for the presidency.

It’s a vague and shady genetic equation, but Donofrio’s theory is flawless and has the backing of a monumental precedent. You see, in the case of Hermione v. Hogwartz School of Wizardry, Professor Dumbledore ruled that as Ms. Granger was undeniably the mixed blood product of a witch and a muggle, she did not qualify for classification as a pure-blood witch, no matter how prodigious her abilities.

Thus I hope the U.S. Supreme Court reconsiders the egregious dismissal of such a sincere case. Once again America finds itself at the mercy of the courts electing to legislate from the bench. What a dark world we live in.

Illinois continues streak of corrupt governors

Considering the News…

The state of Illinois is precise and methodical in electing only the most corrupt scumbags to office, especially when it comes to the governorship. Perhaps no other member of the union boasts a better track record of crooked politicians than Illinois, save maybe New Jersey and Louisiana.

It’s rather startling to fathom one state successfully electing such brazen thieves time and time again, an ultimate exercise of participatory democratic destruction. Nevermind the occasional successes like, say, a Durbin or an Obama – Illinois embraces the notion of unsavory, untrustworthy government  and should be commended for its ardent devotion to a single set of ideals.

How rebellious. How adventurous. How non-partisan.

You see, as news breaks of Democratic Governor Rod Blagojevich’s arrests on too many counts of corruption to trouble the WordPress servers with, one must appreciate how bipartisan Illinois corruption really is, for his arrest comes as his predecessor rots in federal prison for racketeering and fraud.

Blagojevich, the silly son of a bitch he is, actually campaigned on, get this, cleaning up the despicable mess left by Republican Governor George Ryan. And, of course, he won!

But, contrary to Blagojevich’s charming beliefs, Illinois didn’t put him in office because they yearned for change, but, rather, because they knew he was just the man to perpetuate the seedy ways of Ryan. Indeed, having realized this soon after the inauguration, Blagojevich embarked on his own term of terror, cutting deals with any and every company with a checkbook.

And Blagojevich, God bless his soul, became so proud of his work in corruption that he fancied extending a dirty hand to the nation’s capitol, offering up the Senate seat left open by Obama’s election to the highest bidder. Now that’s government we can believe in.

It’s now a shame that Blago won’t be around to see what his great work in corruption means to his beloved home state, the Land of Lincoln. But we know this. We know the citizens of Illinois always have a crook lurking in the shadows, and his replacement will perhaps be an even bigger piece of shit than him.

Alert:Boy George is creepier than we thought

Considering the Weird…

Turns out Boy George is the one hurting people these days.

The disturbed pervert, who stormed through the fame gates with his 1980s songs “Karma Chameleon” and “Do You Really Want to Hurt Me”, was found guilty today of falsely imprisoning one of his teammates from the coke-addled porn stars.

Turns out Georgie lured his unsuspecting victim back to the crib after a porn shoot (creepy), handcuffed him to a wall (creepier), and then proceeded to beat him into submission with a chain (creepy, yes, but also wrong as hell).

The 47-year-old cross dresser reportedly hatched the wicked scheme in retaliation for his victim refusing to sleep with him when they originally met, which highlights just how jumbled Boy George’s head is.

The two starred together in a raunchy pino before heading back to a nasty love palace where handcuffs and chains and lotions awaited, yet George was ticked about not getting that weeks or months or whatever beforehand…Wow.

Just doesn’t make any damn sense. But, then again, neither do songs about chameleons, so what do I know.

The Juice faces 6 years to life – The squeeze is on

Considering the News…

O.J. can set the golf clubs down and grab a trash pick, because the only greens he’ll be seeing for awhile will be roadside ditch weeds as he stabs at McDonald’s sacks  in his neon orange vest.

Yes sir, the Juice is finally doing time. Six years to life, in fact. Should be brutal. Especially as he sits in his unfinished cell block trying to wrap his meager mind around the bewildering fact a man can actually do hard time for stealing his own shit. Simply dumbfounding, I know, Juice.

But all the glitter isn’t gold, as they say, and the sparks around O.J. Simpson’s once glorified life have faded faster than the 2008 Buffalo Bills.

Perhaps the Juice will use this opportunity to establish a new state of mind, one that doesn’t take orbit around his own greed and self-centered ambitions, one where ex-lovers become friends and fans find equal ground with stars.

Maybe he’ll find Jesus. Maybe he’ll find Allah. Maybe he’ll find Tito the lovely body builder from cell block 9.

Not sure. Nor do I care. The glove fit this time and they used it to keep hands clean while squeezing the freedom juice from Simpson’s fantasy world. Ain’t life grand, that so many can find peace and joy in the unnecessary sorrows of such a confused soul.

   

Auto Giants seek bailout – As do I

Considering the News…

The three stooges of Detroit are dead broke and need money to pay the bookies and dealers. Don’t we all. This debilitating epidemic of corporate bailouts will soon bring about the death of failure. Worries will cease to exist, as CEOs realize the government prefers Nintendo world to these savage realities.

Oh, your stock died? Fuck it, here’s some cash, just restart the game and don’t screw it up this time. Jesus, you fucked up again. Whatever, here’s some more cash. Try harder this time.

Indeed, the American business world is devolving into a college dorm room, where bong hits for Jesus blur the tedious line between failure and a fresh slate. It’s disconcerting, but who the hell didn’t love freshman year?

So rather than waste even an ounce of the energy or spirit I will undoubtedly need later in life, I will save the verbal crucifixions of the auto industry for another time. If they want more money to build even more of the antiquated gas-guzzlers that no one is buying and never will, then who am I to suggest they embrace the evolving technologies of the industry. Lord knows Toyota isn’t begging for cheddar.

Instead I will wholeheartedly welcome the welfare tactics that aim to undermine the working man’s motivation. If I haven’t yet failed with the best of them, thus necessitating the need for a healthy government check, then perhaps my mission should be forming a coalition of failures to strengthen this lone voice of need.

There is power in numbers. The government won’t consider the bailout of one man, only that of many. If you’re unemployed, broke, and in need, then the government shall be your savior. If you’re gainfully employed but have grown weary of the daily grind, so too shall you find salvation in the undeserved riches of our lords in Washington. There’s bailout checks to be had. Everyone can cash in. Now is our time to say fuck it and start over.

Lance Armstrong fears attack – French people still crazy

Considering the News…

Word on the bike trail is the French are going to unleash the fury on Lance Armstrong next summer, when the 7-time Tour de France champion emerges from retirement in a quest for yet another title.

Armstrong has expressed his fear of being brutalized by a pack of crazed frogs, who he evidently  believes are all foaming at the mouth, eager to get a lick or two on him. Armstrong falsely imagines that the French, who hate all Americans, hate him the most on account of his dominance in their silly, shitty little race.

This story naturally means two things…

1) The French are in serious need of a new passion. When only wine and bicycling get you out of bed in the morning, one should consider grabbing a bottle of Wild Turkey, some Xanax, and a .44 Magnum. A memorable afternoon surely awaits any man or woman (even the French) brandishing those mind-blowing items.

2) Lance Armstrong is crazy as shit. This paranoid and newly inspired version of Armstrong should not be allowed in or on anything that moves faster than 6 mph. Not until his sanity returns and the illusions of 700-pound vultures chasing him through the desert disappear. His mind is moving much too fast these days. And going to France again cannot be the answer.

Would a sane man agree to this?

16-year-old Schoolgirl to become first Japanese female professional baseball player

Considering the News…

I read this headline half a dozen times before actually clicking through. My initial thoughts were, “Oh, those Japanese and their silly marketing tactics. What will they think up next?”

But then it occurred to me that there might be something more to the story, some freakish angle that no curious mind should neglect to enjoy. I began wondering, “What if this one’s like 6-6, 250 and throws in the upper 90s, the product of some bizarre Japanese genetics tests that could someday lead to the first 10-foot-tall, 1,000-pound man…I’d be a fool to pass up a good read like that!”

So I finally clicked through and read about a 5-foot, 114-pound knuckleballer drafted by the newly created Independent League set to launch next April. Indeed, the exact kind of trivial fluff I rightly assumed awaited me, and many thousands of other curious folks, behind the tantalizing headline.

It's a bird! It's a plane! No, it's a silly Japanese marketing tactic!

Those fucking Japanese and their silly marketing tactics…sure fooled me.

The Sky is Falling: It’s National Men Cook Dinner Day!

Considering the News…

There was a rather chilling story featured on CBS’ The Early Show this morning. I’m still trying to wrap my mind around it. If this is the kind of offensive change we should expect under an Obama administration, then perhaps my vote was a tragic blunder. The apocalypse may be nearing.

You see, The Early Show brought it to the country’s attention that today is “National Men Cook Dinner Day.”

Yes, I too experienced that numb, dumbfounded feeling when initially learning such a twisted holiday even existed. It lends one’s mind to wondering what we can expect next…National Women Change the Oil Day? National Let the Gas Hand Past Empty Before Refilling the Fucking Tank Again Day? National, Honey, Don’t Worry I’ll Go Grab that Gallon Of Milk while You Have a Nice Cocktail and Watch the Game Day?

Well, all these ideas sound downright blasphemous in some regard - at least according to the bible of common sense. But even despite the many minds these holidays would blow, they might not be far from fruition. Maybe this Obama thing will work out for the best after all. Indeed, the surgical twist of reality this country needs right now, a proverbial Botox injection in the ass of America, if you will.

And my reasoning is this…After studying the various conseqences and implications of this dubious holiday, one glaringly absurd element continued to bemuse me. That one thing is this: I am already the one who cooks dinner every fucking night as it is. Not her – me! What, she needs a night off from sitting on her ass, lotioning her legs and watching Shear Genius?

Such concepts verge on appalling. And that’s what bewilders the mind, that The Early Show hosts all find the idea so silly and amusing…those people are on drugs. Or maybe they just need to look around and see it’s not the freaking 1950s anymore. Not even the 1970s, for crying out loud.

It’s 2008 and men enjoy cooking. I could cook eight out of every ten women out of a housewife job, so screw them if they truly believe this country is in need of a “National Men Cook Dinner Day.”

But I digress. No sense in becoming upset here. I will simply launch my own ridiculous holiday. Gonna start it today. Should be showing up on 2010 calendars, if not 2009.

“Hey, honey, did you know it’s National Rub Your Man’s Feet and Fix Him a Goddamn Sandwich Day? Yeah, weird shit, right? I saw it on The Early Show. I’m stoked beyond belief! See you right after work, ok. Bring the salami, cheese, and lotion, because today is my special day.”

Man has cooked for some time.