Michael Phelps enjoys a nice toke – Plus, why Olympic champions who get photographed smoking pot make good role models

Considering the News…

Supernatural athletic ability may launch one to the pinnacle of the sports world, however, it evidently can help one mature with no more haste than the virgin junior-varsity bench warmers of the world.

That a 23-year-old male engaged in a fuzzy little bong session at a frat party will alarm few. In fact, a 23-year-old male enjoying an occasional toke seems right in line with American tradition, post 1955.

Law students, nurses, veterinarians, trash collectors, political aides – choice of profession has no chemical effect on the innate connection between 20-somethings and the ganja. The synergy between the two is quite remarkable.

And yet once 14 or 15 Olympic gold medals enter the fog, stunned faces steal the majority like somebody just crapped on the president’s shoe. Bemused people all wondering how God’s holy world could ever allow for a sports icon to become the front runner for High Times Man of the Year.

Michael Phelps is without question a legend in the athletic sense, but his frequently impaired and hypocritical judgment reminds us he is no more a role model than a blazed, barely conscious, wannabe Rastafarian in Central Park.

His destiny has become quite predictable: Win a Volkswagen van full of gold medals and make an ass of himself for an encore.

Thus, American media is premature in proclaiming him a role model, for what parent wants his life for their children?

Who says, ‘I want my son to win 6 gold medals, follow it up with a DUI, mend his image by joining a World Anti-Doping Agency program, win another 8 gold medals, get a million dollars from Speedo, have everyone calling, then give my wife a bloody heart attack by getting photographed pulling bong tubes and feeling up a stripper – all in a few-year span.”

No one. That’s too damn much for even the sturdiest minds.

Thus, Michael Phelps may be a role model after all, and as important a role model as there ever was. I suspect now I will one day have the ‘Michael Phelps’ talk with my children, emphasizing that while gold medals and endorsements can do a great deal for one’s public image and self esteem, voyeuristic photographers will stop at nothing to leave their wonder world in a ruins of g-strings and bong water.

“So what will it be, son?” I shall ask. “Do you wish for a private life where you are free to smoke marijuana and grope strippers in your spare time, or do you want to be an Olympic champion getting paid millions to pose in a Speedo, never able to freely smoke some marijuana, or perhaps grope a stripper or two, without the whole world going ape shit?”

His initial response will reflect what kind of person he intends to be. My only wish is he passes on the Speedo.

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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.

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The flabby saga of Jessica Simpson – Plus Barack Obama proves in one week that he is not God

Considering the News…

Thirsting for a major news story to fill the ominous void left by the passing of President Barack Obama’s inauguration, the mainstream media naturally turned to Jessica Simpson’s luscious jelly rolls.

I cannot honestly claim to be surprised, nor can I fathom any other way this could have unfolded. The sequence of events makes rather perfect sense.

A country predominately comprised of fat, hypocritical, superficial louts falls in love with a transcendent public figure, unwittingly believes manifest change will sweep through the land by the efforts of one, only to then direct all eyes and attention to a flabby, washed-up music icon 7 days later.

This must be poetic justice for the conservative fellows who trumpeted the farce of Obama’s celebrity from the beginning. While President #44 may indeed salvage the economy, resurrect our foreign endeavors, and breed unparalleled mental peace, he certainly cannot wrench our attention away from flabby, washed-up music icons. An impossible feat, if ever one was so.

Ms. Simpson’s pooch has now spawned one of the most contentious public discourses since the November election, as a myriad of pundits and talk show hosts (many of the female variety) don capes and attempt to save Simpson’s dignity. Another impossible feat.

What they fail to understand is that Jessica Simpson’s jiggly mid-section is deserving of ridicule, for she claimed the admiration of many only by flaunting a once impeccable figure. Once that falters, so does America’s appreciation for her existence. If sheer singing ability and intelligence defined her, I would not have invested 20 minutes of my time in writing these playful words. She would be just another fat, hypocritical, superficial lout clogging up the pores of America.

But perhaps there is hope for Simpson to reinvent her image, maybe as a physical metaphor for the American people, the people who once soared to wondrous heights by utilizing god’s gifts, only to stuff the spoils down the chute with no sense of consequence.

This unflattering attention will likely inspire Simpson to hit the treadmill, working earnestly to reclaim her fruitful form. The true wonder is whether America can do the same.

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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.

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Bush vacates the White House, a terribly sad sun sets

Considering the News…

President Bush is back in Crawford, Texas, the sun having set at last on his memorable and abundantly eventful presidency. It’s back to civilian life, back to making trivial decisions that affect no one of interest.

Done are the presidential press conferences that inspired the collective cheers of so many Americans, all lauding his fine leadership while saying, “Just look at the truth spray from the glorious fountain that is his blessed mouth.”

Gone are the nightly compliments paid by popular late night talk show hosts, who so often honored President Bush with flattering Top Ten lists illustrating his competence and valor, or featured unforgettable clips from his valiant speeches, inevitably comparing him with the prolific orators who preceded him to the Oval Office.

Evaporated is the comforting notion of unchallenged national security, impregnable to the venomous terrorists hellbent on sowing America’s terrible doom, forever ready to sweep up any suspicious rogue who attempted to board the wrong plane or make the wrong cell phone call.

Lost is the simple honesty and crystal transparency of the Executive Branch, where Bush devoted the entirety of his eight years to illuminating to us common Americans the duties and privileges of this uncommon office, incidentally proving formidable leaders are never compromised by arrogance, stubbornness, or hubris.

Ended are the jovial bonds forged in the Bush administration, a successful experimentation in which friends and close colleagues worked intimately together to achieve the monumental, dismissing the antiquated sentiment that only a hodgepodge of so-called experts can propell the country to unbridled prosperity.

The nation, and thus the world, is much different today. A queer and unsettling feeling looms. Can our country survive without George W. Bush, the man who so cautiously overlooked our armed forces and national pocketbook with prudence and due diligence, the Commander-in-Chief who sacrificed his own passion, familial grudges, and personal agenda for the betterment of his treasured country?

No one can be certain. The future looks grim, with only a hint of sunshine gleaming off the coast of Hawaii. No expert myself, I have no authority to say.

But as a proud and concerned citizen of the greatest nation in history, I’m sure as shit ready to find out. God damn.

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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.

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The Osama Bin Laden Guide to Immortality

Considering the News…

Former terrorism mogul and one-time television sensation Osama bin Laden has lugged his crippled bones out of the death box once again, this time calling for jihad hell in Israel until Jerusalem is rightfully or wrongfully (who really knows) returned to the Palestinians.

Bin Laden, the generous soul that he was, also welcomed the President-elect to the world stage with a nugget of invaluable advice, namely that his unthoughtful predecessor is leaving him a pile of shit and he might consider withdrawing American troops if he doesn’t wish to step in it.

Initially, my reaction to this latest installment in The Middle East is Fucked Diaries was “Wow, that inbred clown is still around. Go figure.” Then it was, “Wow, what happened to al-Quaida’s marketing budget? They go from polished militant videos to a barely audible audio recording played over a picture of Osama from 1998? Something’s gone terribly wrong here. Have they not been to Best Buy Dubai lately? Have they not seen the kickass HD camcorders on the market?”

Further analyzing this Wizard of OZ tomfoolery spawned thoughts of my own immortality, and what low-budget production might prolong my own impact beyond these living days. The exact nature and capacity of my impact concerned me little – only how I could prolong the damn thing.

Thus I commenced recording a manifest compilation of random, spontaneous, and often times nonsensical ramblings. No topic escaped my attention. I realized that the recorded word, no matter how outlandish, could ultimately breed everlasting life if the right people managed my affairs after my expiration.

My plan now is to find someone, anyone, to play my tapes (Yes, I’m using tapes) once every six months after my death. Then it will be as if I were alive and well and speaking the fine words of wisdom myself – and in real time, too.

By recording 200 or 300 variations of the same speech – occasionally throwing in a fact I trust will withstand the test of time (Say, the Palestinians and Israelis fighting an everlasting holy war) – and then summoning a responsible and trustworthy colleague to play the tapes while holding up a picture of me (Personal Note: Find old high school baseball photos), then immortality will be mine.

That oafish assclown Osama was a ruthless son of a bitch, but he certainly had it all figured out. What a prodigious mind that rat bastard had to be. Way ahead of his time. And apparently beyond his time to boot.

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