Sleep Tight, Terri

Praise the heavens for the glorious daylight savings “fall back” this past weekend – without it, perhaps I’d have only frittered away thirty-nine hours of my ever more precious life instead of a nice, round forty.


Yes, I’ve taken to spending increasingly large, single stretches of time sitting or lying on my couch doing absolutely nothing of value – no books, no computer, no television (for fear that I might accidentally channel surf into something of intellectual value), no video games. The only two activities I permit myself during these two-day slouchfests are eating, and watching movies that, by anyone’s standards, could never be mistaken for anything but mind-numbing swill.


Unfortunately, in my personal DVD collection, that rule essentially limits me to the Burt Reynolds’ Mustache mega-set I picked up for twelve bucks at a flea market three years ago, which includes such immutable classics as: Stroker Ace, Hooper, Smokey and the Bandit II AND III, and, of course, both Cannonball Runs. Undeniably, some of the most gloriously vacuous schlock ever committed to celluloid; with star vehicles like these, it’s hardly a wonder that Burt’s mustache’s career took a turn down David Carradine Way.


But while re-familiarizing myself with the canon of Burt’s mid-80s work – specifically, during the crucial scene in Stroker Ace when Burt’s title character light-heartedly juggles the pros and cons of date-raping Lonnie Anderson -- I felt something snap loose in my brain, and, just as suddenly, a calm washed over me.


I had reached a state of Zen known as moo-shim, which translates to “nothing in the mind”. It is a marvelous way to be. Time means nothing -- hours become minutes; minutes become seconds; and seconds become just another slight crest on my nearly flat-lining brainwave. No working, no bathing – hell, no activities requiring any feat more strenuous than digging crotch-sludge from between my thigh and balls (and occasionally sniffing it) is permitted during this period of lowered consciousness. The drool stain pooling on my couch pillow is the only reliable measure of how long I was under. Assuming half-an-inch diameter of drool stain per hour (I have studied the diffusive properties of drool on textiles in the past, and know this to be fairly accurate), I estimate that I was in “meditation” for almost two full days.


Terri Schiavo is a lucky woman to have known this bliss for the past thirteen years. I only pray that when my brain finally shuts down, my family and friends will have the good sense to blend up a few microwave burritos in my IV drip and allow me to enjoy my vegetation in peace. I’ve stuffed enough coin in the coffers of the insurance companies – don’t put me out of the game just before I win my money back.

The Day The Dancing Stopped

From time to time the death of a celebrity truly rocks the world. Sometimes an entertainment icon leaves behind a legacy far greater than he or she would have known in life. Often the passing of someone who has given so much to the hearts and minds of people the world over is just damn difficult to accept. Earlier this week such an entertainment behemoth left this plane of existence. Good morning all, this is John and the death of Fred "Rerun" Berry, from the canon What's happening?, has left me truly unable to sing the show's theme.


I received the devastating news earlier this week. I sat there, frozen, as the worst news I'd heard in days rolled across the bottom of the screen. A tear squeezed itself from my eye and trickled down my cheek as memories of the most lovable, dancing tub of goo raced through my mind.


I was taken back to the mid eighties when after school I would tune in faithfully to New York's channel 5 to enjoy the lineup of The Monkees, the Spiderman series from the sixties which was then followed by the show that made Rerun a household name. The man just loved to dance and to drink grape soda. And on this, the event of his death, so should I. I went rummaging through my closet and eventually found my red beret and matching suspenders and wept heavily as I donned them one last time. I popped and locked and flipped and split in my mirror as more tears raced down my face. Upon looking closer into my mirror I noticed that I had the rhythm of a coked-up, paraplegic Charlie Chaplin, but I was not swayed in my memorial boogaloo. Not one bit. It was then that I realized that I was without a drop of grape soda in my icebox. No requiem for the illustrious "Rerun" would be complete without it so I made haste to the closest Quick-e Mart to procure the sweet and bubbly nectar loved so much by he whose skill dwarfed that of Baryshnikov.


"Will this be all for you Mr. Chaplin?" The Hindu behind the bulletproof glass muttered.


"Yes, Marf, that'll be all." I replied, fighting back even more tears. "You know Rerun has died, don't you?" I asked, sniffling away like a punished child.


"Great Ganesha! Say it isn't so!" He barked back. He faded off into memory just like I had earlier and before I walked out of the door I turned and broke into dance. Pop, shap, birdie-flap, spin, point, wiggle, birdie-flap again then down into the splits, up again with a spin, then pose. Marf, with tears in his eyes did the same. We danced at one another for what seemed like an eternity. A finer memorial break-battle the world had never seen. Customer after customer entered and left, leaving money on the counter not daring to interrupt this tearful tribute. Finally, with a salute and a nod, I took my leave and headed home where I climbed to the roof and stared at the stars.


The constellations slowly formed the image of Rerun and my eyes welled up again. I took a sip of the grape soda I'd purchased and for the first and last time I began to break-battle with the night sky. I soon found myself exhausted and fell to my knees, then to my back as I panted and wheezed (Yeah I'm still out of shape, fuck off!). I closed my eyes and drifted off to sleep where Rerun, Raj, Dwayne and Shirley would forever grace the small screen.


Now I know this is a difficult time for all of us. Maybe with time, a lot of time, we all will be able to pull ourselves together and find it somewhere deep within ourselves to move on.


Freddy, Rerun, this one is for you. Pop, spin, splits, shabadoo, birdie-flap, and point.

Jesus Built My Warthog

“George Bush was not elected by a majority of the voters in the United States. He was appointed by God.”
- Lt. General William G. Boykin


“They all hold swords, being expert in war: every man hath his sword upon his thigh because of fear in the night.”
- Song of Solomon, 8:3, KJV


Imagine 1.5 billion Amsterdam hookers, lined up with their asses in the air, patiently waiting their turn at the end of your swollen joystick. If you were to somehow take one every minute, and abandon such primitive needs as sleep, food, or refractory periods, it would take you 2853 years to fuck all those women. If you were to line them up all up in a cosmic daisy chain, nose to ass, those sweet whores would stretch all the way around the world – thirty-one times over. Can you even fathom the sheer volume of highly trained vaginal muscles? The practiced blowjobs? All those tits?


Yeah, and that’s exactly how much ass George W. Bush is asking the American Taxpayer to piss away in Iraq.


And if God had anything to do with this ignorant Texas fuck stumbling into the White House, I’m gonna start firebombing churches faster than a Mississippi Klan Member on "Nigger Sunday". We’ll have us a Christian Holocaust, Deep South Hitler style, and burn every Anglo-Saxon conservative into his SUV pew. Nah, fuck that. I wouldn’t have the discipline, as every time I’ve ever attempted to make a Malotov cocktail, I chug the bomb and end up chucking empty bottles through the stained glass windows. I’m a shitty terrorist.


And, sorry to say, a shitty American.


Because I passed up my chance to vote against this crazed lunatic Jesus Freak and his depleted uranium fetish. I missed that window of opportunity to register for jury duty, stand in line, and punch the ballot in some feeble effort to turn the tides and send that faggot bastard back to the oil fields. I mean, sure, that “I can hear God” shit might have worked in the Old Testament days, because people were fucking ignorant, but you and I both know if some dude at the bar starts mumbling to you about hearing God these days, you’re gonna “Yeah sure buddy” nod and wait for the bartender to cut the line. I mean, anyone who claims to hear any voices, let alone that of the high and holy Yahweh, is stark fucking Crazy. And now these same crazy fuckers are running the Show from Washington, Vatican City, and Jerusalem. I wouldn’t let one of these asshats watch my seat while I pissed, and now they’re in charge of all that tax money? $87,000,000,000? What is that, like a Google of Ben Franklins? Christ, I have a problem giving some jibbering fool on the sidewalk a fucking dollar. How did this happen?


Easy. We let it happen.


Yup, lazy Internet junky people addicted to Porn and Cheap Gin let this happen, hungover and running late to work, jerking off, smoking cigarettes outside the back door, strung out on high-powered mescaline, sucking cock on camera. Whatever the distraction, the American dream lured every one of us away from the Voting Booths, clearing the path for a bunch of Right Wing stiffs to place their Whore at the Podium Pedestal. Think about it. I have. I remember my job actually let us leave the office to go vote, paid. Did I run straight to the table and do my American duty? Absolutely – a fucking cocktail table, and I did my duty fueling our American economy, tipping leggy women to treat me nice, slowly sinking in a glass of Jager. While a hallucinating sociopath ascended to the status of Political Priest.


Then proceeded to fill Iraq with radioactive metal, loot their oil, and blow ALL the money at his little poker table.


Appointed by God. Well, fuck, if a tool like George Bush can get a ticket from God, what do you do when your constituents worship TV? Cell phones? Latino amateur pornography? Tequila? Their own cocks? How does one appeal to these folk, get them to stop masturbating, and go outside far enough to vote this asshat out of office? To stop the tax waste? To buy 1.5 billion Dutch hookers and keep American men entertained for centuries?


Incentive? Sure.


With just a few short trips to the voting booths, people, we can take control of the ship with a twisted sort of Mutiny, toss the Boys overboard, and set the course for a New America. A nation where Pot is legal, Porn is free, and our tax money would actually stay in the fucking country where it belongs, along with all of our soldiers, jobs, and A-10 Warthogs. And we’ll all take turns writing for the front page of lurid dirty websites, trading stories about drugs and hookers. Even I’ve read enough of the Good Book, to know that Jesus was a Jew, faked his own death, and he’s supposedly coming back bigger and better than ever.


Our Savior has Risen.


Oh, and any loony fucker who claims to hear God, Buddha, Mohammed, Allah, or whatever Indian Rain God those weird Central American natives dance to, will be subjected to gangrape and Hemlock, castrated, stoned, disemboweled, and ceremoniously thrown into a firepit full of Lions.


Judge and Jury,

John

Revival Of The Fattest

With my recent spate of travel to such distant and occasionally dismal locales such as Munich, Las Vegas, Curacao, and, regrettably, Ohio, I’ve been neglecting a promise I made to a very special young boy long, long ago. That special youngster was me, of course, and the promise I made to myself was that through a strict regimen of carefully planned diet and controlled exercise, grow to become the most disgustingly obese sack of human sloth to ever be crane-lifted from a La-Z-Boy and deposited on his early, plus-sized deathbed. Shame of all shames, I’ve been spending far too little time gorging wildly at the slightest hunger pang, and far too much physically exerting myself in such unnatural activities as walking, lifting objects, and extraneous “insurance” wiping (any more than four wipes, and Freud says you’re anal-centric, or you’re forgetting to spread your cheeks when you poop).


As a result, my campaign for mayor of Fat City has suffered a Dukakish setback. For instance, whilst admiring this season’s crop of back acne, I noticed a peculiar bulge suspiciously absent of pus – low and behold, it was a trapezoid! Panicking, I flexed my right arm and, to my horror, a bicep appeared! Thank heavens, when I checked my stomach it was still as pudgy and formless as ever, but I’m not embarrassed to tell you fine people that I was frightened for a moment. What if a chiseled midsection appeared in the reflection? Or those V-shaped muscles for which every young, attractive woman seems to lust since Brad Pitt sported them in Fight Club? I don’t think I could survive under such conditions. As it is, a day rarely passes that I don’t have to file another restraining order against a John-crazed female who can’t get enough of my mojo. Had I classic beauty features as well, I’d have to invest in a four-wheeler to sludge through the puddles of quim juice erupting from every vagina within a 50 foot perimeter. I mean, it just doesn’t seem right if a woman can suck my dick without wearing my gut like a forehead pancake.


To get myself back on the righteous path to hog heaven, I’ve dedicated the upcoming weekend to re-fattening myself for the kill – plump up, pork out, and get my swell-on in all the right places. I’ve dealt with adversities like this before (the Great Cocaine Snortfest of ’01), so I’m no stranger to getting fat again in a hurry. The secret, is late night eating. With your last ounce of strength before you retire for the evening, consume as many fatty substances as possible, and wash them down with a heaping of carbohydrates to send that lard to all the sweet spots. I’ve found that Krystals (a.k.a. White Castle or Chez Le Blanc), with its ideal combination of turd-slicking greasiness and processed carbo-deliciousness will shackle even the speediest metabolism.


Rest assured, I’ll be putting in some long hours at Krystals this weekend – pray for me and soon-to-be distended belly, friends. There is work to be done.

The Order Of The Moderately Successful

For misplaced, yet upwardly mobile souls, there are places worse than New Jersey. However, there are far better places for stratospheric social climbers, like my compatriots and me, to be stuck at on Friday night than lowly, local shit-kicker bar, The Highlander. You see, we exist in an unfortunate state of social limbo, within which we have too much money and infamy to socialize with our commoner friends, but not enough money or style to be buying out the VIP room at the Crobar in South Beach. You see, we ARE ballers - just one step beneath the pretentious upper crust of society - but it still is most likely that any of our “normal friends” will not have enough cheddar to make it to the titty bar three nights a week, like we do. Maybe there is strength in numbers; maybe misery loves company – who knows? Either way there MUST be some kind of network within which the Moderately Successful can meet other Moderately Successful people to end the stagnation and loneliness of this social purgatory.
It was one boring fall evening in 2002 that me, Jeremy, and Paul were all sitting around, bored stiffer than 18 year olds on Viagra after the prom. We decided there has to be something better than this! I mean, we are young, semi-famous, somewhat successful, intimidatingly good-looking, with a few bucks in our pockets – we deserve better! We ain’t P-Diddy, but among the crowd we run with, we are most surely local celebrities of the highest order. Every night, hanging around the same scumbags, looking at the same three of four tired-ass bitches we’ve already run up in many times, and occupying one of the same three barstools our asses have been parked on for a year, and the year before that, and the year before that. Obviously, we were moving on while our plebian friends were fast becoming too lame for us. Still, at the same time, we must retain our punk rock sensibilities by refusing to “sell out,” (plus, we don’t own enough nice clothes to make it past the door guy and hang with the elitist uptown snobs).
So what is a nigga to do? The answer: find more people like us. That’s right - we can’t be the only muthafuckers trapped in this unfortunate social dilemma. We had to find more people stuck in this same rut, form a secret order, and begin recruiting. So, much like the founding fathers did in 1776, we sat down at a table - drunk with resolve - and drafted a charter by which like-people can come together to take the doldrums out of our middle-of-the-road existence. On the back of a punk rock flyer we pulled from the wall of the bar, we scrawled the 10 original commandments of The Order of The Moderately Successful Club. Written in such a way as to separate the wheat from the chafe, the commandments are intended to provide us access to better quality pussy, more exciting leisure activities, exotic international travel, and to ensure that all of our drugs are nothing but the finest Schedule One Narcotics. Through the years, this mere skeleton of a document will become clouded with bylaws, amendments, bad interpretations, misguided revisions, and foreign translations. The original meaning will be lost through time, while the original members will move on to form more secret, more exclusive organizations that will insulate us from our mediocre demons of our past! But for now, this will suffice.

The Order of the Moderately Successful Club goes as follows:

1. Must have some form of GLOBAL RECOGNITION for something you are doing - be it in print, recordings, film or even the Internet. And no, your Geocities homepage, the classified ad in the “desperate singles section” of the paper, and your hair band demo from the 80’s DO NOT count!
2. Must have $300 of disposable income, which on any given night, you could squander on drugs/booze/strippers/whores and lose no sleep over.
3. Your level of fame must be at least to the point where other people will spend money on you just say they “hung out with you”.
4. Women between 80 lbs. and 400 lbs. are automatically included in group activities, though, of course, they can never be actual members. On a side note, the 400 lbs. top-limit was enacted to accommodate a certain charter member with a proclivity for the larger things in life. New members are not encouraged to experiment with wide loads – only experienced professionals should be throwing around that kind of weight.
5. Must have had sex with prostitutes in at least three different countries. Amen.
6. Must have done drugs with at least one famous person, but preferably more.
7. Must be tired of the same ole' same ole' and be driven by a desire to create a panacea for the boredom of moderate success.
8. Must have some form of self-promotional merchandise. This is very important, and is a likely stumbling block for prospective members. T-shirts, records, hats – hell, even a fucking keychain with your face on it will qualify.
9. Must have spent at least a cumulative $5000 dollars on lawyers during your life.
10. In an ironic twist of fate, the sheet of paper containing the 10th commandment was lost.

What it said has long since been forgotten, but since we need an official sounding even number, I will make my first amendment and address the current needs of the group: Sexual predators like the Moderately Successful move quickly and exhaust the supply of local snatch-o-la at a furious pace. We need to be surrounded with better pussy! Therefore, you must be driven by the all-encompassing desire to bust creamy loads of hot man spackle in newer, fresher, hotter bitches’ teeth on a nightly basis. Sound good?
Join now, operators are standing by!

Slots, Sluts & Sots

No lie told since Christ’s body went missing has fooled more people, and cost more money, than this one. Sure, Aladdin and Paris stand where I last saw a vast prairie of dirt, and bazillionaire Steve Wynn has dumped into the new development rising behind a chainlink fence, but I didn’t see any of that. In fact, over the course of nearly 36 hours, I scarcely stepped away from the sanctuary of the Stardust, and only at the wee hours when the truly desperate are out and about. Hookers looking for the rent. Drunk tourists stumbling the distance between Stratosphere and the Black Pyramid. Hack poker players hunched over their cards and the green felt, slowly bleeding their second mortgage into the kitty. And after a quick jaunt to Circus Circus and the Riviera, I shuffled my feet through the collage of escort advertisements and brothel marketing before crossing the street and heading back to the Baccurat Bar, clutching a souviner shirt and two postcards from the Promised Land.


Oh, and if any of you sick fucks out there were wondering, the slot machines are still perfectly functional. I tested all of them, and they took every goddamned dollar I gave them before paying out to the old woman two machines down. By the time I fell into the car to catch my flight, the resonating chime of quarters in the metal tray and octogenarian cackling had rendered me insomniac.


Not to say the trip was a total failure. Indeed, if you omit the several hundred dollars I dropped like wasted cockshot in the shower, and the pathetic attempts to cajole cocktail waitresses into my room for the Redneck Special, I would gladly look over at Vegas and smile in the morning. Blackjack, no Jacks, One-eyed Jacks, the cards weren’t falling for me, but a steady diet of Seagrams 7 and 7 kept me perfectly ignorant until I came to in the parking garage, convinced somebody had stolen my car, and realizing my keys were on the bathroom counter in a room some 2000 miles away. Maybe. Or had I bartered them and the title for another stack of chips, screaming at the Pit Boss, while I watched that goddamned Roulette ball wreck my childhood, turn my hair grey, and render me impotent? Leaning on parked cars and dragging one foot, I felt like a rape victim escaped from a car trunk. Judging from the security guard’s face, I did not look far from the truth.


The details, mercifully, are still quite blurry. Chasing skirts at Simon restaurant at the Hard Rock. Dumping a frozen Margarita on some teenaged girl by the Pool. Surfing the room service cart into the elevator before pushing every button between my floor and the lobby. Glass breaking, the lacquered fingernails in the bathtub, a blonde wig in the hallway. Chewing ice at the Terrace Bar while transvestites haggled drink prices. Having run my comp card through the ceiling and welcome out the door, I was finally dismissed, which suited me fine. If you’re not winning in Las Vegas, then you’re a Loser, and you’d best get going before you become one of those 200-year old fucks hunched over a slot machine, feeding nickels to the one-armed monster with your arthritic fingers, waiting to shit yourself again so you can go home.


Vegas is the place for me!

Viva Las Vegas!

“It can be argued that man's instinct to gamble is the only reason he is still not a monkey up in the trees.”


-- Mario Puzo, Inside Las Vegas


And the next two days in Las Vegas may well send me running back into those trees, or at least back to Headquarters where I’ll spend hours babbling at my secretary and clawing at my eyes in an attempt to blind myself. Before I purchase a pawned firearm from one of the local schoolkids and kill the fool I’ve become. A sputtering speed freak screaming about crooked dealers and feathered dancers, coming down from that strange high you only get when you’ve lost everything and the sun is still days away from rising.


There is not enough tequila in the bottle.


Dispatched on a crucial mission from King God Allah himself, I am doomed to spend the next 48 hours in this whirlwind of light, silver, and perfume which lights up the Nevada desert. And since the plane hit the ground, I’ve been surrounded by Elvis impersonators and hidden escorts, interspersed with Mexicans handing out pornographic advertising. Coins pumping like mercury through the slot machines, fueled by arthritic fuckers with strong right arms and the booze those cocktail whores bring. This is the madhouse where everything is not enough, and going too far still doesn’t cross the Line.


Especially considering after a mere six hours in the Sun Casino, all the money is gone, my girlfriend has gone missing, and my attorney isn’t accepting collect calls. They even kept my luggage, and rightfully so, considering the bar tabs away from which I’d slunk in shame. The girl at the airline counter tried to tell me how accidents happen, people make mistakes, and my bags would eventually come back from Chicago or Memphis or wherever she had them sent. She has no doubt seen this sort of thing before, broken men falling off airplanes, crumpled like that last five dollar bill exchanged for a plastic chips and one last chance. Once last dance. Vegas is the Stripper Goddess in platform shoes and an ass like an Altar, to whom I have emptied my pockets in tribute, knowing the entire while those naked breasts will be the only skin I’ll see, but still I gave her everything because I am human, and because I Hope. Hope she’ll play a faster game in the back room. Hope that credit card will hold out. Hope she’ll whisper something about after-hours in my ear, and that somehow after all this losing, I’ll Win.


Wrong.


And standing there in the parking lot, outside the club this afternoon, I slowly realized that love was not enough, that the pretty girl snuck out the back door, that Vegas got me. Again. But I knew this when I walked in the door, just as I knew it when I booked the ticket. You can’t take it back, and you can’t wash it off. No matter how much you drink.


We’ll see about that.

Return from Deutschland

God, it feels great to be back home after my travels to Munich, Germany -- to be back here in the good ole’ United States of America and away from all those monk-brewed liters of mouthwatering beer, heaping platefuls of fresh sausage and sauerkraut, and gaggles of blonde-haired, 16 year-old Bavarian wenches drunk off their asses and looking to screw.


Yes, life is surely better away from all that nonsense. I’m a busy man, after all, and if I had to deal with even one more gorgeous, blue-eyed Aryan prostitute soliciting me for sex at a paltry 40 bucks a pop, or another gigantic tender chicken roasted to perfection and served on a plate of creamed potato deliciousness, I might’ve snapped. I’m an American, dang-it, and I need my hookers overpriced, my food over-processed, and my beer light enough to mix tolerably with Kool-Aid.


Yeah, Atlanta, Georgia, rules. Yeah. Munich during Oktoberfest sucks. Yeah.


I mean, really, who wants to drink Jagermeister fresh from the source when you could be suffering a watered-down, FDA-limited imitation? And who wants to dance on a table with a thousand drunk, reveling Germans in lederhosen when you could be sitting in the same shithole bars you’ve sat in for 23 years, listening to the same idiot Atlantan ass-brigadiers shoot their cocaine-stained gums off about their band hitting it big, or who’s fucking whom, or if anyone present actually has enough money to cover the whopping $30 tab they racked up sitting in said bar for 7 hours.


wait for it...


By now even a deviated septum could smell the sarcasm dripping off my words. It’s true, my heart has been ensnared by the blue and white checkered glory of Munich, Germany.


Anne Frankly, I’m sick of America, and the return flight is what really hammered it home for me. The captain was telling us about the wondrous cities, interesting landmarks, and all the centuries of culture and history we’d be flying over on our way to – ehem – Atlanta.


Atlanta: a town that gets burned to the ground every hundred years or so; a town whose claim to cultural fame was hosting the 1996 Coca-Colympics; a town whose greatest benefactor is a hillbilly cable TV pioneer who loves huntin’ and humpin’ anything that walks on two legs, can be mounted on a wall, or both.


If you mention Atlanta to anyone outside Atlanta, they’ll say 1) “Oh, I’ve been in your airport!” and I’ll say, “Great,” and then we’ll stare awkwardly at each other, or 2) they’ll say, “How was the Olympics!” and I’ll say “Great, seven years ago,” and then we’ll stare awkwardly at each other. Finally, we have classic number 3) “So, have you ever heard of Pepsi? Hah!” at which point I am obliged to seek out the largest, bluntest instrument of force I can find, brain them with it, and then brain myself as well, for being the jack-off still living in this godforsaken town.


Seriously, Atlanta is due for another razing. You kids grab the salt, I’ll summon the spirit of William Tecumseh Sherman, and we’ll lay down an old-fashioned Scorched Earth Policy on this sorry excuse for a metropolis.


I suppose this trip to Munich has pretty much sealed the deal for me: I’ve got to get high-holy-hell out of here, and toot quick. Who’s with me? Who can recommend a nice place with low business taxes, high alcohol content, and no age-of-consent? My only other request is that the people there not have slanted-eyes.


Bueller?

Thoughts, I Think

br>I like big cars, big boats, big motorcycles, big houses and big campfires. I believe the money I make belongs to me and my family, not some governmental stooge with a bad comb-over who wants to give it away to crack addicts for squirting out babies.

Guns do not make you a killer. I think killing makes you a killer. You can kill someone with a baseball bat or a car, but no one is trying to ban you from driving to the ball game.

I believe they are called the Boy Scouts for a reason, that is why there are no girls allowed. Girls belong in the Girl Scouts! ARE YOU LISTENING MARTHA BURKE?

I think that if you feel homosexuality is wrong, it is not a phobia, it is an opinion.

I don't think being a minority makes you a victim of anything except numbers. The only things I can think that are truly discriminatory are things like the United Negro College Fund, Jet Magazine, Black Entertainment Television, and Miss Black America. Try to have things like the United Caucasian College Fund, Cloud Magazine, White Entertainment Television, or Miss White America; and see what happens. Jesse Jackson will be knocking down your door.

I have the right "NOT" to be tolerant of others because they are different, weird, or tick me off.

When 70% of the people who get arrested are black, in cities where 70% of the population is black, that is not racial profiling, it is the Law of Probability.

I believe that if you are selling me a milk shake, a pack of cigarettes, a newspaper or a hotel room, you must do it in English! As a matter of fact, if you want to be an American citizen, you should have to speak English!

My father and grandfather didn't die in vain so you can leave the countries you were born in to come over and disrespect ours. I think the police should have every right to shoot your sorry self if you threaten them after they tell you to stop. If you can't understand the word "freeze" or "stop" in English, see the above lines.

I feel much safer letting a machine with no political affiliation recount votes when needed. I know what the definition of lying is.

I don't think just because you were not born in this country, you are qualified for any special loan programs, government sponsored bank loans or tax breaks, etc., so you can open a hotel, coffee shop, trinket store, or any other business.

We did not go to the aid of certain foreign countries and risk our lives in wars to defend their freedoms, so that decades later they could come over here and tell us our constitution is a living document; and open to their interpretations.

I don't hate the rich. I don't pity the poor. I know pro wrestling is fake, but so are movies and television. That doesn't stop you from watching them.

I believe a self-righteous liberal or conservative with a cause is more dangerous than a Hell's Angel with an attitude.

I think Bill Gates has every right to keep every penny he made and continue to make more. If it ticks you off, go and invent the next operating system that's better, and put your name on the building. Ask your buddy that invented the Internet to help you.

It doesn't take a whole village to raise a child right, but it does take a parent to stand up to the kid; and smack their little asses when necessary, and say "NO!"

I think tattoos and piercing are fine if you want them, but please don't pretend they are a political statement. And, please, stay home until that new lip ring heals. I don't want to look at your ugly infected mouth as you serve me french fries!

I am sick of "Political Correctness." I know a lot of black people, and not a single one of them was born in Africa; so how can they be African-Americans"? Besides, Africa is a continent. I don't go around saying I am a European-American because my father was from Europe. I am proud to be from America and nowhere else.

And if you don't like this point of view, blow me.