It's Only Gonna Get Worse

Regardless of your faith, race, or gender, the holidays are a heartwarming break from hardships of life. The season brings couples closer, families tighter, and establishes a stronger bond between children and parents. The holidays aren’t about presents or parties -- the holidays are about sharing your love with those who love you.

Perhaps I lashed out prematurely at the religious right in my last editorial. As I trudge through the years, my unchristian ways have found me increasingly estranged from my family and their clean American values. I am not on bad terms with my family, but our lives have just gone in opposite directions. My parents are conservative, upstanding, hardworking, sober people, whereas I am a convicted felon, smut peddler, and heavy substance abuser.

Maybe that’s why Christmas turned out this way…

On Christmas Eve, everything shut down early with the exception of our favorite / least favorite local dive bar (which was recently voted CitySearch’s “Easiest Place to Score a Gram”. It was here that I, Dan, and a friend who runs a Russian mail-order bride service gathered on Christmas Eve in an attempt to construct some semblance of a dysfunctional family.

We sat at the table numbing the loneliness with Bud Light and Jagermeister, when we were joined by two psychotic women. Now, when I say psychotic, I don’t mean the normal garden-variety way all chicks are psychotic – I’m talking two angst-filled, bipolar, Lithium-sucking nutjobs. One of these loonies claimed she had “dated” me in the past. To say we dated really glamorizes the whole affair -- I contend that I had played a quick game of “hide the salami” on one occasion while tripping my face off on acid, and spent the next few months dodging her repeated phones calls. She opens up the conversation by telling me her boyfriend was about to be released from prison and was going to kill me.

“Good to see you, and Happy Holidays you fucking--”

Ok, it’s Christmas – I’ve got to be nice, so I make a few jokes and offer her a drink in an attempt at some levity. After a while, the girl loosens up and regales me with a story about her intensive probation in multiple counties, a vicious needle habit, and how a lawyer had somehow rigged (no pun intended) things up to where each county thinks she is in a rehab clinic somewhere else, so she is free to walk the streets and annoy us.

Thanks God for lawyers…

Eventually, the conversation turns to DVDA (double vaginal / double anal). She claims to have seen double vaginal / triple anal – in person! Dan calls her bluff. A double vaginal / triple anal would be completely impossible, if for no other reason than the sheer logistics of it. She insists the girl in question had an asshole the circumference of a telephone pole which made this possible, but that line of reasoning still doesn’t explain how the mish-mash of arms, legs, and pelvises would be arranged to accommodate such a gaping rectum. Many minutes are spent discussing the necessary sizes of the men’s genitalia, the inclusion of midgets, positions, and the absolute gayness of such an event. (The gangbanger’s mantra: It’s all good fun, ‘til the balls touch.) We concluded that it was completely impossible to perform a double vaginal / triple anal, but she refused to back down from her claims. We countered with, “If you saw it, then how was it done -- illustrate it.”

She agrees, and with the help of a few bar patrons, we attempt a fully clothed re-creation of the act, and, unsurprisingly, find it impossible. Of course, I snapped a picture of the proceedings for my blog, and at this the 3ADV (triple anal/ double vaginal - keep up!) girl became completely unglued, and threatened us, saying if I used the picture we would be sued until we died, then resurrected, and sued again. Dan argued that we were in a public place, and she has no grounds to sue us, but that this is America, and anyone can try to sue for anything -- and so, the showdown began:

The girl picks up her phone, points to her attorney’s number, and says she’ll have us destitute and incarcerated if we continued. I respond by pointing out we have a few attorneys numbers on our phones as well – yes, another classic “who has the most attorneys on their phone?” pissing contest.

It turns out: I have six lawyers’ numbers; Mrs. Thorazine has four; and Dan, the clear victor, has a total of nine.

Backpedaling, she points out that it isn’t the number of lawyers on one’s phone, it’s whose lawyer will take your call at this hour (4 AM)? Cell phones are drawn, we each dial a lawyer, and switch phones -- whoever gets their council to pick up is the victor. Ring one, ring two, ring three, and before the fourth ring the girl chickens out and takes her phone back -- the showdown ends without litigation. (A confession: I bluffed and called my voicemail.) This year, I’ve already racked up enough billable hours to make Kobe Bryant blush – I can’t afford even a pro-rated 15 minutes of $300/hour for such silliness. After the duel is over, the girl finally meanders off, I go home, drop a few Xanax, and fall asleep watching Monty Python. Wise move, because the next day was Christmas Day, and we had big plans…

THE FIRST ANNUAL PINK PONY ALL DAY CHISTMAS DRINK-A-THON: It was an all-day epic standoff at one of Jersey's finest shoe shows: The Pink Pony. I don’t write this blog for the money, the glory, or the avalanche of star struck sluts – about the only perk is the occasional bartender who hooks me up with free drinks to have some quasi-celeb like me frequenting their establishment. We arrived at 6:30 PM and the Jagermeister started flowing hard and fast. The plan was to drink until the 4AM closing, but at the hands of the merciless, quadruple Jagermeister shot-pouring bartendress, Jessica, it became obvious that we wouldn’t be able to hold it together until last call. As the evening wore on, some friends joined us, but by the time reinforcements showed, it was too late -- our gooses were cooked. Before we redecorated the inside of the club in a sea of half-digested, purple taco remnants, we ducked out.

Everything after that is a haze. I woke up the next morning to find half-a-dozen eggs smashed all over my kitchen floor, and my stereo stuck on a repeat of “The Eggman” by the Beastie Boys. For the record, I have no idea what happened -- I don’t even BUY eggs. It’s a funny thing, blacking out -- it’s probably your brain trying to protect itself from storing such retarded memories.

Hard to believe, in not even twenty years I’ve gone from a bright eyed young boy, waiting to hear Santa slide down the chimney to a smut peddling, egg molesting deviant, arguing with litigious needle junkies over the number of dicks you can fit in a bitch’s asshole. Yeah, it’s sad but true, but I suspect as the years go on…

It’s only gonna get worse.

From A To M

“Nature abhors a vacuum, and if I can only walk with sufficient carelessness I am sure to be filled.”
- Henry David Thoreau

Nature might well abhor a vacuum, but not nearly as much as she hates a fag poet blabbering about getting his ass filled.

And speaking of blabbering poets, I suppose I might as well bless the front page with yet another one of my vicious spews before departing for a three day bender. The Big Day is over, Jesus ain’t come back yet, and I’m fucking drunk. Christmas presents are strewn across the floor, including a fifth of Wild Turkey with a red bow tied round the neck and a cock-eyed Asian with a mouth so pretty you wouldn’t care he was a man. Yes, ‘tis the season for Giving, folks, and I have indeed given every last drop of semen, sanity, and will, rendering me an impotent demented freak with a twitch, stricken with some strange malady of non sequitors and hatred of the Religious Right.

Either I have too many gay uncles, or not enough closet space in my room.

See? This is what bourbon and rage does to a man, crouched here on the toilet with a laptop computer and a three-day old newspaper, wiping my ass repeatedly with the same smeared article that gave all of two paragraphs to George Bush selling off 300,000 acres of the Tongass National Forest to his logger pimps. Now maybe some of you are thinking to yourself So fucking what? Or, if you’re stupid like me, What the fuck is an acre, anyway? Technically speaking, an acre is 43,560 square feet, or a block of woodland some 209 feet long on a side. And if you chop down 300,000 of those, you end up with a bald spot some 469 square miles in size. That’s nearly 1/2 the size of Rhode Island, or in other words, a really big fucking chunk of land.

I’d wipe my ass again, but you can only put so much shit on shit.

Putting on a dress and tucking your dick between your legs does not make you a woman, any more than sitting behind the desk in the Oval Office makes for an intelligent man. But with the right lines and a few drinks you might be able to convince the ignorant American taxpayers otherwise. George W. Bush must have some hella real estate agent to push a deal like that across the American table without more than a sideline blurb. Fuck, that many trees burn down, we got ourselves a national disaster. But sell the rights to a bunch of timber-chopping lobbyists, and it’s business. Never you mind that Iraqi clusterfuck, let’s just suspend our collective disbelief for a brief moment, so we might pretend that fucktard has a clue about foreign policy, economics, or proper grammer. Say it together, boy and girls, real convincing like: Bush was legitimately elected to office, is a veteran who served his country, and has balls.

Boy, I sure am glad I left my girlfriend.

My outrage isn’t with the Chief Asshat whoring Alaskan wood to his poker buddies. No, believe it or not, I’m fine with shitty politicians and cutting trees for profit. As far as I’m concerned, I say we chop down every goddamned tree, shrub, and bush in America and pave the whole place. But when I miss out on the chance to buy stock in Stihl power tools and get my hands in the money pot, because that sorry Pud is trying to broker the deal on the Down Low, that’s where the story goes wrong. That rat bastard is worse than Rocco with his assplay, buttfucking us with his Anti-Arab bombing mission before pulling it out and shoving his shitcovered dick in our mouths. Take our tax money and spend it on the Israeli killing machine or reconstructing the Iraq he trashed, then go in the backyard with his chainsaw and bring down the trees, too? Is there anything this guy can’t fuck up? Perhaps someone can explain the logic behind this, without bringing up some lame shit like “strategic thinning” to prevent forest fires or “Fuck you, Commie faggot, George Bush RuleZ!”

Oh, fuck it. This political shit has run dry as a whore on Sunday morning, and I have no faith left in the American people to stand up and do something about this. I might as well shut my mouth, put my elbows on the floor, and take my fucking with some grace, anyway. In a few short hours, I’ll be perched on a barstool with a shot glass fullo Jim Beam, with no newspapers or Internet connection, and all of this angst will go right back where I found it. Maybe, with any luck, I’ll emerge from the bar to a better world, a land without Arabs or green things, where everybody worships Jesus, believes in the death penalty, and lies through their teeth on television. The Democratic party with dissolve, leaving us in the backseat while a bunch of crazed born-again Zionist zealots drive this country into the ground, and afterwards we can all sit together and bitch about how much our assholes hurt, and compare the taste of shit in our mouths while this Fuck holes up in Texas and lives out his days on Fat American Tax Money with a government pension.

The President is raping Lady Liberty, people, right here in plain sight, and you’re looking the other way.

Something needs to be done. Soon.

White Gooey Christmas

Sweet mother of Jesus H. L. Ron Mohammed, today is a glorious day, but not because some liberal, longhaired hippie bastard in sandals was born 2000 years ago. No, the ole’ X-mas doesn’t carry much weight around my household. What does, you ask?

Masturbation.

Alas, my home has seen precious little masturbation over the past few weeks, mostly because a couch surfing friend has been interloping in my prime Spank Zone, the living room, and while I do enjoy the company of friends, three weeks worth of said friend and his dog’s company was seriously cutting into “John’s Special Thrice-Daily Alone Time”. I’ve found myself more easily agitated, unable to think clearly, and prone to short bursts of inexplicable violence. Dan asked me what I wanted for Christmas, so I dropkicked him. See? Inexplicable.

But my houseguest and his dog are gone now: good news for me, but bad news for my little eggnog squirting, crotch crucifix. The next few days are gonna be a rough for him! With no one infringing on my personal space, I’ll have time to treat my meat weasel to an extended session of hardcore bologna pillorying. I’m breaking out all the stops – lube, tissues, four new porn DVDs, soft lighting, romantic music, a fine merlot, and possibly a couple mickeys, just in case I try to change my mind like the silly bitch that I am.

Too many people put too great an emphasis on loving others. Once you’ve mastered loving yourself -- and I have -- life becomes much less complicated. No more worries about disease, pregnancies, husbands, the age of consent, crossing state lines, or pistol whippings in dark alleys by dark pimps. Is all that really worth it, just to catch a nut? No, of course not.

So if, perchance, you should hear terrified howling on this silent, holiest of nights, when not even the mouse is supposed to be stirring, don’t call the police – it’s just me manhandling my penis. Just listen to that fucker scream!

Bound For Stardom

‘Tis the jolly season in some places, but these are somber days here as I work the kinks in my muscles and raw skin on my wrists. While few who know me have accused me of being a trusting soul, there is a certain allowance one must make when introducing friends into the home. After all, this is your Last Stand, the tiny hole in which you’ve stashed all material possessions and a few beta porn tapes, sleeping on a bed that could blackmail you if it spoke. Without company, the stiff towels and stained underpants require neither hiding nor explanation. But when inviting people into your humble abode, especially female persons, there are certain prices you are expected to pay, among which are included putting any stray firearms in their proper places, spraying down the toilet seat with industrial strength disinfectant, and putting forth that extra effort to ensure any traces of previous lady guests are out of sight. So after sweeping up all the broken fingernails and scouring the sheets for curly hairs, I thought my little crib ready for another festive evening in College Town.

True to form, however, I once again underestimated my quarry.

You see, the dreaded finals week has just come to a close here, unleashing a horde of young twenty-somethings into the local pubs with only two sordid intentions: Get Drunk, and Get Laid. Now while some would argue this practice is strictly a male tradition, the more versed of us have long since learned the truly fearsome adversary sports tits and scrunchies. So, as the clock slowly listed starboard and the mating ritual began, I waited patiently in the tall grass at the end of the bar, watching for stragglers to fall away from the herd. And fall away they did, the fatties and uglies from which even a prison parolee might have turned away. With such slim pickins, my good right hand was sounding like a viable alternative when I caught glimpse of the quiet mouse yonder, sitting alone with her watery rum and Coke. Perhaps out of sympathy, or my own fragile ego requiring even the most superficial sort of validation, I made my advance.

Right into a fucking spider web.

But instead of silken threads from which I might break away, this web was woven from green nylon rope and silly neckties, lashing my drunken frame to my bedposts. Elated by this young woman’s apparent lack of conversational skills, good looks, and self-esteem, I had left my guard at the bar with my cash. So in the midst of a heated tongue-sucking session, my unsuspecting courtesan withdrew and asked that fated question: Have you ever been tied up? Come to think of it, no, not properly, anyway. In past discussions regarding bondage, I had simply referred to my many incarcerations as reference to being unwillingly cuffed and carted away, but perhaps it was time to explore uncharted territory. Do you have any rope? Well, certainly.

If any of you bastards were wondering where I’ve been hiding since my last appearance on this fine blog, I would like to issue a sincere Fuck You for checking after my wellbeing. With this sort of interest in my health and whereabouts, I loathe to think what state my corpse would be in before discovery. Anyway, two orgasms and three days later, I was finally able to chew through 3/8” of plastic and free myself, at which point I scrubbed all the dried blood and urine off my abdomen before chain-smoking a pack of cigarettes and formulating excuses to the higher-ups for my extended absence. Somehow, as attractive as the truth sounded, I wasn’t sure if my boss would believe me without photographic evidence. I mean, who would have thought that a nice innocent girl like that would hogtie me, anally ravage herself on my manhood, and leave me to the vultures? Perhaps one more stone has been removed from my Karmic scale, as payback for all the times I tied a woman up and passed out drunk on top of her, oblivious to her screams and fitful shitting in my bed.

Sadly, even if I were to run into that harpie again, Jim Beam erased that section of my memory tape with her face on it, and I might just end up bound to the kitchen table in Saran Wrap and bagties.

Mock The Vote

The big political parties are well oiled machines with huge money behind them. What the American voters are stuck with is the choice between two evils: Republicans and Democrats. An election is drawing near. America may be breathing a collective sigh of relief with the capture of Saddam Hussein and the rebounding economy, but all of these events have a slimy, dangerous underbelly:


The proliferation of the religious right.


George Bush and crew have more in common with Osama Bin Laden than they would like to admit; both are members of the extreme right and there’s not enough room on Earth for both of them. The whole right wing needs to go. Look at the darling of the anti-drug crusading right wing, Rush Limbaugh -- a junkie? Those fucking hypocrites....DRUGS = TERROR -- right? There's your answer, Mr Bush -- send Limbaugh to Guantanamo Bay with the rest of the Dune Coons.


And what the fuck is with Ashcroft covering Lady Justice’s boob? Is he protecting our kids from indecency? No, he isn’t. This is a guy with real deep rooted sexual hangs-ups -- end of story. In case the future is not clear enough for you, here’s some political math:


4 More Years of Ashcroft and Bush = 0 More Years Of Internet Porn!


Yes, these fucks would drape every set of bobbling juicy fun bags on the internet with the same cloth he did Lady Justice if they could. Give them four more years and they will.


If you’ve read this far you are probably wondering: This ain’t Ashleigh Banfield, nor is it Bill O’Reilly -- this is John. Where are the strippers, vomit, and Jagermeister, and why is John so concerned with politics all of a sudden?


Because, as a convicted felon with a case adjudicated till 2009, it will be 2014 before I’m able to exercise my freedom to take part in the democratic process again! It seems, in 1997, some very bad writer boy was driving through the buckle of the Bible Belt, South Georgia, while possessed by LSDemons, and being convicted of such, he now has less rights than a Necro-pedophile in Turkmenistan.


Yes, it’s sad but true.


Today’s draconian drug enforcement comes to you courtesy of the Republican Party via the Nixon administration and the enactment of the federal Controlled Substances Act in 1973. Like drugs, the right wing has no tolerance for sick fucks like you. It’s all about demographics, and the only groups they need to reach to win an election are:


The NASCAR Dads – OK, you watch a car go around and around on a track five-hundred times; it’s the motor sports equivalent of a full frontal lobotomy. These people are whom the right wing is attempting to woo with empty promises. The right wing is a group of sneaky bastards that could sell Evian to a drowning man. Imagine how easy it is to squeeze a vote out of these zombies. “Hell yeah, ole’ Mr. Bush smoked out ‘dat sand nigger in Iraqistan, and he’s gonna cut our taxes – I a-gonna vote ‘fer him.” If that weren’t bad enough, the only other group they have to influence is…


The Soccer Moms – Stupid, church going, conservative bitches, with bad haircuts that were knocked up by NASCAR Dads are proof that women should have never been given the right to vote.


If I were in power, I would impose MANDATORY ABORTIONS to thin the pack. Nowadays, if some bitch gets knocked up, the DEFAULT is to have a kid nine months later. I would like to change the DEFAULT to MANDATORY ABORTION. A woman would be given one trimester to prove that she is worthy of procreating. If, at the end of the 3 months, top scientists determine that she will one day be sitting in a trailer with some redneck NASCAR Dad, she’s off to the clinic for a federally subsidized $400 scramble!


SO WHAT CAN WE DO? – Getting this country back on the right track will not be easy. We need a three-pronged plan of attack. First, we need a strong leader…


Step #1: Return of the King -- The current group of democratic contenders offers no strong challenge to Bush. We’ve got Dean the Pussy, Jew Lieberman, and Al “Moon Cricket” Sharpton all bickering amongst themselves and dividing the Democratic party even further. It’s time to bring in the big guns: Bill Clinton. He was perhaps the finest leader this country has ever known. Clinton was a brilliant man -- to watch him in front of the Supreme Court arguing the definition of the word “IS” – PURE BRILLIANCE! “Your honor no intern IS blowing me right now,” is all that stood between him and a perjury rap -- GENIUS…PURE GENIUS. From congressional testimony, we know Bill was on high-level conference calls while Monica was honking Bobo under the desk. Bill Clinton is no pariah – he’s a hero, a multi-tasker, and a busy man who never stopped working for this country, regardless of where his dick was parked. With Clinton, we had eight years of economic prosperity and peace. I’ll take that again any day.


Step #2: Broaden the Demographics - Many of you may remember the 2000 recall election. It was a close, questionable affair. Does it seem fishy that Jeb Bush and the Florida recount took the Republicans into power? Sure it does. That’s because the NASCAR Dads, and the Soccer Moms were split fairly evenly. I’ve already stated that I can’t vote, but I would like to urge the following groups to make it to the polls this coming year and vote Democrat:


The Bukkake Sluts – While this might only be a small group, we know that you can convince at least ten men to make you look like a glazed doughnut in simultaneous showers of man giblet; use your Jedi powers to get them out to vote.


The Coke Heads – On November 6th, buy extra cocaine! Fuck petering out at 8AM -- you need to make it to the polls. Don’t forget to chop an extra rail for that coke monkey George W!


Anyone That Likes Boobies – You saw what happened to Lady Justice. If you love boobs, like I do – VOTE DEMOCRAT!


Step #3: Distract the Right Wing on Election Day -- By organizing the following events, we can actually make the members of the right wing become so excited that they will actually FORGET TO VOTE:


The Annual Dunk an Abortion Doctor in a Vat of Acid-o-ton – With special host Eric Robert Rudolph.


The NRA Forced Prayer in School at Gunpoint Marathon – Mark your calendars now!


The First Annual Republican Queer Bash -- Ok, I'm not coming to the defense of homosexuals. It is my personal opinion that being gay is gay. However, I do not feel that the government has any right to dictate where you like to situate your genitalia. Shit, I’ll fuck a greasy knot in a tree if it looks enough like a pussy…oh, yeah – that make me remember another big demographic that we need to discuss:


THE POPULAR FRONT FOR THE EMPOWERMENT OF PEOPLE WHO LIKE TO FUCK GREASY KNOTS IN TREES – This little known group of voters usually leans to the left because the Democrats have a better record with the environment. A better environment, equals more trees, and more trees equals more hot tree sex. These people, however, are a broad-minded group of swing voters, and…FUCK – MY PROBATION OFFICER IS CALLING AND I’M OUT WAY PAST MY CURFEW AND SMOKING CRACK AGAIN – I NEED TO GET HOME -- WE’LL FINISH THIS ANOTHER TIME…


Give me back Bill Clinton.

Have Another Creamsicle

As a few of you may recall some weeks ago, one young Michael Vergo blessed me with his cognitive processes and spewed his shit all over my email box right about here. Well, it seems even after the verbal ass beating sustained at the long end of my whip, this fuckface couldn’t seem to get enough, and spewed yet more vernacular vomit all over my little happy place on the internet.


So gather ye here, all of you sick fucks, and bear witness to a thrashing so violent, these quivering Jager-laden fingers can scarcely describe at the late hours of last call.


-----Original Message-----
From: michael vergo [mailto:michaelvergo@yahoo.com]
Sent: Sun 12/14/2003 12:31 PM
Subject: Traitors

So You Traitor Fucks Hate George Bush Huh?? The Iraq War was Wrong Huh? Poor Innocent Iraqi's will be killed Huh? Well I'm glad George Bush is lookin out for me Instead of Liberal Sissy Clinton or one of You Cowardly Yellow Bellie Dogs. You Guys Would have surrendered to Al-Qaida after 9-11. You Cowards Never even served this country so who are you to say the War is just or unjust, you never fought, therefore your cowardly opinions are Null and Void. I bet you traitors are pissed that some "REAL" Americans captured Hussein today, because now your Bush Bashing puts you on the side of Radical Islam, terrorists, or someone who is too scared and looks the other way from those who want to kill us. Fuck you...... I hope you Traitors Die a thousand Deaths , Soldiers die but once but a coward dies every day of his life. You my friends will die a million deaths and its well deserved. Go Hang yourselves for christmas!!! And hey "John" You traitor Coward: I Bet you won't put this on your shitty site because YOU KNOW I'M RIGHT!!!! NOW AM I LYING????????


John Responds:


Well thank you for placing your rifle on the ground long enough to send us your thoughts. If slamming your happy ass across my website makes you a liar, kind sir, then a liar you be.

Perhaps you find some perverse glee in having your fucktarded tail flamed before the devout masses of some 10 weird folks gathered here today, but I can assure you I find no such enjoyment in being the bearer of the candle to light your pyre.

Should you equate my loathing of George Walker Bush with the burning of American flags and draft cards, then I suppose the moral ground upon which you stand might bear the featherweight of your pussy ass. But to think that the mere capture of the kingpin Saddam Hussein is going to put this strange Iraqi guerillla machine to sleep is the thought of a fool. This here “Yellow Bellie Dog” still thinks the war was wrong, that some 10,000 innocent folks gave up the ghost for Black Gold, and the man with the Blood on his hands is perched in the Oval Office wishing he was still in his cocaine days. To think Al-Qaida had fuck all to do with the trashing of the World Trade Center is to take the Fox news hook in the mouth with the sinker, brother, but to follow that dotted line from Bin Laden to Hussein places you in the ranks of fools who believe in Christ, Jenny Craig, and Rush Limbaugh. And so now, you think “real” Americans cornered Saddam in his foxhole to rationalize the mass murder you call “liberation”. Thank God we can now stop dropping bombs all over the cities of Iraq in hopes of randomly knocking the head off the Chief with a stray cluster bomblet. It’s all going to be okay now. The Economy is getting better, we’re all making more money, our rent is cheaper, and everybody has a good job (nevermind those 6% begging for change on our streets).

In the land of the Free and the home of the Brave, Mr. Vergo, there are quite a few red-blooded Americans who think this boy President is as full of the shit that brought him to office. Radical Islam, Christian, or good ol’fashioned agnostic, trapping Saddam does not make G.W.Bush anything more than a puppet without strings. Hell, even half the Iraqi army lost work due to this sorry fuck’s economic policy, while his right-hand man charged taxpayers nearly $3.00 a gallon for gasoline in a land where sand bleeds oil right under their noses.

Again, you rant against the millions of Americans who paid their dollars into a corrupt treasury to watch shitty politicians piss away the cash into a cesspool of blood and depleted uranium. Yet the majority who believes this war unjust speaks no louder than the same majority who voted against this fuck in the first place. You want to talk about someone too scared and looking the other way from those who want to kill us? Maybe you ought to ask that Texan murderer what the hell he was looking at while a bunch of mad Arabs played Flight Simulator with the New York City skyline. If a coward dies a thousand deaths, I can’t do the high math do figure how many times that ignorant, whitebred stumpjumper has to hang on his newfound Cross before paying penance for this fiasco. Baghdad ain’t the Alamo, Mr. Vergo, even though to an ignorant racist like you, they must all look the same.

If calling our inept politicians out for a class-action fuckup qualifies me as a national traitor, then call me a turncoat and take my flag. A democracy is built on dissension. The Puritans didn’t found the American colonies because they loved King George. They sailed across rough seas because they thought he was a fucking lunatic, and they were goddamned tired of paying his bar tab. And I’m tired of flipping the bill for this dry drunk while baby Sand Niggers eat metal for oil. Obviously, you missed that first, basic American government class within which every one of us, the stupid sick and twisted freaks who frequent this site and this American earth, has no null opinion. You see, Mr. Vergo, all of those gathered here cast votes, pay tax, and have a say is what happens here.

And my say is finding a rat in his Iraqi hole, does not turn this Republican Zionist Rube Goldberg invention into a plausible mousetrap

The Fabulous Lives Of...

This past weekend, while lying on the couch trying to shake off a bad case of alcohol poisoning, I found myself the victim of a common but seldom reported phenomenon: BTMD, i.e. Behind the Music Dependence. You know how it goes - you are sitting there flipping though the channels, you see VH1 Behind The Music is on, and there's some artist on that you don't even like, but you keep watching for no other reason than morbid curiosity. Before you know it, you are asking, "Wait, did I just watch the whole John Denver Behind the Music? Fuck, I just watched the whole John Denver Behind the Music!" To make matters worse, they are in the middle of a Behind the Music marathon. Next thing you know, you've seen the Leif Garrett, Meat Loaf, Bette Midler, and Billy Idol specials.


During a subsequent Foreigner special, you have a moment of clarity: "What the fucking hell am I doing? I've got to turn this shit off, and consider a less addictive habit, like mainlining crystal meth." Suddenly a strange feeling comes over you, somewhere between urge to shoot yourself in the face, and wanting to shower because you are unclean. You feel guilty, used, embittered. You don't give a fuck about the Bay City Rollers -- as a matter of fact, you detest the Bay City Rollers! You would probably dance with joy if the members of Bon Jovi died slowly, covered with picnic food and tied to an anthill.


So why the hell did you just watch 60 minutes of television about them? Because the good folks at VH1 have hit upon a formula that works; regardless of the artist, with very little variation, the episodes go something like this:


1. A poor soul, born into nothing with dreams of success
2. The years of struggle
3. The first big false break that doesn't pan out, almost giving up, and the dashed hopes
4. Finally, the big break
5. The onset of outrageous wealth, descent into excess, and the eventual collision with rock bottom
6. The big comeback


Yep, it isn't so much an accurate representation of the artist, as it is good television.


Through the years, the public has developed immunity to this type of programming, and is subconsciously able to recognize the formula. So, what does VH1 do? Transmogrify Behind the Music into The Fabulous Lives Of, Driven, and It's Good To Be, and spit it right back out there, like a virulent strain of the AIDS virus, morphing to evade detection. It's the television equivalent of cooking cocaine with baking soda, and making crack rocks; far more dangerous, more addictive, and shame filled than its previous incarnation. On rare occasions, Behind the Music would chronicle the rise and fall of a star that actually did make some kind of difference in the field of music, but The Fabulous Lives Of and It's Good To Be pick entertainers that barely did anything to get to where they are today and proceed to flaunt their outrageous wealth and opulent lifestyles in the faces of the disenfranchised viewers .


Behind the Music may have left you feeling suicidal, but these shows force you to an Andrew Cunanan-style cross-country killing spree, ending with a celebrity bloodbath in Hollywood. With these new shows, you won't see performers who actually made a difference, such as Public Enemy, AC/DC, or Dr. Dre. You won't even see entertainers whose stories are at least amusing, like Rick James or Weird Al Yankovic. Now we are stuck with Justin Timberlake, the Hilton sisters, Christina Aguilera, Kelly Ripa, Britney Spears, Pamela Anderson, and Carmen Electra -- soulless pop stars, manufactured by the media. Worse yet, VH1 would lead us to actually believe these idiots did something to deserve this stellar success.


Call me old fashioned, but I've always thought the people who are the innovators, the movers, the shakers, the visionaries -- reeling in the dust for what they believed in, and willing to sacrifice everything -- should be the people rewarded with lavish lifestyles and financial excess. This is not the case in today's mega pop star, media-driven world. Let us take a second to go down the list of today's multimillionaires, and illustrate why they don't deserve all the success, and how you, the public, have been scammed again. Now, you're stuck listening to homogenized, cookie cutter music, and seeing shitass diluted movies because creativity and innovation actually hurt an entertainer's career.


I would first like to take exception with Britney Spears. She is most definitely a true artist deserving of all her success; as a 16 year-old jamtart dancing in a skimpy Catholic school girl outfit in the "Hit Me Baby One More Time" video -- groundbreaking, simply groundbreaking.


Now, onto the list...


DRIVEN: CARMEN ELECTRA - A starry-eyed girl from Cincinnati moves to Hollywood, fucks Prince, gets set up with a music career which flops, goes on to Baywatch, then Playboy, and stays in the press by dating an out of control cross-dressing NBA party boy -- she's driven? That's not drive; that's being a hot bimbo that caught a lucky break. Yes, it's true she is a hot piece of schnizzle. Driven? HELL NO! Would I still fuck her? Yeah, well... errr, yeah -- of course! Before I did, I would have to strap a triple-ply Glad Bag to my dick. Having been bored out by the gargantuan, herpes polluted tool of Dennis Rodman, sticking your dick in that pussy would be like ringing a bell. Worse, she is now married to the openly bisexual, former intravenous drug-using Dave Navarro. This Hollywood hottie is easily one of the most dangerous pieces of cooze on the west coast. Proceed with caution.


Since we are talking about STD infected Hollywood hotties, let's take some time for...


IT'S GOOD TO BE PAMELA ANDERSON - Originally titled: It's Not So Bad to Have Hepatitis C; Pamela Anderson's career is much the same as Carmen Electra's. If you've seen the It's Good To Be special you might have been misled into thinking she actually has some sort of marketable skill aside from the huge knockers. Pamela was just another hot slut, milling around Hollywood, trawling for her lucky break. She got her break alright, but don't be fooled into thinking that she possesses some form of talent. LA has a bevy of hot bitches. It could have happened to anyone just as easily it did for her. What Pamela has accomplished in showbiz is the equivalent of winning the lottery. I'd rather see Driven: Colleen DeVries. You might be saying, Colleen De-Who? For those of you not in the know, Mrs. DeVries, from the town of Fond du Lac, Wisconsin, holds the world record for the biggest gambling win ever: $111,240,463.10 on the Powerball Lottery. It's not much different than being on Baywatch or being a Playboy Playmate; the only real difference -- it takes talent to scratch off a lottery ticket.


THE FABULOUS LIVES OF THE HILTON SISTERS - No shit, Sherlock, of course it is: they are born into one of the wealthiest families in the world. They can wipe their asses with $75,000 in $100 bills, eat soup made out of Cambodian babies, and have multi-continent birthday bashes every day of their life if they want. There is no reason to purport them as some sort of entertainer, unless of course they're planning to crank out more night-vision porn. Paris's debut was kind of lame. I think Nikki would do better, and needs to jump pussy first into the jizz biz; she's the hotter sister of the two anyway.


IT'S GOOD TO BE JUSTIN TIMBERLAKE - After I caught myself watching this, I felt the urge to decorate my shoes. What did he do anyway? He started young as a member of the Mickey Mouse Club - whoa, way to keep it real, dawg! What the fuck is going on over at the Mickey Mouse Club, anyway? Is it today's Skull and Bones Society / Entertainment Illuminati? Between Limbercock, Spears, and Christina Aguilera; one might be led to believe that it is. After being a Mousekaqueer, JT joined *NSUCK, whose image, songs, and even dance moves are dictated by a crew of faceless managers? Wow, what an artist! Then at the 2001 Video Music Awards, he danced his way out some gay-looking, oversized boom box, and onto the A-List of entertainers. Now, he's working on his second album, and the word on the streets is: He is actually writing his own songs. Uhh, you know what? FUCK THIS SHIT -- it's time for...


JOHN'S: IT'S GOOD TO HAVE A DRIVEN FABULOUS LIFE


Obviously, society is simply unwilling to give credit to people who really stick their necks out to make a difference in music or the performing arts, so I would like to do what little I can to correct these injustices. If I could rewrite history, as well as a few bank accounts, I would do it for the following individuals, for they have done more to advance music, art, and pop culture than any of today's lame-ass, canned celebs.


IT'S GOOD TO BE THE SWEDISH CHEF FROM THE MUPPETS - Today's batch of hot celebs are nothing but puppets, so, for my first nomination, I think it's appropriate to nominate an actual marionette. Yes, the Swedish Chef was merely dancing at the hands of puppet master Jim Henson when he sang his infectious "Yee-Spor-Deeky-Dee-Spor-Deeky-Dee-Spor-Deeky-Doo-Uum-Bork-Bork-Uum-Bork-Bork-Uum-Bork-Bork-Bork", but it was a damn catchy song. He's certainly added real value to the years I've spent on this planet. Besides that, he slung meatballs instead of Pepsi. Meatballs kick Pepsi's ass.


THE FABULOUS LIFE OF BUSHWICK BILL - Fuck P-Diddy! Bushwick Bill should have made a much larger (no pun intended) impact on the world of hip hop. While many would merely consider a rapping midget a novelty, Bushwick Bill was an artist of true depth, with such tender lyrics as "Her body's beautiful / So I'm thinking rape / Shouldn't have left the curtain open / Now that's her fate" from 1989's Mind of a Lunatic - now that's fuckin' gangsta! In a symbolic gesture, Bushwick shot his own eye out instead of watching the first Cash Money Millionaires video. 50 Cent likes to brag about being shot, but that ain't shit compared to a nigga so fucking hard he shoots himself! Bushwick and The Ghetto Boys symbolized everything that is wrong with the music business when they were forced to disband by a bad contract they signed in the late 80's. I would also like to take a second to give a shout out to my homeboy, Willie D, whose Go Play With Yo Momma is easily one of the most overlooked gems in hip-hop: "You got a family / Aww, that's beautiful / I wanna see them at your god damned funeral / Along with your bitch and your friends / Cause I'm gonna view the body / And pop your ass again". NOW THAT'S FUCKIN' GANGSTA!


DRIVEN: SETH PUTNAM - The driving force behind Anal Cunt, and author of the greatest song titles of all time, Seth penned such classics as the ode to Eric Clapton: "Your Kid Committed Suicide Because You Suck", along with "Hitler Was A Sensitive Man"; "I Got An Office Job For The Sole Purpose of Sexually Harassing Women"; "I Sent Concentration Camp Footage To Americas Funniest Home Videos"; and hundreds of songs like "{Insert any string of words here} Is Gay". AC pioneered grindcore, released ten albums, countless EPs, and numerous split singles. I have personally had the honor of meeting Seth. The last time I saw him, he was careening in a mini-van the wrong way against traffic after doing "the dine and dash" (aka - the chew and screw) to duck paying a $23 dollar tab at a Waffle House in Spartanburg, SC. There still may be hope for Putnam; the average AC song is about 45 seconds long, and with the new dollar-a-download system of selling music, it will cost 52$ USD to download the entire I Like It When You Die Album. Whether he actually sees any of the money from Earache Records is another story. That's showbiz!


IT'S GOOD TO BE: QUARATHON - A pioneer of the Black Metal movement, Quarathon fronted the Swedish metal band Bathory; who has put out at least fifteen albums, each one starting with the trademark sounds of spooky winds, and galloping horses -- groundbreaking, simply groundbreaking. Though he denies it, despite Bathory having never once performed publicly in 20 years, Quarathon was, in fact, the entire band. He played every instrument on every track, So, literally, this guy has made a 20-year career out of playing with himself. He's the Dave Grohl of Black Metal. My first exposure to Bathory was in the late 80's. While in high school, I convinced my parents to give me a ride to the mall so I could buy metal albums. I saw the second Bathory album, The Return, looking really evil on the rack. I bought it, even though I had never heard Bathory before, but I was tripping my balls off on acid at the time. When I got home I put the album on and listened to it through my headphones. At some point during the song "Born For Burning", I became convinced I was actually possessed by Lucifer. I hid the record under my bed, and prayed to God that The Devil would release me from his bestial grip. Some might say this was an unpleasant experience, but, shit, that's what music is supposed to do - MAKE YOU FEEL SOMETHING. Kudos on that, Quarathon!



My list was written for a perfect world, which, we know by now, it is not. Instead of cooling in the Escalade, having the finest stores shut down for shopping sprees, or strolling into an awards show with some A-List bitch in tow, all of the members of JOHN'S: IT'S GOOD TO HAVE A DRIVEN FABULOUS LIFE are most likely somewhere saying:


"Sir, would you like me to super-size your order?"


If you have read this far, please flush a $20 bill down the toilet.

No Cancering

This is a week I never thought I'd be forced to suffer again. Having taken the path of least physical resistance, and dedicating my life to chain-smoking behind computers, these last seven days of manual labor in preparation for moving the office has been a shock to my delicate biochemical balance of sloth and laziness. Still, what must be done, must be done - come next weekend, my office will have been relocated to a strategically undisclosed location, which I will describe only as being in Newark, New Jersey, and, blessedly, farther away from that bastion of unattractiveness, Princeton.


Alas, I will not be able to smoke in the new facilities, so my first few weeks there will be spent alternately chewing on pen caps and huddling in the corner of my office swallowing hot needles in a cheap attempt to replace the feeling of a morning's first sweet puff of carcinogenic deliciousness. Mother of Christ, I don't know how long I'll be able to hold out. I've smoked three Newports in the first 200 words of this update alone - my lungs are chalky with tar and long-dead alveoli. The constant presence of phlegm in my throat is more soothing than the fattest, blackest breasts cradling my head; nicotine is my muse, and I, its devotee.


I never thought, while abandoning the corporate bore machine and dedicating my life to being a sick fuck, that I would one day find myself unable to kill myself at leisure, one sweet Newport at a time, mere feet away from my own office, but here we are. In a company once consisting of 100% hardcore nicotine addicts, the few and proud have been whittled down. Of thirty people, twenty-two don't smoke, and that, apparently, is enough to warrant a non-smoking policy.


Am I straying from my principles? I don't believe so, no. The national tide is turning against King Tobacco, despite the wondrous joy it has burned into so many of our lives and lungs. Already, a tax paying, God fearing American can't light a smoke in the restaurants and bars of California, New York, and Florida - what state will fall next? The residents of New Jersey, along with the rest of The Real South (Florida doesn't count - it's merely the next-to-last stop on New York's J-train to the Jewish afterlife) probably have a few more years remaining to stake their claims in the big tobacco class action suits, but I fear those days are sharply numbered.


I'm not sure when we, as citizens, lost the privilege to kill ourselves in the manner with which we believe, but it's beginning to wear painfully on me. Sure, Big Tobacco has purposefully deceived the public into becoming nicotine junkies by using highly toxic, addictive chemicals, but so what? McDonald's sells processed yak rectums and god-only-knows what else in their McNuggets, then promotes them as "now [being] made with all white meat!" Yes, white yak rectums dipped in sweet and sour sauce - delish. Fox News sells conservative agendas to fat people in Kansan trailers under the banner of "Fair and Balanced News" - but I wouldn't deny them the right to watch it in a bar if they so choose!


I don't know. Maybe I'm just pissed off about this manual labor, and I'm taking it on the poor, defenseless blog. Sorry about that, buddy - you want a smoke?

Blushin' Russian Brides

I think it's time for me to settle down. My wild oats have been sown quite thoroughly, and in my years on this stinking marble, I've been fortunate enough to make money, do drugs with celebrities, travel the world, and fuck tons of women (often one ton at a time) - and all for doing little more than being the insufferable asshole that I was born to be. The past is rife with excitement, but the future is ripe for much more, and I want to have with whom to share it.

Too bad American girls are all bitches. "I need money for such-and-such," "Women's lib means I don't have to wash that so-and-so," "No, I won't swallow your blah blah blah," - yeah, fuck off.

I don't need to blow my hard-earned loot on an uppity American princess - not when there are foreign women willing to indenture themselves to me and my every whim because they can hardly afford a loaf of bread in their own countries! Yeah, it sounds strange, I know, but I'm deadly serious:


I want a Russian mail-order bride.

Of course, these days, the term "mail-order bride" is rather dated. The Internet, with its vast applications for research, education, and illicit celebrity sex videos, is also an ideal place to meet Russian women who want nothing more than to leave their hovels and come live with me. This all started when I met this guy in a bar, who told me that his business is, setting up guys like me with hot Russian women to date and, if the "chemistry" works out, marry. They arrange thousands of meetings every year through multiple services like providing a girl's contact info, all the way up to booking you into a and arranging dinner with you, an interpreter, and the "bride-to-be" .

The foreign bride concept carries a stigma to some people. "Don't you think you're just exploiting these girls" situations?" they ask. . Have you ever been to Eastern Europe or Russia? The men over there are the most chauvinistic, abusive pricks I've ever met - they treat their women like such shit, by comparison, even I look like a stand-up gentleman. And it doesn't hurt that my money is worth a hundred times .

So I spent all day browsing through 30,000+ women, and I think I've narrowed it down to four.

So, which one should be the future Mrs. Alim (yeah, fuck off stalker...)? Right now, I'm leaning towards Olga, if only because her hobbies include "being taken photos". As a professional writer, I feel it is important I marry a girl who can't speak the English language, and as a pseudo-pornographer, she will have plenty of opportunities for "being taken nasty nekkid photos". Mrs. . Mrs. . Aw, fuck it - I'll just call her Vodka Breath.

But enough about me - let's talk about you. For starters, you might have noticed all of the above are at least moderately willing to fuck me. While that interesting factoid was not actually listed in their bios, it's also not entirely untrue. Many of the girls are from former communist countries, and they grew up without bars, clubs, or any of the other accoutrements of Western nightlife. In other words, their idea of a night out is staying at home and cooking. Creating a culture of Russina women with liberally-minded sexual mores is the one thing communism did right - praise Behind the Iron Curtain, all you have to do is say, "Hello, I'm American," and flash a $10 bill around, and you'll be knee-deep in poontang. It's all about the Hamiltons, baby. Even if you have no desire to get married, you would be foolish not to take advantage of this scenario. From what I understand, many of the guys who take the trip, do it just to sleep with gorgeous foreign women - two or three at a time! They're all competing for your attention because they don't want to go back to the breadlines and their abusive boyfriends, so it's up to you, as a representative of the last remaining world superpower, to sample liberally from our former foe's stockpile of thin, young nymphomaniacs - to the victor go the spoils.

Whatever your reason - whether you want a bride who doesn't know how to talk back in English, or just enjoy banging gorgeous foreign women in five-star resorts - I recommend you go. The people who run these "dating services" seem honest, and they have arranged thousands of marriages over the years. And if you don't believe non-English speaking foreign women would be interested in a fat, ridiculous-looking, big-nosed fuck like me, catch me on Flight 1603 to Moscow, this Monday.

I'll make sure Olga keeps the Vodka cold, and the free poontang nice and toasty.

You Sir, Have Led An Empty Life

My liver is in distress. For no real reason, I have gone out every single night over the last few weeks, downed beer like water and sniffed Scarface-sized mountains of weasel dust - there will be no strippers or booze tonight. My body is telling me I have only a few months before I wind up like John Belushi: dead at 33 in a hotel room, recently vacated by a hooker who shot him full a final speedball if I continue at this pace -- tragic, but par for the course.


Meanwhile, in Ahmedabad, India, an Indian Yogi named Prahlad Jani claims, through divine inspiration, he has survived for 68 years without eating, drinking, pissing, ejaculating, or shitting. A team of 400 doctors has been unable to find anything to the contrary. He has even acquired a devout group of followers that seek his spiritual strength. Now, sitting here at my laptop, licking last night’s wounds and finishing off the last few bites of General Tso’s chicken, I wonder why anyone would do something like that.


General Tso did make some first-rate chicken. He couldn’t have been a very good general if he had a chicken dish named after him. “What’s the matter General Tso – chicken?” If I were a general in the Chinese army, I would want to be notorious for a tougher sounding entree such as General Tso’s Beef or Lobster, but I never claimed to know anything about General Tso anyway. This delicious dish would easily be sixth or seventh on my list of all things I’d want to eat. It’s not bacon. It is not succulent, delicious chorizo. Hell, it’s not even fucking lasagna, and it sure ain’t a Hamdog, but, still, it’s delicious.


The real tragedy of Prahlad Jani is that in less than half his amount of years on this planet, and a with a lot less meditation, I’ve figured out that almost every pleasure in life has to do with something entering or exiting your body. I mean, this idiot has gone 68 years without even taking a refreshing piss? Not to mention, he has lived 68 years without roughing up the suspect? Why does this man insist on creating his own Hell on Earth? Hell comes later, and I’ll be seeing all of you there. Besides, Hell is where all the interesting people will be.


This guy just sounds like a more successful David Blaine.


Guess what, David? You’ve been outdone – big time. As a matter of fact, this dude is blowing you away! Blaine once spent 42 days suspended in a glass box next to London's Tower Bridge, with water his only sustenance. YAWN. In the past, Blaine was buried alive for a week. It’s too bad someone remembered to dig him up. DOUBLE YAWN. The magician has even stood atop a 2-foot-wide pillar nearly 10 stories tall in New York City for two days and two nights, and then, at the last hour, in a state of utter exhaustion, jumped off the pillar on live TV. YAWN-O-RAMA!


David Blaine, you are 68 years from being #1. Why don’t you go ahead and join the temple of Ambaji, so you can at least do a little glory-leaching. Both of you can wander into the nearest desert for a bit of friendly competition. My money is on the yoga guy; he can do 42 days without food or water standing on his head, and probably has. Together, you can follow each other like two brainless lemmings, deep into the wasteland. You don’t want to be the second best magic stunt fag on Earth, do you, Dave? I’ll give him 30 days out there -- max, before, during the final agonizing moments of his life, the vultures will commence to circle, ready to peel the flesh from his corpse. As David Blaine’s carcass begins to decay, additional vultures will gather to feast.


Exhausted, Prahlad Jani will have to stop to nourish himself with more yoga. Then, through divine intervention, a plate of General Tso’s chicken will magically fall from the sky. There he will face a choice: eat General Tso’s chicken, in order to obtain the get-up-and-go to escape, or continue doing yoga until his eyes are pecked from his cranium by ravenous vultures.


Obviously, I would go with the chicken, but after 68 years of not eating, he’ll be pretty set in his ways, and would probably choose a martyr’s death at the beaks of carnivorous birds. Those who live by the sword, die by the sword. Your carcass will serve as a reminder to impressionable youth that:


You, sir, have led an empty life.


I gotta go -- the pizza delivery guy is here,

Benedict Arnold

-----Original Message-----
From: michael v***o [mailto:michaelv***o@yahoo.com]
Sent: Tue 11/27/2003 3:56 PM
Subject: Bush

Hey a big "Fuck you " to your Benedict Arnold traitor ass. you should be hanged. You probably would suck As Qaidas Asshole. What may I ask have you ever done for this country besides complained about it? you never served, you just a white suburban yuppie traitor! Someone cut your dick off and shove it in your ear!!!!!

John Responds:

Once again, a true red-white-and-blue blooded American patriot abandons all logic in vehement defense of his country and his president. I issue a simple opinion in the land of Free Speech condemning our elected Bush for blowing a day playing with turkeys, and suddenly I'm against everything American. Well, let me take a brief moment to straighten your hat of ass on that hollow head of yours, Mr. Patriot.

The wonder of living in this hallowed land, is the innate ability to say whatever the fuck I want, and have a shitload of sick fucks such as yourself pay me 3 seconds attention before moving on to internet porn. This was a gift I've been granted by where my mother shit me out, and continued by paying my good green tax dollars to pay politician salaries, buy high-tech killer weapons, and occasionally, throw a penny into the fragile piggy bank called Social Security. Precisely because I'm here, I'm allowed to mock feeble-minded worthless shit such as George Bush, myself, and on this precious occasion, you, without censor or fear of repercussion.

You ask me what I've done for this country besides complain about it? Besides live in it, work in it, generate tax for it, spend my money in it, defend it when talking to my foreign freak friends about it, and wait…serve 5 years in the military? Oh, I suppose nothing, since obviously to a genius like you, any service must be military to qualify. Oops, but that would completely eliminate every single person on the Presidential Cabinet except Colin Powell. None of your neo-conservative war-crying blood-money robbing fucks served a single day. Your "heroes" just plain didn't serve. So when you start swinging that "white suburban yuppie traitor" gun around the room, be careful you don't shoot yourself, because every government official behind this Iraqi clusterfuck is exactly that, a thief stealing from the old and the poor and hiding the money in a oil drilling rig, or in an offshore account, or behind stock dividends which are now surprisingly "tax free" thanks to your Republican leadership.

I love America, I love the concept the place was built on, the balls those boys had to pack up and cross the ocean, tell Britain to fuck off, and speak their mind. I love a place where your opinion not only matters, but you have free reign to say it as loudly and as often as you like. And my opinion right now is that you, Michael V***o, are a fucktard, a hypocritical hypersensitive ass who took an attack on a perfectly worthless President and turned it into a personal attack against the United States. I represent everything American, and as a libertine, sodomizing, tax-paying, gun-toting, American tobacco smoking, Kentucky bourbon drinking redneck, I embody everything the Stars and Stripes flies over. Calling George Bush a pussy isn't traitorous. It's fucking American. And if you want to come on down to my office with your pocketknife and "put my dick in my ear", you're more than welcome to take a jab, cause in the Land of the Free, that will grant me free license to pump you full of buckshot, piss in your mouth, and make you my new marijuana flowerpot.

Something about Mondays just doesn’t work for me…