Hijacked By Hippies

I went to see Michael Moore’s Fahrenheit 9/11 this past Sunday night. I had to get advance tickets on MovieFone.com because I had heard about the crowds. When I arrived at the theatre, MovieFone.com (you owe me twenty bucks, assholes) was down so the show I had already bought tickets for was now sold out and I wound up having to pony up again to catch the next movie showing. Long lines were already forming for the next show and when they finally opened the doors. My girl and I were trampled by line-cutters like the last metal-heads making for the fire exit at a Great White concert. From there we were hassled over seats, my date had her breasts fondled by some dickhead at the snack bar and then some rude-ass, black, French fucks tried to bum our popcorn off us. This is the far left? Peace, love, tolerance, and all that shit? Goddamn! What kinds of dicks are coming out to this flick anyway?

The only group of people in America that would actually smell better dead…

HIPPIES! GOD DAMN, FUCKING WORTHLESS, SELF-RIGHTEOUS, TWO-FACED, ARROGANT, STUPID STINKING HIPPIES!

Should Michael Moore’s vision of America come to fruition, this is the sad portrait of what America could look (and smell) like. I’ve received a lot of email from right-wingers, which accused me of being a liberal (or whatever). Take your collective dicks off of Rush Limbaugh’s chin for one second. If I had the power I would instate the following:

Mandatory Abortions: When some slut in America gets knocked up abortions should be automatic. Unless there is some legitimate reason why the bitch should procreate - it’s off to the clinic for the federally subsidized $400 scramble.

Public Executions of the Homeless: Do I really need to expound on this one? It makes perfect sense. Clean of the streets while creating a multimillion-dollar spectator sport! Think about the $$$!

Mandatory Breast Augmentation: All chicks C-cup and below or with flapjack boobs will be sent off for state funded boob-jobs.

Not so liberal, eh? I though you would be surprised…

It’s true. I don’t like Bush, but I have an even bigger hatred for hippies. Dubya may have usurped the Presidency, but hippie culture has systematically fucked up tons of things for me. Roger Waters quit Pink Floyd because he was sick of the hippies at their shows. I used to love Hacky-Sack until I was downwind of too many putrid, malodorous Pachouli-crusted, hippies in tie-dyes, playing the game. After that, I had to retire my hack. Primus was one of my perennial favorites, until I went to one of their shows a couple months ago. Who was now following Les Claypool like he was Jerry Garcia? HIPPIES! GODDAMN, FUCKING WORTHLESS, STICKING, SACKS-OF-SHIT, HIPPIES!

Why should I let them win? Because “You are who you rub elbows with.” I ain’t gonna be a goddamn stupid fucking hippie!

Now, they’ve come for Michael Moore.

Enough about the hippies for a minute, do I really think it might effect this next election? Nah. For anyone who went to see this film this weekend your verdict was already out on Bush. Like anything that gets too big, there is always a backlash. It’s popular to bash Bush, but what about the Bush-Bashing-Backlash? It might hit just in time for November. Bush may actually get bashed back into office if we’re not careful. Ranking on the President is about to be as played out as your Members Only jacket.

So what about Fahrenheit 9/11? It is a powerful piece of film. If you’ve already read Stupid White Men or Dude Where’s My Country then you already know everything that will be covered. Like everything else from Moore, it is well-researched propaganda from the extreme left, but it’s definitely worth watching.

However…

It’s too bad it will all be lost on those stinking-ass, stupid, fucking hippies!

Take A Shower Bitches!

Flapjacks At A Waffle House

This can't be happening. I am sure that I am dreaming. The magnetic poles are doing a square dance and Lucifer is serving grape flavored Italian ices in Winnipeg with one of those Sharper Image personal neck-air conditioners. None of this is real, but it is. Ok, historically when I decide to write a good homepage (with clever history tid-bits wrapped in good ole drug induced, violence laden lunacy littered with comic book references (Deus Ex Machina kicks fucking ass!)) I call myself doing a bit of research before I put finger to key. I usually stay up all night trying to find something or usually someone obscure enough on which to base my whimsical little prose. I demand that I learn something. Once I'm able to wrap all that chaos into a few cohesive paragraphs I scour the web for the perfect image to represent the feel of my precious new article. Well tonight, something changed. Something wasn't right. Marvel resurrected Bucky Barnes, Spielberg re-edited Raiders, New Coke is on every grocery shelf because when I did an Image search on Google.com for the word "pimp" all the images, save half a dozen…were of white people.

I'd been stewing about my latest article for almost four whole days. It was going to be about the fictional "Pimp-Olympics" to which I would have been sent, by my tyrannical and terminally white oppressors, to cover and for which I was to provide commentary. It was great! I had blocked out the article and how I wanted it to flow, knowing where I wanted to plug the 400 Meter Pimp-Slap jokes, where I was going to make the synchronized Hoe-Punch references and at what point I'd harp on the Kicked In The Stomach And Hunched Over Hoe Hurdles. It would be magnificent. It would quite possibly be my best work this year, if not to date. Then…. You'll have to forgive me, as this is quite difficult.

I went to Google.com early. I should've finished the outline I'd started first, but I didn't. I was rash and reckless. Had I waited until after I finished the article to look for a caption picture, maybe the gods who sip upon Milk and Jack Daniel's would have grinned upon my beige-ish, Greek-American hide and the horror to which I was privy could have been averted. Alas, I didn't finish my outline first. I typed the letters "p-i-m-p" into Google, I hit enter, I saw the first picture of the one dude in the yellow, I saw the little South Park character, I went page after page after page after page, … and I began to cry at what I saw. We've gotten to a point where we're so afraid of offending someone that we're overlooking some of the very things that make the life we live so vivid and worth living.

It would be like not being able to find any record of a white President.

Feel me?

The Horror Hits Home

This morning started out like any other. I arrived at the office shortly before a quarter till 10am, gave a warm hello to Joe (G’Mirnin), put on a pot of coffee and sat down to my morning task of checking my email for 2 hours before I take lunch. Satisfied with the amount of emails I had, I skimmed through them all. To my bewilderment I found only one unread email in my inbox. To my horror it read the following:

Dearest Filthy Porn Peddlers,

We the chosen few known only as The Shove Of Allah, They Who Annoy Muhammad, The 14 Who Sleep Naked In His Countenance or The Heavy Pet of Sudan have successfully abducted your prized black man. Unless our demands are met, your precious colleague will be anal raped by our black ops division known only as Evil Betty. Evil Betty will fuck your black man like he’s never been fucked before on a table with soft music playing. Once Evil Betty has caused your friend to lose consciousness with the Mighty Rod Of Allah, your friend and his sooty genitals will be liquefied and fed into the Mighty Weather Machine Formerly of Cobra Command Though Currently Of Allah.

Our Demands Are As Follows:


1) We demand the release of a sequel to the 1981 film Flash Gordon
2) We demand the recall of the sequel to Escape From New York
3) We demand the divorce of J-Lo and Mark Anthony
4) We demand the nuptials of Paris Hilton to Tommy Lee and a midget dressed like Captain America (shield and all).
5) Finally, we demand the release of all political yahoo’s, blah, blah, blah, Allah, bacon, burn in hell, virgins and so on….

You have eleventy-two hours to comply.

End of line.

P.S. We would’ve taken the funny light-skinned one but he didn’t look black enough.

Ronnie, Ray And Richard

I’ll just come out and say it. J-Lo’s marriage to Mark Anthony killed President Regan and musical institution Ray Charles. I fear that the end of this marriage will kill Richard Pryor. What is one to do? It’s not like I could actually “save” Mr. Pryor from the hand of death at the exact moment these two gifts to mankind say “I don’t anymore, fuck you” to one another. But what if I could? How could I save Richard Pryor from the evil that is the inevitable end of J-lo’s marriage?

I’d have to be crafty, that’s how. Like, conspiracy – crafty.

First, we’d have to draw the attention of the world away from these newlyweds. What’s the fastest way to distract the attention of the world? We’ve got options. There’s rape, theft, murder, extortion, bribery, blackmail and treason. It doesn’t have to be real this is television we’re talking about. We could pick up a copy of Vibe Magazine, clip out a fuck ton of pictures of Nelly, photoshop him wearing a Ham-burglar mask holding a butter knife, with a pyramid of gold bricks, a billy-club and a pot leaf and spread via the internet and public access television that he’s a suspect in a robbery that went awry because he and G-Unit got stoned before the heist.

Secondly, we’d have to up the ante. Make it worse. We’ve got to have poor Mr. Nelly lose his shit, the life of a comedic legend hangs in the balance! The best way to make black men look like demons is to make it look like we’ve beaten a white woman. That’s right, I said it. All we need is a video of Nelly’s, Adobe Premier and a blank DVD to make it look like Nelly is jesus-beating the evil whiteness out of some female cop, muttering unintelligible jargon with each blow “…and you’re stapler (slap), that goddamn cat (slap), that fucking cereal you eat (double-slap), …”

Then finally we bring it home. We’ve got to put the mayo on the toast, sling a goo-stream in the hooker’s eye, make it worth admission. Nelly’s got to kill someone in an escape attempt. Somebody has to die in order to use Nelly to save Richard Pryor. It would have to be someone old who’s going to die soon anyway. Someone the public adores, someone who actually made a difference. Someone like….Richard Pryor!

It makes perfect sense! Save Richard Pryor from J-Lo’s divorce by framing Nelly for robbing, bribing, blackmailing, extorting, raping and murdering Richard Pryor while working for the North Koreans!

That works on a cosmic level and the stoned level. Just like I said, conspiracy-crafty.

Lucid Thoughts

I absolutely HATE it when people try to tell me about their dreams. “Dude, do you wanna hear about this dream I had” has become the question, above all others, which I detest, nay… fear the most. To me it comes across as someone’s last-ditch effort to sound interesting by sharing what little soap opera their subconscious plays for them at night. I mean honestly, someone could completely make up a pointless series of unrelated events, preface it with “I had this dream” and chat someone’s neck off without having to worry about that someone questioning the credibility of said dream. Who the fuck cares? I’m about as interested in your dreams as I am interested in your poetry. Get it?

Having said that I’d like to share with you a dream that I had.

Well, it can’t really be qualified as a dream as I don’t think I was sleeping. Then again if laying face down in my own urine after trying to drink sixteen gallons of sweet tea with lemon to prove my point that oxygenated blood flowing into the human liver from the hepatic artery flows more easily when spiked with lemon and sugar as sleep, then sure. As it stood, I was pretty much immobile from the chest down. Gallon 9 had turned out to be a bigger bitch than all of my ex-girlfriends swirled into one giant SUPER bitch and the only thing I could do was cry, not unlike a snotty 9 year-old who just broke his Transformer. I cursed the world we live in and laid praise for all that is depriving and empty. The hour was approaching midnight and all around me was dark. A cool breeze whispered around my feet and I soon found myself standing before a loud and forceful light. A voice came out of it saying unto me “John, you have lost sight of the path upon which you travel. Tonight, three spirits will visit you. Heed their words in hope that you might save yourself.” A refreshing cloud climbed around me and I found myself back on my kitchen floor, face down in my tea pee.

I gathered myself as much as I could, tossed my clothes into a hamper and staggered to the shower. The stereo was still on and as I bathed I began humming along with that new song by Seal that just won’t for the love of god fucking stop. Suddenly there was another voice singing along with me in the bathroom. My first thought was that one of the dogs had somehow gained a masterful control of its lips and decided to chime in but as the voice grew louder and more human, I knew I was in trouble. I yanked the shower curtain back with a fright to find Paul, dressed in a toga sitting on my commode with his pants around his ankles. He was reading my comics but more importantly he was bending them (!). I shrieked like a woman from a sitcom finale and fell back into the tub.

“What the hell are you doing here?” I squealed with an accusing finger outstretched.

“Relax, “ He said. “Paul is still away on company business. I’m the Ghost of Sickness Past I’ve just chosen his form. Hey, I’ve got something to show you.” He helped me out of the tub and in a blink I was dressed just like him in a toga. The bathroom filled with a mist once more and suddenly we were back in the old office watching Paul and I working late. The Ghost stood behind me in silence as I looked on. These were the good ole days. Cigarette after cigarette was smoked, beer after beer was tossed back. We sat six feet apart but only communicated via Instant Messenger. I even chuckled a bit watching myself later roll a joint at my desk once I made sure that Paul was asleep and farting at his. This was a warm feeling. This was all before our near deaths upstream, long before Rick and I shot up Nevada (a story left for another time) and seemingly eons before I eventually got another ride. This was my dysfunction at its infancy. I was wide-eyed and bushy-balls. Something had changed since then though. Had I indeed lost sight of the path I was on?

I turned to face the Ghost only to find him hunched over with his arm up his ass to his elbow. He was hopping around like a madman but tried to compose himself when he noticed me watching. He apologized profusely and explained that (being a ghost) he’d forgotten what it was like to have an asshole that actually led somewhere. He slowly started shrinking and he waved goodbye. In a wink he was no smaller than a crumb and blew away in the wind.

“You’re actually a better actor than you are a writer, you know.” A familiar voice said from somewhere behind me. I grasped the upper right portion of my chest with a jump and spun around, yelling, with eyes as wide as saucers. It was Marc. Or at least it looked like Marc.

“Lemme guess, Ghost of Sickness Present, right?” I asked with my John-brand sass. “You’re here to show me something about my life right now that is a direct reflection of how I’ve changed since I’ve been working as a wage-slave? Well go ahead, have at me!"

“No, man.” He said. “It’s really me, Marc. I need you to come up with something better to write about than stupid twists on Bill Murray movies you saw on Comedy Central when you went home for lunch. It's going to end up being longer than you'd orginally planned. And by the way, if all that content you promised to have tagged isn’t done by the time we all get back…you’re dead!”

You see? It doesn’t have to make sense at all because I prefaced it with “…I’d like to share with you a dream I had”. Don’t you feel like I’ve just wasted your time? Don’t you feel that I woven a tangled web of plot and character only to tie you up in that web and kick you in the Daddy-yams? Good.