Window Pain

Sitting here drunk and stoned, listening to Hank Williams III sing about not taking trips on acid in Muskogee, I think to myself, When was the last goddamned time I tripped on acid?
Have I outgrown the drug? My drug of choice, except for the fact that I can't find the shit anywhere south of New York City, which is 50 fucking miles away. I think that maybe everyone in my age group has settled down with the hardcore stuff. So I ask every kid I run into under 18 years old if they got any acid. I work my way from the front to the back of concert venues, asking every low life degenerate I see, "Got any acid?" I hang out outside head shops, asking stoners the same question. And all I get is the same bullshit answer I'm not looking for. Some shit variation on, "Nah man, I don't know where you can get that."
For crying out loud, what's the world come to when a hard working man can't get any godforsaken acid? I remember about four years ago when I was getting the shit by the vial full, and from a fine little piece of ass at that. When and if anybody every asked me if I had any acid, I gave them a shit-eating grin, reached into my pocket, and told their punk asses to stick their tongue out. That's right. Easy as that, no questions asked.
Now I realize that most people won't sell acid to strangers, but I never sold it. I just gave the shit away. Thinking about it now, I might have made my stash last longer had I not been so generous with it, but I just wanted everyone to experience the same joy of life I was experiencing. Why in the fuck won't someone let me experience the wonder with them?
The things I have seen and done on the good LSD I can't remember so well. But the fact that I lose all sense of reality and think even more psychotic than normally gives me a warm fuzzy feeling deep inside that I can't get enough of. Forget the penalties if you're caught with the shit. My plan was always to pour all the acid inside my Binaca bottle into my mouth if the fuzz was ever close enough to busting me. Then I would finally be at the mercy of the Acid Gods, which is where the hell I strive to be anyway.
So as I continue my search for the perfect trip I will continue to poison myself with weed and alcohol until I find the person who is going to scratch my itch for hallucinogens.

To My Coy Mistress

Mrs. Right is out there waiting for me. She's chain smoking in an abortion clinic, in the shitty end of some big city, acting like she doesn't have insurance to get the state subsidized mistake eraser. Sitting there, that sad "how could he do this to me?" look on her face, arms crossed over her ample chest, heart open for a kind, caring, giving guy like me...

Let her wait. I'm not done playing yet.

The world is full of emotionally unstable women who'll do anything to fill whatever hole in their lives is emptiest at the moment. Luckily for them, we're here, the sick fucks who recognize the tender innocence of wayward college freshmen, the physical insecurities of twenty-somethings, and the raging self esteem problems of single 30ish women. If she's chunky, she thinks she's fat, and if we tell her she's not we're lying...and going to get laid. Pretty easily.

In the world of colorful neurosis, there are two fundamental groups of emotionally unbalance women: delusional, and dangerous. The first are the easiest targets: they think they're fat when they're not, or they think they're ugly when they're only a dark room and a paper bag away from being passable. Their need is emotional security. All you have to do is exploit their weakness like Thomas staring down a rookie coke dealer, and soon you'll be rolling.

The dangerous ones are more fun: they're the kind that want to fuck you dry one minute, and ignore you the next. This is perfect for Sunday afternoons: vicious African Serengeti sex, then time to watch football...while she steals your shit. They're the wily type who play hard to get, hard to pin down, then hard to get rid of, but taming these succubae is worth it. You both know you're not going to spend any significant amount of life together: she's crazy, and she knows it. So enjoy the moment. No matter what she says, that's all she wants too.

Crazy chics have it over normal ones any day. Do a line off a hooker's thong while she gobbles you from below and you'll know why churchy girls have nothing better to do on Sunday mornings than go to mass. The crazy ones are asleep on bare mattresses out there, dreaming of ball gags and impossible penetration. They're waiting, just like Mrs. Right, for that one special guy who seems to understand them, who they can open themselves up to physically, who can fill that aching hole in their lives.

I suggest you fill two or three. Just make sure to kick 'em out before they clip your stash.

To The Honorable Mr. Dogg

I have been a loyal fan for many years. I was listening to you, The Snoop D-O DOUBLE GIZZLE way back in the day of Deep Cover. Remember that shit? Yeah, that's right - 187 on a mother-fucking cop. I remember the day I started wearing lowtop Chuck Taylor's because that's what you wore. I started treating women like hoes and tricks back in the 90's, and sporting my blue rag on my right side because of you. I became a pothead stoner because I wanted to be just like Snoop. I made living selling crack cocaine because that's what the Doggfather did.

I have watched every god awful movie you have been in, including that garbage Baby Boy, because of my loyalty. I have defended every bullshit hairdo you have sported, and have attended almost every concert in and around my area. I even talked my girlfriend into buying me Snoop's Girls Gone Wild.

You, Mr. Dogg, have contributed to what rap is today. You have always been hardcore and have spit fire onto all the busters of the world. But today, Sir Dogg, I take off my Chuck Taylor's and pull my blue flag from my back pocket, because today, you have turned your back on me and every rap fan in the world. I say Fuck You Snoop. Out of all the people you could have made a song and video with, why in the fuck would you pick Justin Timberlake?

Today, you have officially sold out. There is nothing gangsta about Timberlake. Everyone knows you don't need him to get pussy, which makes it so difficult to understand why on earth you would be in the same vicinity of that bitch. For Christ sakes Snoop, the lil' bastard was a fucking Mouseketeer.

See any similarity there? Living by the codes of the streets, I hereby request that the ball be set in motion to strip you of your stripes and street cred. I ask where were your advisors when you agreed to do this song. What's next, a collaboration with a fucking American Idol contestant?
I am disgusted by your actions. Eazy E must be turning in his grave. No true gangsta would make this move. I understand that sometimes, times are tough, and bills still have to be paid, but in no way, shape or form should you have been on the same screen as that punk Timberlake, unless you were putting a boot on his head. The end of the world is right around the corner. Little Indian boys shooting schools up, zombies getting their feeding devices pulled, the Pope about to kick the bucket, and now these shenanigans. Although your songs and records have become obviously soft in recent years, things looked as though they were being kept gangsta when you and your peeps were accused of drugging and gangbanging some make-up slut on some talk show.

I expect compensation for my many loyal years of support:

10 concerts @ $45.00 = $450.00
5 cd's @$15.00 = $75.00
120lbs of mexican weed @ $240.00 a lb.= $28,880.00
25lbs of chronic weed @ $900.00 a lb = $22,500.00
1 9mm pistol @ $550.00

I'm sure that fat fucker Ruben Studdard is sitting at home waiting for your bitch ass to call to make a video with him. Thanks for deciding to sell out with Justin Timberlake, and thanks killing rap music. Fucker.

I only hope that Timberlake had nothing to do with your recent divorce.

Christ Emasculated

I wish I had two birthdays.

Never mind the other perks of starting your own religion, for nothing more than being a really good magician and dating a hooker. We can do without the tricks, pun intended. Hell, for a while there, I was dating a hooker to "save" her from her illicit lifestyle, and spent some time attempting to cure a blind man. But try as I may, nobody would believe I was any type of savior - except maybe a savior of crackwhores. So, in my efforts to get back on the track, I found a good many of the Christian folk like to imitate the antics of their icon, and go through all the trouble of being born again.

Unfortunately for Jesus, his trip down the memory hole was politely assisted by a spear and lots of tiny holes. While I have been known for grandiose gestures from time to time, I don't think my exit will be leave quite the same mark on human history. As much as I'd like to dupe billions of people into believing everything I say or write, I am a humble man. My expectations are not unreasonable, and I would be completely content if only half a million or so listened to my gospel.

But upon realizing it was already past noon, and I had yet to offer you anything on the altar of my blog today, I got to thinking about this Best Friday of all, when Christ took the fall for all of our wrongdoings. What an attention whore. Only a man whose father had been entirely absent, brought up by an adulteress and an ignorant sheepherder, could possibly have the sort of self-esteem required to resort to cheap street magic like this. And if a crowd of lepers isn't enough to fill that void left by improper parenting, why not go pro and piss off the Jews? From this perspective, the differences between this pagan martyr and myself are not so many:

• Abandoned by the biological father;
• Raised by a domineering mother who wouldn't tell the truth;
• Sought solace in simple work;
• Ran with the wrong crowd; and
• Killed ourselves to be better liked.

Christ, if I didn't know better, I'd think I should have been born a woman - at least that way I might have employed other means to get the approval of strange men. With a psychological profile like that, the only thing that separated Jesus Christ from the rabble was fast talk and a well-placed spear.

Shotguns And Missouri

We loaded the car with essentials - CDs, charts, alcohol, condoms, handgun — and headed south on the great concrete anaconda. This was the summer of 2003, with my girlfriend Amanda beside me and a score to settle. I was going to drive up the horizon and punch the sun in the face for waking me up so damn early. I expected that, at some point, we would cross into Arkansas.
We took a detour through Springfield, Missouri.

Springfield has the Bass Pro Shops world headquarters, with tens of thousands of square feet of interesting and fun ways to kill nature. Fuck vegetarians. We went to the hunting department and groped rifles, ran our fingers over loaded ammo, then Amanda asked, "So what kind of shotgun is good for me?" I told her. She whipped out the Masterchargecard and bought one, right then and there, a 20 gauge pump and a box of yellow cartridges. The trip was getting interesting.

We hit Branson and drove the gauntlet of billboards for vaudeville shows, a forest in the forest, hocking everything from Yakov Smirnoff's standup routine to the Haygoods' music revue. My car topped out at 94 when the governor tripped and cut the fuel injection to the engine, and the signs still weren't passing by fast enough. Rocketing past Branson, catching air on the Ozark hills, 94 was too slow - we still caught the stench of dentures from tour buses loaded with the elderly crowding the Vegas of Missouri.

Somewhere into Arkansas we stopped at a roadside produce stand. They were selling strawberries and I had to piss. The girl behind the counter charged me four dollars for two pounds of berries and I asked her where we could shoot. Amanda's shotgun called from the car, she called from behind the strawberry stand, and we couldn't take it anymore. You have to play with new toys. So the girl told me "Shit, yo'n shoot an'where down that road, jes don' shoot ma dogs nor an'one's house or they's gonna shoot you." Her grammar turned the strawberries sour. "Ah shoot thar all da time," she continued. She had about as many teeth as a football, with a similar shaped forehead, so I couldn't resist.

"That's sexy, where'd you learn to shoot?" I asked. Amanda heard me and started laughing.

"Ma daddy taught me, he's a bodyguard in da Mexican biker gang 'round here."

I choked on a berry, stared at her blonde hair and blue eyes, her backwoods skin and WWF t-shirt.

"You're white," was all I could manage.

"I know! There ain't a lot uh Mexicans up here, see'n how we don't get on with 'em so much, so it's an all white Mexican biker gang."

Her father is a bodyguard in an all white Mexican biker gang in Arkansas. We're about to fire a shotgun randomly into a hillside along a road somewhere north of Little Rock.

And this didn't strike her as odd in the least.

Bang Cock

There are few traveling ills a night in Bangkok can't fix.

It was about 7 years ago, and the Thai government impounded our plane for the Bangkok-NY flight. This destroyed our schedule, but they put us up in town. My friend Crazy and I asked the hotel bellhop about the nightlife and where to score gallons of Tiger Beer. He took off work and the three of us hopped a cab. I crossed the language barrier with wild gestures, convincing him that we wanted to hit the biggest club with the hottest women and the loosest morals. We arrived at Club Morgan ten minutes later.

Imagine a trendy New York nightclub, the kind you want Great White to burn down just to kill the yuppies inside. Now pack it with four foot tall hotties and funny little men. That was Club Morgan. We started the night with a demonstration of American alcoholism to make Augusta A Busch swell up with pride. It's hard to coyly grind someone whose chest is crotch-height and doesn't understand your dirty come-ons. Several rounds later, I hit the bathroom. Standing there taking a leak, I feel meaty hands clamp down on my shoulders. I whip half around, spraying the Thai hipster next to me, and confront a tiny man in a yellow shirt. He backs away -- the sight of an angry American peeing sideways on some punk was a bit intimidating.

So I turn around and the hands come back down. Alright, it's a cultural thing I guess. No need starting an international incident. I'm just here to party. Then he starts rubbing my shoulders. That was it. I turned around, growled, and stormed towards the door. He ran ahead of me to a sink, turned it on, soaped his hands...then faced me, soapy hands reaching out for mine. Oh fuck no. I blew past him, grabbed Crazy and the bellhop, and snagged the first taxi. Clubs suck. Let's see some titties.

The shows in Bangkok are amazing. We watched a pretty little thing shoot ping pong balls from her cootch with such deadly precision she could be a Bond villain. Peeling a banana without using her hands was not as impressive, except for the sheer impossibility of an entire banana disappearing into someone as thick as a tabletop.

We step back into the sweltering night and wiped our eyes to clear the image of an elephant staring at us from beside a newspaper machine. It didn't help. There actually was an elephant standing there, eyeing us with the suspicion of a meth junkie. Some guy is selling bags of peanuts. Wasted, horny, and just damned curious, we buy a bag and feed the elephant. It gulps the whole thing like a hot chic's fat friend turned loose in McDonald's.

We used gestures again to tell our guide it was time for a local club where we can pick up women without fear of AIDS or having to pay them. He took us to see a drag queen band that specialized in Madonna songs. A few more rounds of Tiger under our belts, and some insanely cheap Jaeger shots later, this pretty little thing I tucked under my arm starts telling me to go on stage and sing with the band. Hell no. She wields her broken English like a busted bottle in a bar fight, goading me on, promising sinful things of which the Buddha would not approve. Then she goes and pushes me over the edge -- her mouth dives onto my thigh and she bites with the strength of a bear trap...and won't let go. Crazy leans over the table, yells "Welcome to Bangkok," smacks her ass, and I lose a small chunk of prime thigh real estate.

She isn't getting anywhere near the cock.

Crazy and I leave the bar several bloody bites later. The bellhop knows just the place for drunken Americans to finish their Bangkok night, but he doesn't have the English to tell us. Our cab pulls up alongside a throng of the most gorgeous Asian women this side of Japanese cartoon porn. If this is what they look like outside, man, what're we in for inside?

We're in for what looks like a rundown Waffle House. Booths line the walls, tables and chairs fill the center, a strange pollution hangs in the air and there's no music. But there are hot Asian women...sitting at tables with old European men. Dirty, old European men. But still, the women inside are hot, so we find a table and rack our addled brains to figure what form of deranged perversion we can find. He leans across the table and says "Outside, 300 baht. Very dirty, very bad. Inside, you go bathroom, you take 500 baht! You have very good time!"

A brothel? In Bangkok? How novel! But why does it look less like the set of a porno, and more like a truck stop in Kansas? This was strange indeed, and we would have pondered further, but I caught the blinking red light of a video camera three tables over. I looked over and saw a sketchy French man in a crunchy overcoat. He stared back at me through his camera. I didn't fly all the way to Bangkok to get busted by some asshole with a camera. And I'm not going to end up on his spank-o-vision in France. Crazy and I bolt back into the night, through the throng of women, the forest of tits and asses and hands grabbing our nether regions with the sweet coos of "fucky fucky?" filling the air.

Ah, Bangkok...you can lay me over anytime.

A Belly Full Of Jesus

While most of the normal world spent their St. Patrick's Day celebrating their lazy Irish counterparts by consuming vast quantities of green-dyed Coors Light and punching each other in the face, I got suckered into attending the most morally depraved and ignorant gathering known to the human race:

A Southern Baptist revival.

Suffice to say, if I had known at the time I would have been spending one of my favorite celebrations of rampant alcoholism stuck all night in a tent with a couple hundred inbred redneck shitmops with a hardon for Jesus Christ, I would have kicked myself in the balls repeatedly until comatose. That way, I might have spent St. Paddy's day stuck in a hospital bed drooling on my own chest while the morphine drip delivered me to paradise. Instead, I was forced to listen a youth pastor feed the teenagers at the revival some tripe about how Jesus was "X-treme!". Did you know Jesus was the FIRST dude to show the world that piercing was hip? Neither did I.

Anyway, what started off this night was about two months ago, a co-worker of mine got me some tickets to go to, in his own words, "a wild game BBQ cook off". Far be it from me, folks, to pass up the chance to consume all forms of wildlife and furry little creatures for FREE...especially when slathered in sweet and spicy barbeque sauce. Bambi is good eatin', and I don't care WHO says otherwise. So, of course, I told the guy "Yeah, yeah. Sure thing. March 17, uh huh, ok. I'll see you there, buddy." How the fuck was I supposed to know that it was going to be on St. Paddy's day? Shit, I can't even remember my own birthday most of the time. When the big day arrived, I sort of sucked it up and decided to just go "check it out". Who could it hurt?, I told myself. I'll go eat some wild game, and leave quickly to go fuck off somewhere at a bar. Sounded like a plan, right?

Wrong.

I pull up to the place and immediately see these damning words, emblazoned for all the world to see:

CHRISTIAN Revival Wild Game X-travaganza! Praise The Lord!

Praise the fucking lord, indeed. So I promptly flipped a bitch and drove to my friend's house and decided that some chaotic mindfuckery was in store for these cocksuckers. I told my boy Spyder that there was free food, and he hopped in my car. No questions asked. Spyder is a Viking of a man. Dirty. Unshaven. And morally depraved. Complete with spiked leather trenchcoat and a dreadlocked mohawk, he looks very much like a psychotic Charles Manson/Road Warrior hybrid. And I'm pretty much just a tattooed scumbag, so yeah. As we walked into the place, all I heard was "Ride Of the Valkyries" playing in my head. "THE HEATHENS ARE COMING! THE HEATHENS ARE COMING!", some woman shouted.

Damn right, bitch, and we're here to eat all your precious barbequed game and fuck your daughters. Ass to mouth style. You should have seen it, fellow sick fucks. It was truly a memorable moment when we walked in. The shitty Little River tribute band screeched to a halt in mid-twang and everyone stopped what they were doing and stared in horror at the sight of us. It was like a redneck cesspool in there, all camouflage and John Deere hats. We pushed little children aside and gobbled up the free food like Kirstie Alley at Ryan's Steakhouse. I blew my nose into the coleslaw and farted in the face of a wheelchair-bound old lady, who desperately clawed at her face in disgust with one hand while the other held up a half-chewed buttered roll as a makeshift weapon in some futile attempt to cleanse me of my demons. But the joke is on her, for my demons are old and powerful, existing since a time before man was even a twinkle in God's eye. And behind all of this, some creepy reverend was onstage rambling on about some nonsense of how the food we were eating tonight was in fact the body of Christ himself. And my last thought was, as armed security dragged us kicking and cursing out of the revival, was:

"Well, I'll be confuckled! Jesus sure does taste pretty fucking good slathered in coleslaw and Carolina sweet mustard sauce."

The Ides Of March

While St. Patrick's may mean a pint of Guiness and Shamrocks to some, the month of March means much more to me -- namely losing two months salary on March Madness, the ponies starting to run live again, getting drunk on the green beer and, the very best of the batch, Spring Motherfucking Break! Yes, that's right, shitloads of drunken, dickstarved college sluts and their douchebag fraternity fags will make their way to locations around the globe for a week of complete and total madness. And there's nothing wrong with that.

Unless, of course, you do it wrong.

And I’m here to let those who will be making the journey to South Padre Island TX / Matamoros Mexico in on a few things. With my advice, you should make it back to whatever college daddy is paying for without "The Man" holding you down at the border. First things first, driving down will be the easy part. Right before you get to the beach, you'll get to a city called Port Isabel, a nice little town and there is no going around the sonuvabitch. The speed limit is 30. Go 29. Those asshole cops will give you a speeding ticket for anything over 30, every goddamn time. No bullshitting. Once you hit the causeway, go as fast as you want, but watch for any gaping holes in middle. Not to long ago, a barge hit the bridge, collapsed parts into the river and a bunch of poor bastards fell about 80 feet to a watery death.

Now we're off to a place where it starts to get really fun. Nothing beats driving 20 minutes to Mexico to drink dollar beers that come with a complimentary shot of tequila. There are very few rules to go by when you're there, but rules there are, so listen carefully:

Rule 1: No pissing in publicI have seen this firsthand on more than one occasion, when some stupid drunk fuck from, lets say, America, pisses in the street. Guilty as charged. And drunk fuck learns how Mexican State Police ride 14 deep in the back of big ass Dodge Ram trucks, each strapped with an automatic weapon. Let a group of those motherfuckers catch you pissing in public and feel the wrath of the MSP. More than likely, you'll get the bottom end of an AK-47 to the back of the head before pissing all over yourself while catching several boots with each and every part of your body. Then your bitch ass can pay the good men a hefty little bribe, or you can go to jail to get your ass kicked some more, then pay your bribe. Either way, it's your choice.
Rule 2: No fighting.I know, I know, nothing beats drunken fighting in the streets, but the same assholes who will fuck you up for pissing in public, will really beat the living shit out of you for fighting. Trust me. There are more of them. Save the fighting for the good ole United States.

Rule 3: Get your drugs, and get gone.If and when buying prescription medication without a prescription at a Mexican pharmacy get your shit and get the fuck out. Quick. A lot of those sons of bitches will narc you out before you get out the door, And then we're back to bribing Mexican police. So let's review: Get your shit, and get the fuck out. Quick. And be prepared to possibly get questioned and / or searched when getting to the U.S. Shouldn't be too bad, especially during Spring Break. 20 or 30 tabs of Vicodin inside a balloon, stuck up your ass in a car for several hours, that isn't bad at all. So I've heard, I mean. ahem

So let's say you make it back from Mexico alive and manage to not run your drunken friends off the fucking causeway. You still have to drive back to your God forsaken college lives. Now here's the bad part for any of you who may be traveling back with a little contraband. A little less than 3 hours north, there is a United States Border Patrol check point. If you blinked on the way down, you probably missed the place, but that motherfucker is there. About a mile and a half before you reach it, you may see flashing signs that say something like "Drug Searches Up Ahead, Slow Down".

Whatever in the fuck you do, do not stop and do not turn around.

I repeat, do not stop and do not turn around. Your bitch college student asses will be pulled over so quick, you won't know what happened. So let's assume you don't panic and make it to the actual checkpoint, this is where you have to be real cool. The agents will tell you're nervous just by looking at your eyes. Just get completely stoned beforehand, play it cool, and you're good to go.

Your ass is on your own from there. I got you to and from the beach, out of Mexico with drugs and past the check point. My job is done. You're welcome very much. Now party on, fuckers!

P.S. On the way from the beach to Mexico there is a city called Brownsville. Most motherfuckers there run around with a short temper, especially toward loud, obnoxious, drunk gringos. Be cool, don't mean mug anyone and you should be able to breeze right by.

Where's Rusty

Hey, ladies! Can we stop the social experimentation before someone gets killed? Oops, too late. Someone did. Several good people were killed by an evil one last week courtesy of the Fulton County justice system, favored by criminals and NFL players everywhere by a 3-1 margin for it's emphasis on out-patient jailing. But to be fair, DA Paul Howard did get Jamal Lewis off the streets. God knows how many cell phone calls couldn't get through because he was busy gabbing about drugs on his Nokia.

A rapist was led into his hearing unhandcuffed by a female baliff. The evil man overpowered the female, which came as quite a surprise to everyone except those with at least 2 senses, took her gun, then shot the judge on the bench, another deputy, and a female court reporter. Are we in Mayberry or Medellin? And how many breaths did SCOTUS' own Judge Anthony "From a moral standpoint, it would be misguided to equate the failings of a minor with those of an adult" Kennedy take before finding out the perpetrator was over the age of 18?

Once again, as we watch our North Fulton tax dollars flush into the coffers of that inept little dyke Shotlanta has for a mayor, the latest in a long line of the-rotten-to-the-core Maynard Jackson legacies, we are reminded that social engineering and big city political patronage always bears fruit in an innocent's coffin. And this tree had an awful lot of fertilizer. Mixing a violent black multiple offender whose official government victim status precludes him from being cuffed and affords him the luxury of being escorted to court by an overweight female bailiff, certainly would look like a leading indicator of a bumper harvest of trouble.

"This is a profound shock. It's so unthinkable, it's like a 9-11 at the courthouse," said fellow Judge Craig Schwall. I'm just curious why this judge doesn't think it's perfectly normal for a criminal suspect to massacre people in a courtroom and escape from the 8th floor of the building in record time? I don't know about 9/11, but 3/11 is really getting out of hand. Last year in Spain, and this year in Atlanta, if avoidable tragedies are becoming the hallmark of March 11, then we would be wise to at least make St. Patrick's Day an official government holiday to ease the pain. With all due respect, the unthinkable only happens when people in charge are not thinking, Your Honor. Here's a little "Honey Do" list for the folks in Fulton County government, and other interested parties who don't wish to be murdered at work:

• Hire only men, preferably over 6'3" and 225 lbs. for public safety positions;
• Pay them enough to make it worthwhile;
• Train them properly;
• Fire any public safety personnel who can't see their shoes while standing, or has sciatica from wearing a gun belt. While this is a rich Fulton Co. policing tradition, it should go the way of Vicki Lawrence.
• Make our justice system colorblind. Secure all persons accused of violent crimes, or with a history of violent crime, with leg and handcuffs at all times, regardless of racial, sexual, or religious background, and double those chains and put a hood on them if they come from a traditionally suspect group regardless of racial, sexual, or religious background.
• Hire judges who believe that criminals of all ages should be punished.
• Cut back on the parade of restrictions placed on people with Georgia CCW permits.
• Save another deputy and judge's life. This suspect should immediately be furnished with two bullets in the back of his head. Trials are benefits reserved for civilization. Send a message that we are not in Colombia (see also...District of)
• If this list doesn't make sense to you, volunteer to be placed in a correctional facility for a period of 7 days, and then re-read the list.

Here's a quote from an Atlanta Journal Constitution reporter after having almost having his head made into a yummy omelet by the still innocent-until-proven-guilty fleeing suspect:

"This person pulled in beside me, and I noticed that he had pulled into a handicapped spot. He was a young, athletic looking black man, and he didn't have a shirt on, but I figured he was probably in town for the basketball tournament."

Finally, some honest prejudice from the last estate, although not enough to save this fella's head from the butt end of a pistol. It takes a pillage to change a liberal. Maybe there's still hope. I'm told area hotels have put new messages on their marquees:

"Welcome, newly-minted conservatives!"

El Dia Del Padre

Adriene Cruz no habla Ingles.

And, not unlike myself, doesn't understand most of we Americans mutters. Perhaps if he did, he might have pled his case to the Right Wing of the White House. But the love began regardless when a young girl asked him for some ice cream, and he showed her the inside of his truck -- Guadalajara style.

Now some would wonder what went wrong that fateful day in Phoenix, when Adriene, a disgrunted ice cream truck driver, decided to share a little something with one of his customers. Perhaps he had envisioned something more when he scurried under the fence. After all, he certainly didn't risk dehydration, deportation, or death by Border Guard for this. Or maybe business was slow and an otherwise even-keeled wetback crawled too far into his own head. Whatever the reason, when our new amigo was approached by an innocent Arizona girl for his wares, he decided to gift her with his services as well.

Now I admit, my Spanish is less than proficient, but I don't believe the translation of "Bomb Pop" lands anywhere near "Your dirty brown cock in my pee pee".

When good White people like you and I think of "The American Dream", we have a conceived notion of a land where you speak your mind, shoot guns, own land, and kill everybody who doesn't look like you or worship your God. And tucked in there somewhere is the right to fall in love over a drink, fuck an incomplete stranger, get knocked up, get married, have children and, eventually, get divorced. So when Adriene Cruz stuffed his immigrant manhood into little Susie or Becky or whatever-her-name-is, he had babymaking on the brain. And a baby he made, which left him in a place familiar to many 20-year old Americans:

Shitty job;
No money;
Politically apathetic;
On probation;
An illegitimate child on the way, and;
A girlfriend who won't stop crying.

Problem is, Adriene Cruz' new girlfriend was prone to cry when thing go wrong, because she was 9 years old. Which got not only his MexiNuts emptied, but life in prison with no chance of parole for 35 years.

Now that you've been brought up to speed, I'll join you.

This life sentence is a punitive outrage against all ideas American. Bad enough we had to support another "naturalized" Latino indigent, now we get to do it in our overcrowded prisons. But tossing this man to the C cell block is a mercy killing, compared to the heartbreak he must have endured, knowing his unborn child fell under the knife. Yes, that's right, that little 9 year old is a murderer, with her mother who signed the papers and the doctor who played Suck and Scrape, because from the mouth of our own President elect, abortion is wrong. Our Bible thumpers preach it, our Congressmen sign it, and our mothers prove it every day. Never mind the emotional trauma, psychological stress, or horrific economic conditions into which these children will be born - only rape and incest victims experience these things. Abortion techniques should not be employed as post-coital birth control, because while your "American Dream" might have some illusion of control over your body, the instant you ride some cock bareback and conceive a child, that's no longer your body. That's our body, lady. Every time a sperm cuts tail into an ovum, that's another little American waiting to happen, and fuck all to women's rights, American rights, or human rights, that embroyo / fetus / neonate has rights, too.

Unless, of course, you're a Mexican halfbreed fetus, conceived from the combination of statutory rape, pedophilia, and really shitty barbed wire.

The true victim here isn't Adriene Cruz for misunderstanding how the game is played up here. He obviously couldn't read the rules posted on the fence. Nor is the victim that prepubescent child, who will forever recede into emotional shock at the sound of those bells in the summertime, eyes glazing over and hips moving in a strange gyrating fashion. No, the one who lost the most in this tragic little skit, is their love child. An innocent, hopeful baby who would look up at both parents affectionately, careless of the monstrous manner by which she was brought into existence, the hurried sweaty pumping of a greasy Chicano working out a house trade with the girl who didn't bring enough money to the window.

If Adriene survives until June, you might want to send him a sympathetic Father's Day card, letting him you know how you understand his plight, and even though he's a filthy Central American kidfucker, you feel his pain. Because this outrage isn't about Adriene Cruz fucking in the truck, or that anonymous child and her swollen belly running to her mother. This is about killing, plain and simple. Killing a fetus caught in the crossfire. Killing an American within which children can run unfettered to an ice cream truck. And killing an American dream, in which our future can rely on a solid right-wing conservative government to enforce their neo-Nazi moral maxims, and protect the unborn children by shutting down all the Planned Parenthood chopshops. Because if we allow the murder of every child conceived out of wedlock, resultant of the inexperienced fumblings of two people who know nothing of each other, this fine country will reach Zero Pop in quick fashion.

Only a President who liberates children with bombs, could protect an infant with a curette.

That New Stripper Smell

It's official: I hate strippers.

And everything associated with strippers. Once was a time when a young naive Johnny would happily bounce from strip club to strip club in search of the perfect pair of fake tits and a kind word, but NO MORE! I'm done with you! You, who suck the hard earned money from my wallet like some treasury note succubus. You, who drown my olfactory senses in cheap perfume and the sweat from grinding pelvis into Man-lap. For shame, for shame. Today is the day that this man stands up before the world and shouts to the heavens, fist in air,

"DAMN YOUSE FILTHY WHORES! DAMN YOUSE ALL TO HELL!!!!"

What would raise my proverbial hackles, you ask? What act of betrayel could bring forth such bold statements from a perverted degenerate such as myself? And why spew such venom on a website that includes editorials on how to date said strippers? Because I can. But even more so, because two nights ago, I got a lap dance.

Let me further explain: Not only did I get a lap dance, but she also took it upon herself to give me a free handjob in the champagne room. And I only spent a total of sixty bucks. I can hear the comments already.

"What are you, some kind of fooking fayge?"
"Dude, you got a handjob, what the fucks your problem?"
"J00 R teh Gh3y!!1!"

Nothing could be further from the truth. Those who know me personally would tell you that I am a heterosexual Tyranosaurus Sex. I've dated strippers, I've spent too much on strippers, and yes Virginia, Johnny has banged strippers. Shit, I've plunged so far into the seedy cumstained underbelly of the stripper world, I've dated a midget stripper. But here's my issue now with strippers. Ladies, you really need to just cut out the bullshit and act like what you get payed to be:

Cock teases.

You're nothing more than that. Sure, one could blame the men for being so gullible as to dish out innumerable dollars for nothing more than some ditzy blonde with a bad tit job to come put a knee in his crotch and moan into his neck. But can you REALLY, blame those men? We are what we are, after all. Even cheap whores get more respect from me now. At least they don't hide what they are and put on this cruel illusion of promising something that they never truly deliver on.

Case in point: I was on a business trip in Raleigh, North Carolina. A co-worker and I decide to go out, have a few drinks, and visit the local strip club. Everything seemed fine and according to plan. The ladies came and went, we both acted non-chalantly towards the ones we knew just wanted the money, and bided our time until spotting the few ladies we could hopefully convince to come back to our hotel rooms and shower them in filthy man-fluid. This one chick sat down next to me, Oooohed and Aaaaahed over my tattoos, and gave me the usual stripper shpiel of how she's going to school blah blah blah she just started dancing a week ago yaddayaddayadda and how much she thought I was a sexy beast. The usual tripe. So she asked me if I wanted a dance. I shot her down in typical fashion. Look guys, the key to banging strippers is simple: Don't buy, ask for, or get suckered into a lap dance. If you do, then you became just another open wallet for her to pilfer. No, they want someone to talk to, to understand their plight, to be the guy who will take them away from all other filthy perverts who want to fuck her but never will. I've played the game, and it works. It never fails. But something inside me snapped that night, and I could no longer take it. My first mistake was getting a lap dance from her. Maybe it was the 10th gin and tonic, maybe it was her perfume, I don't know. But I broke down after her fifth attempt to get me buy a lap dance, and followed her into the back room.

So we talked for a while, and I kept hinting about how she should take off early and follow me back to my hotel room for a night of stiff drinks and stiffer cock. And it seemed to be working. I shit you not. But right as I was about to give her directions to my hotel, she shushed me and started to dance. Don't get me wrong, it was good ... but fucking is better. Soon, I thought I really had this bitch under my spell when she kept looking around to make sure no bouncers were nearby and she unleashed my throbbing purple headed yogurt slinger free from it's denim prison and gave Johnny Jr. a few tugs. God, she was into it, and when I grabbed her tit with one hand as she sat reverse cowgirl, tugging away like a plumber with a plunger, she grabbed my other hand and shoved it down the front of her g-string. I should have just pulled her stupid underwear to the side, adjusted myself, and given her a quick how's yer father but goddamn it...I fell under her spell. I finally came, spewing a whole generation of microscopic Johnnys onto the floor and she just smiled, kissed me softly on the lips, and whispered into my ear...
"That'll be 60 bucks, cowboy. Come back and see me anytime."

I felt so used. Like the handjob was nothing more than a nightly routine for her. And even worse, now that I think about it, she's not even confident enough in her self to try and charge people the usual 150 bucks for a handjob. What the fuck, I say? Why would you go through such devious mind games with me, acting like you want to go back to my room and get fucked, when all you had to do was say, "Hey fellas! Sixty dollar handjobs here! Sixty dollar handjobs, come and get 'em!" I just don't know. But I do know one thing, strippers of the world, listen up:

I'm giving you filthy bitches up. For good.

I'm just going to stick to prostitutes for now on. At least THEY have the common decency to deliver on whatever they're selling.

The Metamorphosis

I'm not sure when my subconscious got tuned into bald pussy.

The first girl I was with did have some hair down there. It wasn’t crazy 70’s bush, mind you, but it wasn’t exactly a putting green either. I could have given a damn about what kind of hair her twat was sporting at that point, though. The only thing I cared about was getting my face deep between her legs.

As I got older, I noticed that most of the ladies I hooked up with had some hair on their nether regions. Once again, as long as they didn’t have a dick between her legs, I didn't care. But occasionally, I would see gorgeous women in magazines and in porn that were shaved, and I thought to myself "Might be cool to bury my face or cock in some of that sort of snatch", but for some reason, the chicks I was doing were always sporting a pussy beard. I had the all out bush, where you spend half your time looking for the entrance. The landing strip, which is always nice with the neat spot of hair just above the mythological clitoris. The "regular trim", with just a little off the top. Hell, I was even with a broad who had her pubes in the shape of a heart - yeah, I know, how original, but how many of you fuckers have actually seen that shit? I had to give her an A for effort, but it looked more like a blob of Elmer's glue. Nonetheless, none of them were all out shaved.

As I got older, I went into full Jedi mode attempting to hookup with a girl who was completely shaved. In quiet desperation, I became a full-time underage customer at a strip club not too far from my house. That was the place where I damn near fell in love with "Samantha". Her real name? Well, I’m not exactly sure. The funny part, she made me wait until the second date to have sex with her. A stripper with morals. Whoda thunkit? It was well worth the wait, however, because when I removed that thong from her, there was the prettiest pussy I had ever seen and it was shaved. Completely. For a split second, drums played, golden rays of sunshine spilled upon me, and I wasn’t sure what to do. How could a slimy stripper have such a pretty pussy? I asked myself. And in quick order, I came to the logical conclusion, Who the fuck cares? I proceeded to lick her naked slit with reckless abandonment, and after about a minute and a half of pure dick-in-pussy ecstasy I spilled by man gravy. Quite a first impression, I'm sure. My first shaved pussy and I popped faster than a high schooler on prom night. It was so good in fact, I wanted to run to the end of the hall and wake my mom up to tell her what I had just experienced.

A few weeks later my beautiful bald pussy dumped me, though. She muttered something about moving back in with her husband, and since then I have been obsessed with the absence of pubes. I’ve come to the realization that most women like their short hairs, and few don’t. Sometimes, they don’t have time to shave or are just too lazy. Some say it makes them itch, but those blessed few say they think hair is dirty. Makes no difference to me. Although a shaved pussy is no match for a hairy one, I won’t kick the next one out of the bed over a little hair above her hatchet wound.

And I sure ain't paying any extra for her to take the rest of it off.

That's Not The Frequency, Kenneth

We're not entertainers. We're journalists. And we need more time to do our job well.- Walter Kronkite

We need more time. More time to discern fact from fiction before sending in the troops. More time to debate between the right or the left. More time to wonder why we're moving in this direction, and just who's pulling these goddamned puppet strings around our wrists and ankles.

And we need more time from one of the last standing truthsayers, our stoic anchor, Dan Rather.

On this night of Wednesday 9 March, in the questionable year of 2005, Dan Rather is due to sign off the CBS air and leave us to our own devices. Though I have not yet had the privilege of asking Dan about his motives, I can only speculate this resignation had little to do with such cliche excuses such as failing health, fatigue, or being replaced with some uppity young right-wing wordtwister. No, methinks this changing of the guard is the result of those big-money corporate goings-on that we little people seldom see or hear, not unlike most of the laws Congress pushes through the sieve.

For those of you who, like myself, occasionally veer off the information highway in a drunken stupor, let me bring you up to speed. In the midst of that clusterfuck presidential election last Fall, Dan Rather publicly questioned the military service record of George W. Bush. Seems some of the source documentation used to back up 60 Minutes on that fated September 8 was "questionable" and their authenticity could not be ascertained.

Gasp! Do you mean to imply that Dan Rather, a national figure and man of integrity who has worked the national news desk for 41 years, might have presented a story based on falsified documents? That he could have been handed blatently erroneous information, pushed before the camera, and made to sing and dance? Say it isn't so! I mean, can you imagine such a public figure trusting his staff and sources, making a claim to get ratings, who was later proven wrong?

Me neither.

Never mind that our President's folly was used to rationalize the mass murder / liberation of tens of thousands of Iraqis and make those fat cats at Halliburton even fatter, Dan Rather did the true wrong here because he dared tell the truth, or at least what he believed to be true. In a futile attempt to keep his American public informed, a job he had been doing better than nearly any other journalist in history, he exposed our Chief Executive as a fraud and a liar. And for that, ladies and gents, they wrapped a noose around his neck and quietly offered him the choice to step off the stool, or have it kicked from underneath him. You'd think he had said something ludicrous, like claiming Saddam Hussein was amassing stockpiles of chemical weapons before leveling Baghdad. You know, the sort of crazy talk that would, under normal circumstances, get somebody removed from office.

I don't know if you're a regular sick fuck who frequents this happy place, or if one of your drinking buddies will point this out to you, but your "resignation" is not acceptable to me, Dan. You covered JFK's assassination. You covered 'Nam. You've delivered the good news and the bad, delivering cold hard truth during major events such as the Civil Rights movement, Watergate, and Clinton's blowjob. How many journalists can make mention on their curricula vitae, that they called out Bush the 1st for his Iran-Contra dealings, interviewed an impeached President, and sat down with Saddam Hussein to discuss the mess in Kuwait. You have withstood the hurricane of American history, only to bow before some Texas jackass and the pressure from upstairs at CBS.

I implore you, Dan Rather, to stand your ground. Tell those fuckers you've changed your mind, that nobody else is gonna do your job, and you're not gonna sing their song anymore. The News isn't funny. Current events aren't tragic. What's happening out there isn't supposed to keep the viewers riveted. The News is truth, and the number of people willing to step in front of the camera to present unbiased, unwavering truth without regard for ratings or advertisement is too few to let you go.

You think about that tonight, when you sit at that desk and pretend you're okay with this. You think about all those poor ignorant American viewers who don't know what's going on out there. Who still believe what you say. You saw more war with a microphone in your hand, than that son of a bitch read about between his binges.

Do you think Dan Rather would have buckled? Do you reckon this man would have hesitated in calling out a Presidential candidate?

Me neither.

Dan Rather, you're an officer in a different army now, the General of a decimated rank of factfinders, the last true Reporters. And though some right-wing sniper might have winged you with a lucky shot, you have a post to stand on that wall. The people need you on that wall, because this is our last stand between that First Amendment right and Orwell's 1984 vision come true, a media machine of Clear Channel and FCC regulation from which only illusions are projected. Fuck the executives. Fuck the ratings. Fuck the interoffice politics. We've lost the Good Doctor and Johnny Carson, I can ill afford to have any more of my leaders turn their backs on me.

You'll be sorely missed, sir, and if you ever want to speak your piece without fear of repercussion, you know where to find me.

Almost There

Some stores have the absolute lowest IQ help they can find without plumbing mental institutions, yet manage to make a pantsload of money because they're cheap and convenient. The guy at Staples is helping me look for a copy of Adobe Photoshop, after I have already exhausted every software aisle available to the common shmuck off the street. So instead of using the powers vested in him by his red Staples polo shirt and looking up the SKU on the store computer to see if one is in stock, he scans all the aisles again with me, staring at the shelves as if it had never occurred to me to do this. What powers of observation does he think he might possess, that I do not?

Finally, I suggest to this genius that perhaps the shelves will yield no different results than when I searched them, and perhaps we coud head toward a store computer and solve this Mystery of the Missing Photoshop. Elementary, Watson. "The computer tells me we have one in the back," says the man who could quite possibly be matriculating at Watson Elementary. Off to storage, at which point I estimate the time I'll spend waiting for him to return emptyhanded, and abscond the premises.

Some businesses, on the other hand, need to go out and get more such simpletons to tone down their belligerent and irritating workforce. ATTENTION JAPANESE HIBACHI RESTAURANT OWNERS! Please, tell your cooks to back off the monologue. The quick and slick cooking is fine, but I don't want to play "Catch the Shrimp With Your Mouth Game" anymore. And the line about how soy sauce is Japanese Coca-Cola is a classic in the wrong sense. I like the whole "Wall of Fire" bit and the "Onion Volcano," but that's enough. Just cook, goddammit. Especially when the 9 month-old at our table went monkey-shit when the pyrotechnics almost melted the binky out of his mouth, and we never heard the end of it. Almost the youngest suicide ever. Bad enough we have to eat barefoot and sit with strangers at our table, you could get on with it and minimize our suffering. Your food isn't THAT good. At least the waitresses could take guys in the back, for a reasonable fee, and give the meal a nice happy ending.

Remember, the Japanese restaurant is the only restaurant where the customer is in charge. You can't do stuff to a complaining customer's food as easily when you're preparing it in front of them. Like my pal, Joel, who once stuck his scrotum into the meal of an elderly woman from whom he was taking orders, and swirled his bag around for a few seconds. I don't know what she did to deserve that, but seeing as how she probably hadn't enjoyed a young man's scrotum in decades, she may have ordered it that way. I don't know.

And speaking of swirled scrotums, I have all the Paris Hilton phone numbers from when the memory contents of her Sidekick -- what, what? yo yo! -- was hacked and spilled across the Internet a while back. I tried a number that was supposed to be Lindsey Lohan's, but by that time the owner of the number had put up a new voice mail greeting angrily disavowing any connection to anything Lohan. Actually, it was probably was Lindsey Lohan, the way she carried on. If it's that upsetting that you have to yell and scream on a recording, than you just change your number. But if you're Lindsey Lohan, you change your number, and it's a big pain in the ass to contact all your sweet sex and drug hookups to tell them your new digits.

No, I'm not publishing the numbers here, because they are handily available everywhere else on the Net, and I don't want to answer a bunch of stupid FBI questions. Just in case you feel like calling anyway, let me save you the trouble:

Agent: "Where did you get the numbers?"
John: "On the internet, dumbfuck." Click.

But I called a few to report back my findings so you don't feel left out of the whole drama.

• Christina Aguilera --no longer in service (her phone number that is, not her juicy mouth)
• Rite-Aid Pharmacy, Beverly Hills -- I inquired as to whether Ms. Hilton had any prescriptions there and they said they were not at liberty to discuss.
• Devon Aoki (daughter of Rocky Aoki of Benihana, the man who started the whole trend of Japanese cooks trying to be comical) -- Ms. Aoki's voice mail expressed regret that she was unavailable to take my call and her mailbox was full, which was a durn shame because I was still upset about the Japanese restaurant experience last evening.
• Elijah Blue, son of the ill-fated pairing of Cher and Gregg Allman -- Alas, Mr. Blue's number has been retired.
• Blu Cantrell (singer of urban hit single, Hit 'Em up Style, a tune urging young women to become whores - as if they needed coaxing) -- The other Blu in Paris' life (that's three if you count Elijah, and Rick Solomon whom she fellated on the Internet). Ms. Cantrell's number has been temporarily disconnected. But I'll keep the number, because it looks as if it has a chance of coming back. I so want to tell her what a horrible song that is.

That's all for now.