Life is funny.

Really, no bullshit. Life is a fucking hilarious trip through the fun house.

Let me explain.

You buy a 12 pack of soda, say Mountain Dew Diet Code Red (completely random association with this thought. . .yeah). You open said 12 pack only to find it contains 11 full cans of soda, not 12. What the fuck? See, one of the cans is empty, albeit, sealed. What do you do? You sure as hell don't drink it. Could have a syringe just waiting to stick you in the tongue (brings back a funny story about the first of many hoax claims of tainted Diet Pepsi from about 5 years ago; the first person said she knew something was wrong when she took a sip and felt a prick in her mouth. She got nothing, and liked it) hidden in the can. So, you save it.

Great, next you go to the website for the maker of the product, say www.pepsiworld.com, for example and look for the ubiquitous "contact us" button. Only thing is, it's not there. So, you go to the parent company's site, say www.pepsico.com, looking for a contact button. Lo and behold, thar she blows! You follow the link and, wouldn't you know it, it takes you back to pepsiworld.com. Pretty fucking funny. Bastards.

So, you futz around the pepsiworld.com area for a while looking for a hidden link, only it isn't there. What is there is a link to "Ask Lisa," Pepsi's "virtual customer service representative." This little bitch asks you to type in a brief question about Pepsi products so she can spit out the pre-written, company-friendly answer. Perfect. OK, Lisa, here goes: What do I do with an empty can of Mountain Dew Diet Code Red? Hmmm? Lisa's answer: I'm not sure what you're asking, but here's a list of topics your search brought out. Funny thing is, you can't see them because the window won't expand to reveal them. That's right, it's a pop-up and it stays small.

I'm losing my fucking mind with this hilarity.

So, here I am with an empty can of soda I would dearly love to send back to Pepsi, or Pepsiworld (wherever that shithole is) so they can take their empty soda can and promptly shove it up their corporate ass.

That and they can show us Lisa's tits as a consolation.

Fuck corporate America, before it's too late.

First, I'd like to thank my good friend Dan for linking to my blog from his site, www.theartofdansilver.com. Those of you who came from there, thanks for visiting and not voicing your utter disappointment in my petty rants and tantrums. If you came here by chance, damn your luck and move on. I understand.

Now, welcome to the Useless Holiday Department. Today's special, Valentine's Day. Or is it St. Valentine's Day. Call it what you want, it's fucking useless. Call me bitter, call me jaded, call me Earl, but don't call me some hopeless romantic, yearning for love's passionate blaze to burn brightly within my breast. Biggest pussy holiday in the known universe.

In reality, Valentine's Day makes New Year's Eve and Halloween look like bona fide holidays. Think about it. Valentine's Day probably started out like Halloween; you know, some sort of weird pagan ritual day that the Catholics assimilated about 1500 years ago to give their lame ass religion some cred with the local citizenry.

Something like this: "Hey you godless heathens, why the fuck are you sacrificing a goat to some insipid love god when we've got this saint you can feast with? So, come on over to our "church," drop some of that gold in our "poor box," have some wine and we'll toast St. Valentine." To which the locals replied, "Will there be heart shaped candy, stoopid cards, and inflatable hearts? 'Cause if there are, we are so there!"

Now, thanks to Hallmark, American Greetings, and FTD, we have "Valentine's Day, the marketing event of the winter!" Think I'm off the mark here? Just try going to Target the day after Christmas. The wife and I did. Know what they had already started displaying. Yep, Valentine's Day cards, bears, candy, balloons, underwear, socks, condoms, and hair gel. The stupid fucking day was a full 45 days away and already we were being inundated with the Red Menace. I almost went berserk. Close call. I bought some mixed nuts and got the hell out.

Maybe my bitterness with this tremendous waste of time stems from being the awkward kid in school (read; really tall and fat, so I was a little imposing to my classmates, especially the girls). The popular boys all had their bags stuffed with candy, cards, and phone numbers. Me and my ilk, we got a few from the girls who appreciated us for being us (read; the ugly, unpopular girls), and maybe some crossed out cards from girls who felt sorry for us as we sat and stewed in our bitter juices until tender and ready to burst.

As time passed, the day got worse. If I had a girlfriend, she expected flowers, cards, candy, dinner. I expected sex. Stupid me. Finally, I met the perfect woman; my wife. Our first Valentine's Day together, she came to my work with a picnic basket of cheese, salami, crackers, and champagne. We went to a park; ate; drank; made out; and I was back to work in an hour. It was cool. That night, I made dinner and we had sex. Finally, a Valentine's Day I could get behind, and get some behind (hummuna, hummuna).

The reason I say she is perfect? She agrees with me and my feelings on this otherwise futile waste of time we call Valentine's Day. If we do celebrate it, we try to go out of town and gamble, drink, and have sex. It's totally cool, and it's not necessarily because of some stupid saint, or Cupid, or a druid love god.

Valentine's Day is for kids. We spend a shitload of money on candy, little toys, and DVD's for our kids and get them those crappy little cards for them to pass out at school. That's it. Other than that, I'm done with the 14th of February. Nothing special. Just another day, except you can't get a table at a decent restaurant.

Now, let's get to the real important days, like St. Patrick's Day.

The weather here in So Cal has been the shits lately. By that I mean, it sucks. People in cold weather climates will not understand this, but the weather here is too fucking hot.
Yesterday in the 90's. Today in the 80's.

It's February and it's hot. What the fuck?

See, I love summer. No, I mean, I live for summer. Long days; warm nights; cooling off with a beer or two, or three, or four. You get the idea. But, summer can't last all year. It just gets annoying when it's November and you go to Thanksgiving dinner in shorts and a T-shirt. Better yet, it's Christmas and your family is eating out on the patio.

It gets old, believe me.

Now, here it is February and I'm sweating my ass off. Stop it already. How about some goddamn rain? And another thing; this wind we've been having. Get it the fuck out of here.
I need moisture in the air, now. I do not live in the desert, nor do I want to. If I visit the desert, I want to gamble (like I will be doing this weekend) and drink. I do not want to feel like I live in the business end of a blast furnace.

So God, if your reading this, hows about directing that El Nino bad boy a little farther north and get us some storms before the entire So Cal metropolitan area is one big ashhole.

Off to the gym to cool off.

The fitness world is on fire and it's not a good thing.

I speak metaphorically, of course, about what I've seen and been disgusted by lately. Namely, the useless name calling, posturing, bashing, and overall flamming on fitness sites on the internet. It has been eating away at me for days now, since Friday to be exact, like a drop of acid on a metal table. You know, eventually, it's going to leave a hole.

So the whole thing (no pun intended, but it's kind of funny) starts with an article posted on a web site I read from time to time called T-Nation (note, no link- if you want to find it, find it, but I ain't helping). In the article, actually a collumn, the author calls out and slaps down a site I feel I belong to called CrossFit (again, no link as the flames over there are really quite something and I don't want to fan them). Actually, he says something along the lines of "screw you guys" referring to the whole CF thing. One big dis. Later, he admits that CF only recently shoed up on his radar and that before the NY Times article, he really didn't care. Bullshit.

The guy holds himself out as a well read, well informed, purveyor of all things fitness and he just recently came to hear of CF and Greg Glassman. Somehow, I doubt it. I could be wrong and maybe the author sits in his ivory tower in Colorado Springs and only sees all things bodybuilding, but again, I doubt it. He's far too smart to get away with that assertion. I've read his stuff before; posted comments; appreciated his humor; revelled in his celebration of being a man and brimming with testosterone. This came off as ill-advised and off the cuff. Not his best by far. OK, it was wrongheaded.

This isn't where the story ends, it's where it begins. You see, the fitness community despite its vastness, really is small. The true leaders are few and all are well known. I'd say they are public figures. I'm not speaking of Tony Little or Jack La Lane. I'm talking about coaches who work with athletes, write articles, post on boards, and help the common man. I doubt Tony Little reads his e-mails. Hell, I doubt he reads at all. No, a particular coach was called out for his response because he is a well known member of both communities. Well, here's where the shit storm starts. So, to make a really long story really short, name calling ensues; a flame war begins; asshats from various boards descend on CF like the Allied armies on Normandy; posts are deleted; feelings hurt; shit is stirred (I'm looking at you Bill Fox even though you were not part of this particular bit of internet pissing, I read the Irongarm stuff with shock. . .I expected better, although it means zip to you); and a friendship is crashed upon the rocks. In all, a perfectly good molehill was made into a big stinky mountain of shit. Well done.

I'm not pointing fingers; nor making anyone a martyr. I'm just here to voice my overall displeasure at the total lack of sense this all makes. I'm sure there is blame on both sides although, again, I'm not going to portion that out. I guess what I have to say is I'm saddened by this all. I'm disappointed to find out there's a place on the internet where fitness is a secondary concern to anti-Semitism and misogynistic baits. I'm a little frustrated that most of the responses against CF were nothing more than tough guy posturing by people who neither know, nor want to know what CF is about.

Yeah, I'm a CF guy. I know Greg Glassman; I respect Greg Glasman; I consider Greg a friend. He and his wife have given me immeasurable support and knowledge. I have used the CF ideals and seen them work. Therefore, yes I defend him and his actions. I cannot question his convictions. I find most who criticize his ideas and methods to be ill-informed and their rants as half-baked whines. You don't like the way he operates? Fine, but to call for his murder and rape of his wife? That's just fucking pathetic, and you know it. (I might end up the subject of one of the posts over there at their board and, frankly, I don't care- I don't get their brand of humor or sarcasm or sense or irony or whatever they may call it) Better to criticize his methods with well thought out arguments with evidence to support your claims (right, Bill, the D.A.?) rather than resort to name calling or other schoolyard behaviors (I know he called you a dumbshit, but the context in which he said it makes pretty good sense).

This probably isn't the whole story, but after a good 3 days of reading mostly insipid posts and letting this idea fester, I just decided to get it out of my system. I'm limited by time to write or even care about this further. I want to spend my time on better things, but like a train wreck, I keep looking. Oh, and for all those on the forums I don't post to and won't be reading after this, if you want to, call me a "Moonie" or a Cultfitter, or a "skinny no-nothing fuck;" whatever.
It's a free internet isn't it?


By the way, you would be exactly the second to call me skinny in the past 2 weeks, let alone the past 43 years. I have never been known as "skinny," but I'll take it.

It's been a while, but here's a thought:

I was remembering an old Bugs Bunny cartoon where Bugs gets all upset about not being the #1 most wanted criminal. So, he sets out on a Nationwide rampage to get his ranking up.
He does all kinds of heinous acts and succeeds in raising his criminal stock.

The one thing he does that I was thinking of this week was taking a saw to the border of Florida and the rest of the United States and sets it adrift. This would no longer qualify Bugs as a criminal. It would make him a national fucking hero.

I know there's lots to like about Florida, and I have friends that live there. But, what with kids clubbing the homeless with bats, killing German tourists, rigged elections, hurricane decimation, gasoline hoarding after said decimation, and to top it all off, Disneyworld, it must be said we are better off without the hapless state.

For those of you looking for cheap, warm weather destinations, we still have Hawaii, California, Texas, and Puerto Rico. You'll never miss "The Sunshine State" and its mullet wearing, gator wrasslin, bikini wearing, golf cart driving, election rigging (again with the conspiracy theories), kid shooting, homeless beating denizens.

Think about it. Bugs had the right idea.

Here's how I celebrated New Year's Eve (hereinafter referred to as "NYE"). I went down to our local English pub, The Olde Ship. Now, this is in Fullerton, CA mind you, so don't go thinking I'm in some exotic location in the UK. So, me and my friend, Kurt, meet at the Ship at around 1:15 p.m. Yes, that 1:15 in the afternoon, not 1:15 in the a.m. That would be morning, dumbass.

We arrive at the bar to find it already starting to fill with NYE revelers and we quickly stake our place at the bar, order 2 pints (Imperial pints, the big ones) of J.C. (John Courage, not the other "J.C."), and wait for the fun to begin. Closer to 3:30, the place is starting to get full. To my best estimate, there are somewhere around 100 people crammed into this tiny pub. Finally, closer to 4:00, the place is bursting at the seams. No less than four bartenders are madly trying to keep up with the drink orders as they fly around (mixed drinks, pints, wine, water); the owners pass out party favors; people try desperately to get to the bar; the countdown starts. . .

See, I'm the only one in the joint with a watch that receives its calibration from the Atomic Clock in Colorado Springs, CO, so the owner is looking to me to count it down. Well, with about a minute to go, some yayhoo starts with the 10, 9, 8, 7 bullshit. Fucker. Ruined my moment as the official timepiece. So, at 4:00 p.m., PST, the New Year was rung in by a huge crowd of Brits, Wannabe Brits, and overall bunch of drunks in downtown Fullerton. It was awesome. There was a piper strolling through the joint, I got a full scotch and soda dropped on my leg and all over my shorts, good looking girls used our status as old married farts to come up and flirt their way to the bar to order drinks, and we loved every minute of it.

The best part of the whole day was the fact that once 4:00 hit, the place started clearing out. We left around 4:30. I went home and took a nap.

NYE doesn't get any better, because it normally blows. We're going next year and taking the wives.

So they can drive us home.

You want to know what I think is a colossal waste of time? No, tough shit; here goes.
New Year's Eve/Day.
Yup, the old end of the year extravaganza with the champagne, noise makers, gunshots, making out with someone you just met; the whole nine yards. Waste of time, for the most part.

Doesn't make sense, no matter how you try to sell it. People spend the better part of the day getting really drunk (that's not the waste of time) so they can count down to one and puke all over some stranger in a $1000 ball gown. That's the waste of time.

I am consistently amazed at the fact that people will spend hundreds of dollars to sit in a ballroom at a second rate hotel, buy really expensive drinks, get their "complimentary champagne toast" at midnight and say they had fun. Now, I suppose if you were to get a fancy hotel room with a Jacuzzi tub in the package, then we're talking. But then, wouldn't it be better to just skip the party, grab some better booze, get buck nekkid, grab your date and count down to midnight in the tub? Thought you'd like that. Just wish I could get the wife to go for that one. Just maybe. . . but I digress.

I used to look forward to someone I knew hosting a New Year's bash so I could get pickled and find an equally drunk young woman to swap spit with at the stroke of 12. Never really worked out that way, but I kept trying. For years. Finally, one year it happened. I was lucky enough to be next to someone as drunk as me and, by golly, I got lucky. Next thing I knew, I was engaged and now have been married 14 wonderful years. Maybe the drinking is a waste of time.

So, nowadays, it's stay at home with the neighbors, drink, set off some illegal fireworks, freeze our asses off outside and go to bed really late. Not so bad, and it only happens once a year. Admittedly, there are a couple of neighbors I wish would get a little drunker, but I always have the wife to give a sloppy one to when the clock strikes 12.

So, maybe New Year's Eve isn't so bad, for me anyway. I'm not stupid enough to leave my house. Last time I did that was for "The millennium." What a fucking waste of time and money that was. Paid a bunch of money to go to someone else's block party, freeze my ass off, get soaking wet (it rained like crazy), have a bunch of punk teenagers drink my beer, and have no apocalyptic end of the world. Waste of fucking time. So, I now stay home. The drunks are going to have to hit someone else on their way home from their disappointing parties.

Now, New Year's Day there is no defense for outside of the selection of college football games. Rose Parade? Hate it. Hope it finally rains on the piece of shit this year. Please. I actually know one of the float designers (Raul Rodriguez). He's made a bunch of money designing the most gaudy flora adorned recreational vehicles known to mankind. He's an unusual, but nice enough guy. He just makes his living in a very strange way. Besides, the Rose Parade is singularly responsible for the population boom here in California. So, I say fuck it. Rain, baby, rain.

The other thing that bothers me about New Year's Day is the craze over resolutions. Why the hell do we wait until the end of December to make these life changes we so desperately need? No real reason. It just seems so neat, so easy to do. It's 1/1/06, time to lose weight, quit smoking, quit drinking, stop having reckless sex (wait, why give up a good habit?), quit cussing so much (fuck that). All empty promises we wait to see how long it takes to break. Nice. Here's a suggestion, quit snivelling, quit stuffing your piehole, get off the couch, quit blowing strangers, and change your life now. If you don't want to, fine; but don't make a big deal about the first day of January because you think everyone else does.

With that, here's my New Year's resolutions: Drink less beer; drink more gin. Have more sex, different sex, awesome sex; all with my wife; lift more weights; have more fun; eat more food; eat different food; live my life; fart more often (done); just do the things I'm already doing now, only more of it.

There, I feel better. Now I need to shop for gin. Bombay Sapphire. There is no other.

Cheap Trick drummer Bun E. Carlos; best drummer in rock. What's that you say, I'm nuts? What about (list your favorite, yet less competent drummer here)? They suck. No one is cooler; no one is better; no one defies logic like Bun E.

Why all the fawning over a guy who looks like your 7th grade algebra teacher? Just listen to "Auf Wiedersehen." I know it's not the mid-numbing assault on the senses ala Lars Ulrich. No triple kick drum beats, but he ain't no human metronome either. His drumming drives the song along and works seamlessly with the bass (a 12 stringer, no less) lines Tom Petersson was laying down. It's pretty fucking cool. Trust me.

You know the hits: Surrender, I Want You to Want me, Ain't That a Shame. Heaven Tonight? Awesome album and the one with Auf Wiedersehen. Great drumming throughout. The best examples though are on the Live at Budokan album. There you hear his drumming, warts and all. There's a major gaffe in the drum roll in the middle of Surrender. Does it stop the music? Hell no. Bun E. plows ahead, undeterred to the end. In Color, their major label breakthrough is also a showcase of Bun E.'s prowess. The man shows at each turn how he can sneak in the beats and add his signature to each of the power pop classics.

I know there are those out there who have written off Cheap Trick as some kind of a gimmick band. You know, two pop idols; two dorks. I say that just gets you in. The music makes you stay, and if you're like me, Bun E. keeps you coming back.

Bun E. Carlos, you are one cool brother.

With a little more work and time, this post would have totally kicked ass.

Well, I got the "Tookie" thing out of my system, no it's on to the mundane and self-absorbed crap that I want to write about.

Next up, Bun E. Carlos. Best drummer ever.

I'll be writing it soo enough. Just thought you, my loyal reader (that's not a typo) would want to know.

Soon. Soon.

I'll probably get the business from the powers that be for doing this now, but I had to get this out before I forget and the moment passes.

Tookie will die tonight. You know who he is; you know what he did; you know he's supposedly written children's books; you know he was nominated for a Nobel Peace Prize. Did I tell you I was nominated for a Nobel Peace Prize? Sort of diminishes the value of that argument, doesn't it? You bet it does. Did he win? Hell no.

Nobel committee: "Here, Stan, have the peace prize. We know you killed 4 people; founded one of the most violent street gangs that's responsible for thousands of murders, drug trafficking, extortion, and singlehandedly responsible for the downfall of South Central LA; and written some children's books that say "Gangs are Bad. So, here's the peace prize. You've certainly proven yourself worthy."

At that very moment, Lech Walesa jumps out of the audience, throws his medal at the King Gustav, and shoots himself in the head thinking of just how cheap his own peace prize and sacrifices had become.

In other words; give me a fucking break people.

Tookie ain't no saint (which he'll soon find out). Sure, he's changed. Death row has a funny way of changing a man. Look and see how many find Jesus in their darkest hour. Where was Jesus when they were killing, raping, and spreading havoc? In the getaway car? No. But, congrats scumfuck, you "found him" whilst awaiting a date with a needle. Too late for your victims, huh?

Back to Tookie. You know he hasn't apologized; hasn't taken responsibility; claims he was framed, and thinks his life is better spared. Hmmmmmm. Written any good books lately? No. Well, looks like today is your last. What about the celebs protesting his death? Usually misinformed. If we had to depend on celebreties to run things for us we'd. . . wait. Scratch that.
Trust it to say most celebs are shit-for-brained idiots who didn't know Tookie from Pookie 2 months ago, and won't remember him next week.

Homeless activist, Ted Hayes, said it best when he was asked whether Tookie should be granted clemency. Ted said, in so many words, Tookie can live as long as nobody is ever killed in gang violence again. Amen.

With those brilliant words, I must go before Big Brother gets wind of what I'm doing.

I don't know what the hell is wrong with me, but nothing has really been bothering me lately. I mean beside the obvious bullshit that we deal with in life. You know, overbearing Christians, stupid drivers, illegeal aliens, legal aliens, aliens period, and the futility of the NFL. What gives? Luckily, I still have 2 months on our free Cinemax offer from the Dish Network.

That means I have totally bad softcore porn after 8 pm every night. Not that I watch it. . .much. Just when I want to see boobies, I can go there; see them; go to bed. Just have to make sure the kids are asleep, or out of the house.

I guess I could get all fired up about Christmas and how much fucking money it's costing me, but really money doesn't bother me that much. I can always make money.

I could fire off another missive about young Americans getting killed in Iraq, but that seems to be slowing and we seem to be getting the upper hand. Who knew. Things keep going like this and we might be out, at least mostly, by 2008. But, we'll always have a presence in Iraq to stay close to our oil.

I could be bugged about getting old and how my body seems to be getting hurt whenever I try even the simplest lift. Shoulder, upper back, lower back, achilies tendons (yeah, both); all seem to grumble when I workout. It's a lot of fucking fun being 43. Can't wait until I'm 44. That's life. I know I'm in better shape than most men my age; at least my friends who are my age are all overweight and have bad knees. So, that doesn't bug me. . .much.

I don't think it's total apathy. Just over-contentment right now. Give it time. Someone, something, somewhere is going to piss me off.

Then it's on, motherfucker.

or not.

I had great thoughts about how we spend too much time hyping Halloween and Christmas and how Thanksgiving (my personal favorite) has been relegated to "Last Thursday in November" status (see the fact that K-Mart starts their sales on Thanksgiving, not after; but then, who shops in that ghetto-ass, piece of shit, Targetwannabe, disease ridden, store anyway) by retailers; but Dan beat me to it.

Besides, he's much funnier and a better writer than I. For now.

www.theartofdansilver.com Look for the Thanksgiving essay.

Gentle readers,
I've been pretty fucking lazy lately. That and i have to wait until I get home to post to my own blog. One reason for this is my employer's new policy of watching us while on line to make sure we're not spending all our time finding new ways to download porn around their very stout firewall.
Jesus.
OK, I'll admit, I like pictures of boobies as much as the next guy, unless he's gay; but, do I spend every waking hour finding pictures of men and women in various states of coital pleasure? No. Actually, there's something insidiously gay about seeing some dude's junk flopping around, even if it is doing the ol' in and out. Don't get me started on guys who like watching anal sex. Just believe me when I say, I ain't into the whole internet porn thing.

So, my school district decides it's a good time to become Big Brother and watch us as we go online. Well, they're going to get pretty bored watching me. I visit about 4 websites regularly: Crossfit (www.crossfit.com), T-Nation (www.t-nation.com), Fark (www.fark.com), and of course, The Art of Dan Silver (www.theartofdansilver.com). Nothing there that's going to set off bells and whistles. But get this; if we leave a window open with Internet Explorer running, it generates an exception report. Said report is given to our principal and we get called up for a spanking. Sweet! Our kids are struggling to write their own name, and I know why!! Their teachers are busy looking at nekkid women in chat rooms or something like that.

Hey, I know there has to be someone out there breaking the rules like mad to cause such a knee-jerk reaction. The question is, is it really that bad? I guess so, because why would an employer go to such extreme, Third Reich-like measures to protect themselves? I guess I don't have a pot to piss in on this one, but it bothers the shit out of me that they want to look over my shoulder like this.

Hey, bosses! Look at the test scores of my kids. Pretty nice, huh. So cut me a break and look over there. I think that guy is looking at the SI swimsuit edition on-line. Pervert.

Just wanted to pop in and thank all vets for their sacrifices and service to our country. Happy Veterans' Day.

In the U.K. they call this Red Poppy Day as it is celebrated as Armistice Day. Hence the pretty flower picture here.

Good day. I have to pick up the kids from the movies.

Three words: What the fuck?

Three more words: Aren't they dead? (yes I know aren't is a contraction and technically 2 words, but it's my blog: Fuck off)

I hear they're "enhancing" their concert sounds this tour as well (read "enhancing" to mean exactly the same thing it meant to Ashley Simpson on SNL).

OK, so back to this Christian fish thing.

So the atheists have their fish to go up against the Christian thing. Great. Now comes the response; the Christian fish eating the Darwin fish, only the Christian fish has the word "Truth" inside of it instead of "Jesus" or something to that effect. It's all very silly and it all leads to the same conclusion: If you see the stupid fish on the back of someone's car, get away as fast as you can. Switch lanes; speed up; swerve like mad; take the next exit, because if you don't one of these misguided shit-for-brains will run you into a ditch. No lie, they suck.
(oh, for a very well written and on-point essay on Christians and their man JC, see http://www.theartofdansilver.com/jesus.html. you'll love it)

This is the point I was getting to all along; no matter what the fish is on the back of the car, the driver is a raging buffoon who obviously got his/her driver's license via the internet. Think I'm exaggerating? Go for a drive. Pull up behind some car with the fish, or a "I love Jesus" bumpersticker, or better yet one of those idiotic "rapture" stickers (see last blog). The idiot driving is so engrossed listening to Ernest Ainsley or Billy Graham or those plastic as hell assholes from TBN, that he doesn't see the light change. Better yet, since God is their co-pilot, they don't need to signal to change lanes. Shit, since God's riding shotgun, they don't even check the lane to see your sorry ass driving along side. Here they come! Honk the horn, give 'em the finger; hell, give them the whole fist. They just smile, wave and mouth out the words, "Jesus loves you!" See, it's not their fault; God was supposed to tell them you were in the lane, but he must have forgotton. Nice. You want a sure way to develop road rage? Follow a "Christian driver" for a few miles. No one will be spared your wrath.

The problem got so bad that my daughters started pointing out cars with fish on them. They thought it was some sort of warning sticker, like in the U.K. where they plaster huge red "L's" on the cars of recent licensees. We'd be driving along and my kids would say, "Look out dad! There's another one with a fish!" and I'd smile quitely to myself. Like I said before, sport a fish; get out of the way.

and you Darwin fuckers ain't any better.

I've got to go lift heavy objects.

The Christian fish. We've all seen them. We know what they are and what they stand for. Heck, they just found one on the floor of an ancient prison in Isreal. It is one of the oldest symbols in the world and a way for Christians to identify one another anywhere in the world. It is also the international symbol of the worst fucking drivers ever to vex the roadways. That's right, God is your co-pilot and you are scaring the crap out of Him as you drive to church.

This all started out innocently enough, with Christians everywhere affixing plastic fishes to the backs of their Chevy Corsicas (you know the car I'm talking about; Katie Holmes drove one in Batman Begins) so everyone on the road could identify them, or at least their car, when the Rapture hit and their car, suddenly unmanned, swerved into a group of schoolchildren waiting for the bus to take them to their kindergarten class. Yeah, those fish. Soon, everyone was putting these things on their cars and no one was safe. Even the "borderline Christians" were under the mysterious spell of the fish. Fish everywhere, on every vehicle imaginable. It was like some sort of ichtiplague sweeping the vehicles of America.

Then the atheists got into the act and the Darwin fish, or are they salamanders, started appearing on beat up Sentras and Corollas. Quasi-intellectuals were slapping Darwins on their cars in defiance of their Christian oppressors and now the situation was way worse than before.

Where is this going? I'll tell you later. I have to go pick up my kid and watch some flag football.

Lucky me.

In defense of Dubya?

Well, in a word, yes. Or not. Maybe? You see, I can't stand the little fella. He stole an election; dodged military service in the worst way (c'mon, he used daddy's connections and was supposedly in the Texas Air National Guard. Who was attacking Texas during Vietnam anyway? Mexico? Does Mexico have an air force? ); was a cokehead; was a drunk; was the owner of the Texas Rangers (new record for futility by a baseball franchise); was asleep at the switch for 9/11 (waddaya mean there are terrorists in the U.S.? I thought they were all in Syria? and while I'm at it, do all Republicans still believe Clinton ordered strikes on terrorist targets in Afghanistan to make people forget about a stain on a blue dress and Whitewater? Please, people, don't believe the hype); has singlehandedly dumped our economy in the toilet; has singlehandedly (OK, he had help) ruined our foreign relations cred in Europe; believes that Iraq was a bigger threat to national security than North Fucking Korea (a country run by Dr. Evil for God's sake); lead a halfassed effort in Afghanistan (just like dear ol' dad); has the Devil himself as a VP (Cheney could be a Sith Lord, but Devil is just as likely); wants a constitutional amendment to prevent gays from marrying (yeah, there's a pressing need); can't find a suitable supreme court justice (it's like watching a soap opera. . . a bad soap opera); and now the big Cheney/Rowe/Libby debacle. There's probably more, but seeing as I haven't seen Farenheit 9/11, I'm out of ideas at the moment.

Yeah, I'm not exactly a "Bush Backer." Thing is, I love my country. I'm thankful for every day I live here. I'm thankful for the fact that my parents didn't live in Mexico when I was born. I'm thankful I live in a country where free speech, free press, free religion, free assembly, free love. . .scratch that one. . . and free guns are valued pieces in a way of life. I love th fact that our founding fathers, although a bunch of slave owners and FreeMasons, were smart enough to establish a representative democracy and not a new kingdom. Yes, I can work, play, watch football, drink, gamble, and look at naked boobies on the internet all because I'm a goddamned 'Merican. yeeha!

So, this is why I'm pulling for the Chief Executive in his latest little debacle. I'm speaking of the Cheney/Rowe/Libby mess going on under his nose and on his watch. You see, the Devil, let's call him Dick Cheney, has one of his minions, Scooter Libby (love the name, shoulda been a baseball player: "Now batting; number 27; shortstop; Scooooter Liiiiibbbby!) leak the name of a CIA operative to the press, thus endangering said operative and sending a bold message to her husband who happens to be tearing the lid off of Cheney's rationale for attacking Iraq; namely, the fact (?) that Niger (silly schoolboy giggle) was selling weapons grade uranium to Iraq so they could make their nasty WMD's. Now Karl Rove's involvement in the whole thing is a little fuzzy as he's barely mentioned in the indictments. What's also unclear is whether Cheney was involved and if he was, to what extent. What's clear? Scooter Libby is a total prick. OK, newspaper guy is going to Niger to invesitigate the intelligence reports of uranium sales. OK, his wife was being asked to go with him. Scooter doesn't like the sounds of this, so he casually "leaks" the real identity of the CIA operative, thus putting her life in immediate peril. Nice. Maybe "prick" is too nice. Total, flamming, hemorrhoidal asshole could be better. Penis hole dweller? I know this is the "Reader's Digest" version of the story, but you get my drift. Seems like a petty little action with possibly deadly consequences.

So, what's this got to do with George's son, George? Plenty. Being the man in charge he's ultimately responsible for what goes on in his administration. Don't think that's true? As Ken Lay if he got to use the "it's not my fault, I didn't know what was going on when all those bad men were doing all those bad things" defense. I believe you can e-mail him in federal prison. So, being in the location of all buck stopping, ie; the Oval Office, President Bush must take swift and decicive action in this case. Use the full force of the Justice Department to squish Scooter Libby like the cockroach he is (emphasis on the cock). Fire Cheney for being a lousy VP and one evil sonofabitch. He lied to the president; he lied to the nation; he had a guy named Scooter as his chief of staff. Fire his ass now. Karl Rove? Here's what you say Mr. President, "Haven't seen him for days. I heard he was going on a vacation to Costa Rica. During hurricane season. To be with his wife, no mistress, no wife. Yeah, his wife. That's the ticket!" When Rove never returns, who's going to miss him? Certainly not his wife. Not the American people. Not even you, because this human boil on the backside of the presidency has done the decent thing and disappeared. Things would smell better instantly.

Next, after you have cut out the cancer that is the Cheney vice presidency (emphasis on vice), develop an exit strategy for Iraq; fix the economy; get someone who's not to the right of Hitler appointed as a supreme court justice; play nicey-nice with the Euros for a while and remind them who bailed out their sorry asses in WWI and WWII; get the Isrealis back in our corner (why you didn't do this earlier is beyond me) because they know more about the terrorists than we'll ever know. Besides, the terrorists fear the Israelis, I think. Well, the Palestenians don't, but they're crazy fuckers (just kidding all my Palestenian friends!! Good job with the whole Gaza thing) In other words, get my country back to being the best goddamn country on the planet instead of the biggest laughingstock. Oh, and another thing: don't turn your back on China. They're getting damn good at buying things over here and no one is noticing. They want to make us an economic colony of theirs. Get them in check now. I'm being paranoid. . .maybe not.

So, Mr. President, Dubya, George W., Little George; let's get with the program and make things right. Oh, one last thing: Lay off the gays, dude. Really, who gives a rat's ass if they want to marry. Two guys getting married will not destroy my marriage. Going on a drunken bender in a strip club will, but not the gays getting married.

Got to go take a CPR class.

I just had a brilliant post written about why I would defend the president but the lousy software that controls this blog lost it when I tried to spell check.

I feel an anti-technology post a comin'.


I'm hungry.

Another game, another come from behind victory for my beloved Bruins of U.C.L.A.
We're going to Stateline in December to see the SC/UCLA game. We're all prepared for a letdown, but on the bright side, we'll be drinking and gambling.
Yipee!

Going to bed.