Evil Does It

Rich, famous and successful people are inconsiderate jerks. Take Mother Theresa for example. Which goes to show, if you want to be somebody, you’re going to have to be rude and selfish.

And it makes sense. If you’re nice and polite to the bank teller, she’s not going to give you bags full of cash–no matter if you’re still pointing your gun at her.

And who’s Hollywood’s bigest star? Well, Pauly Shore, of course. I know what you’re thinking–”Pauly is such a cool cat, today’s Cary Grant, how could he be considered a jerk?” Well, how do you explain the enhanced intorrogation techniques that were Biodome, Son In Law and Jury Duty? Without those crimes against humanity, Pauly Shore would not be the cinematic icon he is today.

Which brings me to the crux of this dribble of a post–yes, there is a point…blunt and dull, but a point nonetheless–you have to ask yourself a question: do you want to be an ordinary person, or do you want to be a Pauly Shore?

Since your answer was undoubtedly that you wanted to be a Pauly, then what are you willing to do about it? Are you willing to force-feed rice to little children like Mother Theresa did? Are you willing to cause traffic delays like Princess Diana? Are you willing to spend 27 years trying to live rent-free like Nelson Mandela? All horrible acts, but they forged the greatness inside those mean, selfish people.

So rise up to the challenge. I believe in you. You too can be as great and successful as Pauly Shore. Go do something horrible today–greatness is waiting and the world will thank you for it later.

Internet Rumors

Despite all those Internet rumors to the contrary, I am not a polygamist. Those YouTube videos were put out there by two of my wives who were upset over what they considered to be an unfair sharing of me. Apparently they both thought they should have to spend less time with me. Can’t please them all.

So now I’m left trying to clear the air about all those vile online rumors:

• I’m not broke because I gamble. I gamble because I’m broke.
• That was my evil twin brother on Cops last week being taken down in his tighty-whities by the K-9, not me.
• If it was ruled “entrapment” by the judge, it doesn’t count.
• You can’t divine someone’s intention, so “intent to sell” is really subjective.
• If you don’t know what the word “trespassing” means, how can you be expected not to do it?
• If you don’t have a really, really long ruler available, how can you be expected to stay 200 feet away from schools and parks?
• I was young and needed the money.

There, that should take care of some of them for the time being. False rumors are vile and hurt people…just ask our foreign-born Muslim president.

So join me in abolishing false Internet rumors. If you want to spread a false rumor, do it the old fashioned way—write it on a public bathroom stall wall. It’s better that way and it gives me something to read while I’m in there.

Thank you…now I have to go because my wives are calling.

We Get What We Deserve

Stop complaining. People get what they deserve. You don’t like being broke? Stop subscribing to Russian amputees porn sites. You don’t like being laid off from work? You should have thought about that when you called in sick three times in a week to go see the Jonas Brothers 3D movie. Which, by the way, felt like if you were right there!

We get what we deserve. 

We complained that 25-cent coffee was crappy and tasted like chicken diarrhea. We got Starbucks coffee that costs $6.50 and a kidney.

We complained that Wal-Mart was too big. We got Wal-Mart Supercenters.

We complained that television focused on the unrealistically beautiful. We got More to Love.

We complained high-priced escorts were too expensive. We got a really bad rash. Aloe Vera my ass…and now on my ass too.

We complained that we had a president hell-bent on attacking other countries. We got a president hell-bent on attacking our own.

We complained that kids weren’t getting enough attention. We got Twitter.

Like I said, we get what we deserve. Unfortunately, we don’t learn our lesson. We continue to complain. Case in point—I’m complaining about complainers. And since you’re reading this post, you must have done something horribly bad to deserve reading this.

140

I really don’t like Twitter because I don’t believe that there is anything you can say in 140 characters or less that should be said at all.

Waste Not. Get High.

A recent study shows that more than 90 percent of US currency has traces of cocaine. After unsuccessfully trying to sniff the hell out of my wallet, and only ending up paper-cutting my left nostril with my Dora the Explorer Fan Club membership card, I started to do a little introspection.

As Americans, we are extremely wasteful. How many children are there in third world countries that can’t afford cocaine? And here we are…not only throwing it away, but throwing it away on top of money. Wasteful. No wonder we’re hated.

Hold on a second. Let me wipe the snot off these twenty dollar bills before I continue…there…much better.

And it’s not only our cocaine that we’re wasting. Other studies have shown that there are traces of various pharmaceuticals in our drinking water. I guess we either thrown them or flush them away, or more likely pee them into the water system. Wasteful.

If we all worked together to more thoroughly ingest our drugs, this would be a much better country. For one, drug prices would go down, since we would be more efficient users and not reducing supplies as quickly. Second…wait, I think that’s the only benefit.

Wait, wait…since water and money wouldn’t have drugs on them, they would be cheaper to buy. You could probably get a hundred dollar bill for like $72, based on cocaine’s street value. Just saying.

So next time you’re snorting, shooting up, lighting up or using suppositories, remember the little third-world kids. If only those kids could get high, they wouldn’t be sitting around complaining about abject poverty, famine, drought and government corruption. We would live in a much happier world.

Mea Culpa – It’s Your Fault

Several years ago a political figure coined the phrase “the soft bigotry of low expectations.” I beg to differ. I am currently suffering from the oppression of heightened expectations. I started this blog more than a year ago as a place to rant, observe and babble—never thinking that anyone would stumble upon it, let alone read it. It was intended to be a safe place for catharsis and self-reflection….in a forum cheaper than paying for a therapist.

Then something unexpected happened along the way. People started reading it. And for some utterly inexplicable reason, some even went as far as following this blog and setting up RSS feeds. My first reaction was—What the hell are you guys thinking?

That was my second reaction as well.

Actually, that was the only reaction I had for a while.

Then it set in. Crap. There are people out there that are now expecting me to write something. So I did the only thing I could possibly do…I stopped writing.

Don’t blame me or think less of me. It is, after all, your fault.

So now I sit here again, nearly a year after I sold my presidential election vote on this blog, giving it another try. And by the way, I’ll happily give back the $2.57, Subway sandwich and assorted Pesos my vote fetched…in retrospect, it wasn’t worth it. So I’ll see if I can start writing again. If not, then maybe I’ll just come on and start transcribing music lyrics…any requests?

Okay, so here’s to lowered expectations and new beginnings. Let see if this time it sticks. Cheers.

My Vote is Valuable: Name the Price and It’s Yours!

With less than two weeks before the election, I have a dilemma. I’m an undecided voter. Not undecided in the sense that I haven’t decided for whom to vote. But undecided in the sense that I can’t decide whether or not to vote. I can’t bring myself to vote for either of the candidates our amazing democratic primary process has presented us with.

 

I met Senator John McCain a couple of years ago in Houston Texas. We had both arrived on a flight from Panama City, Panama and were in the process of securing our luggage before hopping on different planes and heading out to our respective destinations. A few days prior to our happenstance meeting, I had read an article about Senator McCain’s harrowing experiences in Vietnam. I had never been a particularly huge McCain fan, but decided the man had earned some respect and that it was only right I should extend it to him.

 

I tried approaching him a couple of times, but he kept scurrying away before I could get to him. I’m sure he saw me—whether he was shy about engaging strangers (which I doubt, given his chosen profession), was scared of Hispanic stalkers (good luck avoiding Hispanics in Houston, Texas, and hey!, other people I’ve stalked haven’t minded), or having Vietnam flashbacks (the horror…the horror…), I don’t know—but I’ve never seen an old man move so fast.

 

I finally intersected him at the conveyor belt, where he was picking up a black leather suitcase baring the US Senate seal. I politely approached him and said “Senator McCain, it is an honor and pleasure to meet you.” He gave me a half-assed hand shake (okay, fine, it probably wasn’t very strong due to the torture he endured in Vietnam, but who’s doling out excuses?), quickly turned and scampered away without saying a single word…not even a “maverick.” I saw him approach two young teenage boys and quickly leave with them.

 

Being the smart, logical person that I am, I could only assume the obvious. He was embarrassed to be caught coming back from a Latin American country with two young boys with whom he had obviously spent a weekend of hot, perverted old-man-on-boy action in the sweaty jungle heat. I vowed on that day never to vote for the man.

 

It wasn’t until this summer’s Republican National Convention that I realized those two young teenagers were his sons, and that McCain, having been born in Panama, was probably just showing his kids the lands of his childhood.

 

Senator McCain, I apologize for starting all those nasty Internet rumors.

 

That said, a promise is a promise and I can’t vote for him. Not to mention the fact that he wants to buy up more properties than Mr. Moneybags and selects running mates like one would select a mail order bride—young, beautiful and inexperienced.

 

So I can’t vote for McCain.

 

On the other hand, I think I missed the day when they were handing out all the Kool-Aid, because I don’t seem to have either the sugar rush that clouds my judgment or the Jim Jones cult mentality that seems to ail most of Senator Barack Obama’s followers. If the man proclaimed “give me your firstborn in sacrifice,” I believe most people would…except, of course, McCain, who’s off gallivanting with his.

 

Senator Obama is a charismatic, enigmatic leader with a populace message, a gift for gab and an overestimated belief in his own self-created hype—has history not taught us anything? Speaking of Nazis and eloquent orators, Friedrich Nietzsche stated it best when he wrote that “The poet presents his thoughts festively, on the carriage of rhythm: usually because they could not walk.”

 

I know, I know, I know…I went too far comparing him to Nazis. After all, historians clearly document that Nietzsche was wrongly linked to Nazis by his sister after he had lost the mental capacity to defend himself from such defamation. So, for the second time in this post, I apologize.

 

That said, the quote still stands. Like poets, Obama presents his thoughts festively, in flowery oratory and prose. Yet upon close inspection, stripping the words from their elaborate construction and delving into the meaning of the statements, it is clear that they can’t walk on their own. They are either regurgitation of old class warfare, social engineering and wealth redistribution mantras, or merely empty words adorned to impress, allure and distract. Somewhat like Kool-Aid, which sweetens and colors the water without really giving it any additional nutritional value.

 

So I sit here, less than two weeks before the election, unsure as to what to do. I can’t vote for a creepy child molester (even if I was the one who erroneously accused him of being one) and I can’t vote for a newbie who looks down on Sarah Palin, while proudly waving his equally thin and unimpressive resume.

 

Not voting would be unpatriotic and uncivilized, so that leaves me with one option—I’ll sell my vote to the highest bidder. This way I can justify voting for one of these two substance-devoid jokers (and have some money to pay for my higher taxes once Obama wins).

 

Buyer Beware: I live in California, which means that my vote really isn’t worth much—probably a $5 Subway sandwich and a couple of Pesos (if that much)—but bid at your own risk.

 

I will vote for the candidate of your choice, even Ron Paul or Larry Flint, who ran for governor here a couple of years back.

 

I won’t have my dignity, but I’ll have a mediocre sandwich to show for it! Let the bidding begin!

 

 

p.s. For the one person who follows my blog (which I haven’t posted to in months), I’m sorry (third apology of the post). As you know, I don’t typically turn this space into political jabber. I mostly spew inane ramblings…pretty much like this post, I guess. So no apology is necessary. I do promise to try to steer clear of politics as much as possible in the future. And I promise to keep that promise for as long as the winner of the presidential campaign keeps his.