Monthly Archives: April 2008

UFO’s, our last, best hope for a future

People will believe anything

I truly believe that a good story can change the world. Jesus didn’t do anything. It was his story. But it doesn’t take martyrdom to punctuate a world changing story. It’s only a matter of timing.

It’s not difficult to accomplish. Look what that hack L. Ron Hubbard brought to the table. Hubbard simply adapted one of his crappy science fiction stories into a cult format and created his own religion. Today his followers are totally devoted to this crap, as devoted as those Mormon polygamist in West Texas. Doubt is not an issue.

Programming a person isn’t difficult. Mass delusions created by cults and parents are easy to create. A sense of community reinforces these delusions. When 5-year-old’s share with one another about Santa Clause and what he’s bringing them for Christmas, there is no doubt. Santa is real. Why shouldn’t he? His friends are telling him the same story mom and dad told him. And who want’s to argue with presents?

You’d think rational people wouldn’t believe that the evil Lord Xenu created the nasty body thetans that can only be excised by an e-meter that will cost you 299.00 a session to use. Everyone at the Church of Scientology believes, so it must be true. My new Scientology friends wouldn’t lie.

UFO’s can save the world

I can’t say enough about the UFO industry. I love it. It may be the perfect story. It won’t die, and it brings us all together. Year after year, Americans witness odd lights are in our skies. 1/3rd of Americans already believe extraterrestrials exist. Strange stories continue to surface, confirming and denying alien existence. For those who haven’t read the latest in UFO reporting, a local Phoenix resident strung a series of road flares to some balloons and deployed them at night. Within minutes UFO fever swept the city again. (A few years back, an unidentified black triangle shaped ship floated across the city.) The great thing about the UFO story is that even though many of these stories turn out to be hoaxes, the overall story only gets better.


Aliens,. . . big head – anal probe aliens, are out to enslave the human race. So far, they’ve covered their tracks well, but the truth is slowly coming out. You must believe before you can truly understand the reality we are living in. And that belief will set you free.

If you believe, you’ll quickly understand that what divides us is small and petty. The enemy of my enemy is my friend. All world religions need to unite against the UFO threat. It’s God loving humans verses big head – anal probe, atheist aliens. It doesn’t matter if the Jews killed Jesus. E.T. want’s to rape your baby sister. It’s only a matter of time before they start taking our jobs and mixing the races. Soon they’ll be defiling our women and forcing us to accept the metric system. Bastards! If that wasn’t enough, I’ve also heard they don’t wear lapel flag pins. They must be evil.

Humans must unite against this threat. It’s us or them. We need to stop fighting each other and fight to save our planet. Word is, the aliens are going to make their move after we pollute the planet into another ice age. They like it cold.


Tthe only thing that can motivates humans – in mass is fear and hate, so, whenever you get a chance, tell someone the story of how E.T. took your virginity when you went camping. Do it to help stop global warming. Do it for your grandchildren.

What is E.T. short for? It’s because he had these little, tiny legs. (Not much of a sprinter.)

Barton Springs

It was the squeal of school bus brakes that brought me back into reality. Yesterday morning I was slowly drifting on an air mattress in the shallow end of Barton Springs pool – my favorite place in the entire world. I could just see the top of five of those big yellow mastodons as they spilled out a tribe of anxious kids into the parking lot. It wasn’t unusual. It’s one of the reasons I try to get to the pool early.

In case you’ve never been there, Barton Springs is located in the heart of Austin Texas. It’s over an eighth of a mile long and 60 (?) feet wide. Crystal clear water pushes out of the Edwards Aquifer which hides below most of central Texas. At 67 degrees, year-round, it’s a jolt to the senses when you first enter the water, especially in the heat of the summer. But there’s no place I’d rather be.

I tried to relax. I closed my eyes again and felt the breeze push me into a weightless spiral, but I knew it wouldn’t take long for those kids to arrive full of excitement and screaming. I would have to move to the deep end once they arrived in force, but I do love to watch the show when they first hit the water. Barton Springs baptisms are always the same.

Like a herd of gazelles about to navigate a crocodile infested river they all huddle around the stairs that leading in, creating a bottleneck at the waters edge. It’s the dance that makes me smile.

There are several different dance styles for entering the springs. My favorite is the flat hand, slow dip torture. Once the water meets the knees an odd grimace comes across their face. They stiffen and gasp, their neck muscles tighten, and their jaws clinch in delusions of agony. Hands are palms down, pushing flat against an invisible force field six inches above the water. Even as they slowly, torturously, painfully, move deeper into the water, the hands continue in the same position with a six inch clearance. Fearful of actually touching the water, they pat at the force field as if the heat generated from the friction will ward off the cold. It’s kind of a reverse Pee-Wee Herman dance.

One of the great mysteries of the Springs is why the slow dippers are unable to understand why they are a target. A splash across the back is to ease the viewer’s frustration from watching slow dipper slowly torture themselves. Take it like a man, you wimpy little snot. In response the splash invariably sends the slow dipper into a spastic dance which I love to watch. Rising to their tip toes and sucking in air like a big mouth bass, the hands continue pushing against the imaginary force field as they do a underwater tip-toe pirouette and turn to face the assailant. Harsh emotions fill their oversized noggins. If they were literate they’d say, “Damn you! Damn you all to hell for splashing me with that cold water! I won’t forget this!” Ten minutes later it never happened.

And then there are the screams. Heartfelt screams. The kind of scream that comes from the gut after your best friend grabs you by the waist and drags you from 102 into 67 degrees. Schadenfreude is a dish best served cold.

So, I floated. It’s easy to get lost in the springs with your eyes closed. If the breeze pushes you too close to the diving board, the spring vents will likely push you back toward the shallow end. Native Americans revered it as a holy place. I think they were right. It’s all good when you float the Barton.

All those kids would be arriving soon, so I redoubled my efforts into relaxing. I told myself I didn’t need to open my eyes. I’d hear those kids long before they arrived. After about ten minutes they were back in my head. They should of been here by now. I chastised myself for not living in the moment. I remember thinking, why am I wasting my time thinking about those kids?

I tried to relax as I splashed cool water onto my nearly dry chest. Another few minutes went by and those kids wouldn’t leave my thoughts. I began to feel the shaking of the water as if someone was in the shallow end with me, but I couldn’t hear anyone. I finally concluded it was probably one of those lap swimmers. That must be it.

I tried to shake off the feeling when water began to lap up against my air mattress. I could feel them. Every one of my other senses was telling me that there was someone near me. Curiosity started to gnaw at my soul, compelling me to open my eyes, but I couldn’t give in. I couldn’t look.

It quickly became a test of willpower. Surely I could figure this out without surrendering to my curiosity. If I opened my eyes I would be admitting failure. This had to make some kind of logical sense. But then I heard it. The sound of feet, running up and down on the cement walkway. Slapping sounds. Pushing and shoving sounds. Children, and lots of them. They were all around me. I could hear them, but without the screams or yells of any kind. No taunts. No double dares. What the hell was going on?!? Still, I refused to open my eyes.

The water became choppy enought so that my head started to bob against the vinyl pillow. One recognizable sound caught my attention. It was that barely audible intake of air when they first test the water. But then, nothing. I heard a huge splash nearly ten feet away. Someone jumped in, but after that, again, nothing. I felt like ten or twenty kids were surrounding me. How could they not be screaming? What vortex of the damned have I floated into? I wouldn’t open my eyes. My brain was screaming at me. I should be able to figure this out. What the hell was I hearing?!?

And then I heard that slapping sound again. Like someone was playing patty-cake or slapping each other on the back. Pushing and shoving maybe. For the tenth time my brain convulsed to find a reason for what I wasn’t hearing. My mind began reaching for explanations as if it had leaned too far back in a chair.

“Am I having a tumor removed right now? That must be it. I could be on an operating table right now and floating the Barton is part of some hallucination as the doctors are poking around in my brain. That’s just stupid. Damn it! What the hell is going on? An aneurism. That’s it. It’s an aneurism and I’ve lost the ability to hear the background soundtrack to my life. Naw, that’s even stupider.”

I couldn’t stand it any longer. I had to look. I opened my eyes and there they were. At least a hundred kids. All, pushing their way into the pool, bottlenecking at the stairs and splashing one another just like I predicted. Not a sound out of any of them.

They were all from the deaf school.

Donuts, is there anything they can’t do?

While pursing my unusual interest in Republican criminals I learned about Stephen Linnen, legal counsel for the Speaker of the House in Ohio. Stephen, if you somehow end up reading this, I’m sorry I’m picking at this mental scab, but I think what you did was hilarious. You may be my favorite republican. Granted, you’re no George Hunter White.

In 2004 the artist inside of Stephen Linnen couldn’t be bound by the conformity of the Republican party. He needed to express himself. So he took up the hobby of jumping out naked in front of women and taking pictures of their shocked expressions. Stephen, you must make a coffee table book!

Stephen took 40 different candid photos before he was caught. Confirming that men can be starkers in mind and in lack of clothing. But I love the concept. Is the woman revolted? Is she curious? Is she smiling in admiration? Is she horrified? Ewwwwww! A penis. Although, I can’t help but think you’d kind of get the same expressions from photographing strangers who accidently walk up on a badger giving birth to Dick Cheney. (Word is, he’s a Cylon.)

Actually, Stephen’s concept is just an offshoot of an old high school gag. Remember? Your lifelong buddy hands you a fresh donut, and after you take a bite he shows you a picture of the donut with his penis sticking thru it. I’m not sure I want to know if there’s a female version of this joke.

On another note:

I’m looking forward to summer this year. My brother owns a resort on the Guadalupe River just outside of Gruene Texas. It’s called White Water on the Horseshoe. I’m going tomorrow night to watch my old buddy Walt Wilkins. He’s going to be playing at the amphitheater along with the Bellamy Brothers. You can check out his web site here at White Water Rocks!

I plan on floating down the Guadalupe river all summer. There’s nothing better. In case you don’t know what I’m talking about, here’s a picture of the Guadalupe from last memorial day.

The Horseshoe on the Guadalupe is perfect. In 5 minutes they drop you off next to the dam and it take you about 2 and a half hours to float back to the campground. It’s a Stress-B-Gone tablet in the form of an inner tube. Donuts, is there anything they can’t do?

And the War goes on. . . .

Bloody Weekend: 32 Shot, 2 Stabbed, 6 Dead

No. That headline isn’t about Iraq. That is Chicago. I can’t help but wonder if they’ll start deploying MASH units soon. Obviously, no one has taught these drug gangs how to do things. I know what the Republicans would say. “Just say no to drugs.” All better now.

Having the opinion that this country should end prohibition leaves me in the minority when I find myself wishing these gangsters well. It sounds like a fun short life with 1000 times the amount of adrenaline-filled-action than paying my gas bill. (That’s all I did today.)

I’m also in the minority in believing that life is not a race to see who lives the longest. If we could measure the intensity of their brief lives, I’d wager theirs outweighs mine. It’s not the choice that I’d make, but if you have nothing else, then you have no choice. It seems silly to blame them for their fate.

Al Capone could teach these gangs how to run things. If you want to be a big time drug dealer, make sure drugs stay illegal. You can do anything you want. You can kill anyone you’d like. In truth, the job description demands that you murder many, many people. You’ll probably have to kill cops. Killing children is more of an elective, but it is still important to threaten anyone who stands against you and to be totally ruthless. Just make sure they don’t vote to take away prohibition. If they do, you’re out of a job. Oh, and pay your taxes.

Schadenfreude Dreams

PhotobucketI am ecstatic. Obama has finally answered my question! I can’t believe it. In earlier posts I harped on the inadequate response from the candidates on an obvious question. “If you become the next president, will you pursue charges against the Bush administration for any of the mirid of crimes? When I called the Clinton campaign, the local and the national office, they both said, “if it’s not on the web site, she doesn’t have a comment.”

Obama would ask his AG to “immediately review” potential crimes of the Bush White House.

Finally, here’s Obama’s answer, via Will Bunch at Philly dot com. Obama:

“What I would want to do is to have my Justice Department and my Attorney General immediately review the information that’s already there and to find out are there inquiries that need to be pursued. I can’t prejudge that because we don’t have access to all the material right now. I think that you are right, if crimes have been committed, they should be investigated. You’re also right that I would not want my first term consumed by what was perceived on the part of Republicans as a partisan witch hunt because I think we’ve got too many problems we’ve got to solve.”

“So this is an area where I would want to exercise judgment — I would want to find out directly from my Attorney General — having pursued, having looked at what’s out there right now — are there possibilities of genuine crimes as opposed to really bad policies. And I think it’s important– one of the things we’ve got to figure out in our political culture generally is distinguishing betyween really dumb policies and policies that rise to the level of criminal activity.”

“You know, I often get questions about impeachment at town hall meetings and I’ve said that is not something I think would be fruitful to pursue because I think that impeachment is something that should be reserved for exceptional circumstances. Now, if I found out that there were high officials who knowingly, consciously broke existing laws, engaged in coverups of those crimes with knowledge forefront, then I think a basic principle of our Constitution is nobody above the law — and I think
that’s roughly how I would look at it.”

That synched it for me. Obama’s my man. Without a thorough investigation into the Bush administration, America will never be able to heal. It will still be a far cry from real justice, but if the best we can do is embarrass Dubya, then we are not really trying.

My schadenfreude guru has been patiently waiting for years for Dubya to end up in a courtroom. If they broadcast the trials on T.V., I’m taking the month off, loading up on Diet Coke and frozen dinners, and revel. Just revel. Nothing would make me happier than watching that som’ bitch have to explain himself. To be fair, Cheney explaining himself under oath would peak my interest more, but I believe he’d rather commit suicide than submit to legalities. Either way I’m making a day out of it.

I worry about being so passionate about such matters. What if my future wife is giving birth to my first son, but I won’t leave the T.V. room because Cheney just admitted under oath to a year long affair with Lewis Libby and Valarie Plames’ name came up in pillow talk? “Sorry honey, I can’t come now. My mind is melting.” Schadenfreude Dreams.

The hater/dumbass connection

My favorite haters:

Top of the list, Reverend Fred Phelps of the Westboro Baptist church. In case that name doesn’t ring a bell, he’s the nutcase that has been picketing soldiers funerals with signs that say – God Hates Fags! I know. It doesn’t make any sense, but like religion and pornography, there’s always something for everyone’s taste. (The pornographic equivalent to Phelps’ religion is “2 Girls 1 Cup.”)

You might be interested to know that on April 4th a federal judge ordered liens on the Westboro Baptist Church building and the Phelps-Chartered Law office for $5 million. Somehow they incurred that much in damages from picketing one of those military funerals.

Walls close in on Phelpses
Judge orders liens on church building, law office

David Tuason is the other side of the hater coin. (Heads is Stalin, Tails is Cheney) Tauson is an African-American racist that was indicted on April 8th for sending over 200 death-threat-tirade letters and e-mails over the last twenty years. Other than sending death threats to supreme court justice Clarence Thomas, Tauson also threatened to kill the entire Kent State University women’s basketball team and jazz singer Al Jarreau. (I suspect many people feel this way, Tuason may be the first to vocalize it.) But seriously, how can you hate Al Jarreau?
Pepper Pike man indicted for racist threats

What do these top notch haters have in common with hater Richard Colvin Reid – the shoe bomber? On first impression Phelps’ and Tauson’s face paint the picture of guys that just got off the crazy train with tickets to agitation island. Reid looks like he’s still riding the short bus to middle school.
In case you haven’t heard, Reid almost succeeded. The only hitch in his plan was the hater/dumbass connection. He couldn’t light the match. He forgot to bring the striking surface from the matchbox. Reid’s idiotic behavior spawned more of the same when his trial court handed down three life sentences + 20 years on 4 other charges, + 30 years on four other counts, to be served consecutively, followed by five years of supervised release. He was also fined 2 million dollars. It’s good to know he’ll be supervised when he gets out after his lifetime. I want to hold the court to that promise and have them approve a detail to watch over his corpse for 5 years.

How does a sentence like this happens? I like to believe the judge leaves the game “Boggle for Juries,” in their sequestered location. (6 dice containing years of incarceration, 10 dice listing most major felonies.) Although, this time I think this jury rolled more than once. Reid is currently in ADX Florence, a Supermax prison in Florence, Colorado where I imagine he sits in his cell all day striking matches. (I’m still lobbying Boggle for “a kick in the balls” side to one of the dice.)

The most important aspect of Richard Reid’s case is that I am forced to take off my shoes while going thru airport security. For that alone Reid should be put in a human size trash compactor with the guy who invented the subscription cards that pepper magazines. And if we can find the cable executive that first okay’ed the commercial banners that rise up on the bottom of my T.V. screen, he’d make a perfect sandwich between those two.

They call me the “squeezin’ judge.”

It’s obvious that Reid was full of hate because he was prepared to hurt anonymous people. Yawn. At his trial he made standard terrorist accusations against this country. Most, not untrue. But if his acts were really about persuading he would of done the Buddhist monk thing and lit himself on fire. Listen to Robert McNamara (in The Fog of War) talk about the guy who torched himself in front of the Pentagon during the Vietnam war. Wow. 30 years later and McNamara’s story had an huge effect on me.
Tuason narrowed his focus of hate to blacks and whites marrying. Fred Phelps believes . . . well, I’m not sure, but I’m assuming his train of consciousness is on that same track to crazy town.

It’s all built on hate. It’s not important to distinguish the differences in hate because they all lead to the same place; Frustration Island, where you take on the persona of Daffy Duck and live like a Scientologist trying to entice others into your deranged cult. Fortunately for all of us, the crazy train’s first stop is always dumbass junction.

My Latest Favorites – 2 Girls 1 Cup

Did you ever like those fold in pages in the back of MAD Magazine? Click Here!

Youtube has become my new God. This stuff touches me like a lemur in my pants. Check out my favorite version of Sweet Home Alabama. (You don’t have to watch this one all the way thru)

I imagine this was created with a recipe of vodka, cough syrup, and a dash of LSD. They light it on fire and call it a Flaming Homer.

I found this to be impressive. Ever seen the movie Tron?

What will these kids think of next?

Yes, but can you play a burning piano?

Weird clouds

It was night. . . . late at night.

2 Girls 1 Cup

In case you are playing catch-up like me, in 2007 a short fetish film surfaced featuring the most vile things imaginable. (Literally, The Aristocrats come to life.) What made it funny was the plethora of short videos posted to youtube featuring reactions from people watching 2 Girls, One Cup.

My favorite 2 Girls one Cup song:

My favorite 2 Girls one Cup reactions:

and this one:

Honorable mention:

Confusion Reined

Forgive me if you’ve heard this story before. It needs retelling after I came across the video on youtube. His name was Paul Michael Larson. In the winter of 1984 he was selling ice cream out of a truck to the kids of Lebanon, Ohio while repeating clown music drove him to watch television games shows.

Larson especially enjoyed watching the game show, Press Your Luck. It was a fun show. Contestants would slap a big plunger button in fear of a whammy lighting up on the big board. If the whammy came up, you lost. If not, the random flashing board would light up a prize. You can keep the prize and quit, or, you can try for another prize, but if you get the whammy you lose everything. A person’s greed always kept the large prize money in check. Getting a whammy was only a matter of time. (Odds were about 1 in 6.)

Larson thought he saw a pattern to the flashing board and took it upon himself to tape each episode and study them meticulously. He found the pattern. There were only six background boards that would repeat in sequence. After he memorized the boards and the pattern it was only a matter of coordination.

On May 19, 1984, Michael Larson made that whammy his bitch. It wasn’t until the second half of the show, when the big money board was being used, that Larson made his move. What happened next has my schandenfrued guru lusting to go back in time just to watch the Press Your Luck executive producer/director Bill Carruthers lose his mind.

I’m sure lost money was fueling his anxiety, but after a while he had to be questioning his own sanity. Why would this guy spin again with $60k in the bank if there was a chance to lose it all? Why is he doing it again? Why is he spinning again? Why? Why? WTF is going on? How can he not hit a whammy?

Carruthers, in freak out, made the call to Michael Brockman, CBS’s head of daytime programming, in hopes of freaking him out. I imagine he succeeded. Bringing the story into historical context, the scandal of the TV game show 21 was difficult to forget. For game show producers, the nightmare scenario was more Congressional hearings. Stopping the game only because they were losing must of appeared to be a one-way ticket to subpoena city. Unless they could figure out what was happening, there was nothing to stop Larson from looting CBS with this stupid little show.

After $80 thousand I imagine Carruthers must of been spinning around room like the gay guy in Airplane yelling, “Auntie-Em, Auntie-Em, It’s a twister! It’s a twister!” Brockman must of been on the other end of the phone demanding updates on the disaster. “How much? How much?!? What the **** is going on over there? I’m calling in a bomb threat!”

But then, Larson lost his nerve. After 45 spins and over $100,000 in prize money, Larson stopped. 100k was his number. It was the most money won my ever won at one time on a T.V. game show. 21 had payed out the huge sum of 120k to Charles Van Doren over 15 weeks. This was 1984 dollars and it took Larson less than a day. In the end, CBS had to pay him $110,237. After all, Larson had not cheated and it wasn’t illegal to pay attention.

It’s important to note that Larson’s opponents were suffering from the same level of confusion that Carruthers was facing. The host, Peter Tomarken, was awestruck and had a hard time concealing his feelings. Everyone in the audience was wounded as well. No one could figure out how, or why, or what, they had just seen. There was no rational explanation as to why Larson would continue to spin with so much money in the bank. There was no rational explanation as to how he could become so lucky. On top of that, no one in the audience could really work up the good will towards Larson’s win after viewing repeated violations of the laws of physics. Confusion reined.

That’s what tickles me the most. Hundreds of people, all at once, going home from a long day, and repeatedly questioning themselves, “What the F**k did I just see?”

Life didn’t treat Larson well after that. He lost most of his money in a Ponzi scheme and the rest was actually stolen from him. Larson’s story was the story of the little guy, the loser, the sad sack, and how, one day, one perfect day, he stuck it to the man. He beat the bank at it’s own game. Bravo Michael! It was smart not to get greedy. I don’t want to own CBS either.

After a while the feds had tracked down Larson for the Ponzi scheme, but they didn’t get their man. (Oddly enough, here’s a picture of Charles Ponzi for which the Ponzi scheme is named after.) This time the whammy was Wal-Mart. Larson was an assistant manager and was shit-out-of-luck when it came to health benefits. In good Christian fashion, even though Wal-Mart makes more money than many countries, they would rather their employee’s die than pay for their health insurance. In 1999, Larson died of throat cancer before the feds could apprehended him.

Philosophers often wrangle with the question, “Would you want to know how and when you are going to die?” Most people say no. I have always been a yes-man to that question and for just that reason. When I die of natural causes I want to be a million dollars in debt with the mafia and have a thousand cops busting through my front door only to find my fresh corpse with an unpaid prostitute. Larson had the right idea. He stuck it to the man one last time.

Here is Michael on Press Your Luck:

Curse of the Lottery

Kung Fu Master It may be the most shaudenfreude television show ever! I am totally in love with “The Curse of the Lottery.” My shadenfruede guru hasn’t had this much fun since COPS did that taser episode. (A masterpiece in television history.) Curse of the Lottery – COTL – is one story after another of how fine, upstanding citizens totally lose their shit when 40 million dollars lands in their lap. I loved it. If it was food, I’d be full. If it was sex, I’d marry it. If it was pyroclastic flow traveling down a mountain at 400 miles an hour, it would engulf me, but only because I probably couldn’t get out of the way in time.

We all know that any fool, any moron, any drunk, any schizophrenic, any self-righteous sky pilot can buy a lottery ticket. And they do. COTL is the real story of Jed Clampett. It’s the story of barely functional people given nearly unlimited power. Yeeeeeee Haaaaawwwwww!

I, myself, play the lottery from time to time. I like to be a snob about it. Less than 20 million and it isn’t worth it. Over a hundred million and you have my attention. With a 100 million I can really dream. And that’s what I’m buying, a dream. Nothing else. I’m not going to win.
But what if my dream was just as screwed up as the typical alcoholic schizophrenic that wins? Well, it is.

Like the toothless, shirtless, drunks that desire to be on COPS (they all have to sign waivers to be on the show) I want to piss away my lottery fortune just to end up on “THE CURSE OF THE LOTTERY!” I’m going to have the wildest ride 100 million dollars will give me. I am not paying taxes on it. They can’t do anything until the end of the year and by then I would of already pissed it away. I’m going out like a rock star. I’m not saying I’ll die at the end, but it’ll be close, and, yes, I’d probably end up in prison. A small price to pay.

The first question most reporters ask, “has the money changed you?” that’s when I become Varuca Salt, just for the fun of it. “Hell yes!” I’ll answer. “I’m better than everyone else because I have money, you scum.” For the curse to work I will become the worst kind of spoiled brat to reporters. I learned how from watching Bridezillas.

I have several dream plans.

First. . . . Create a pycrete island and declare my new island nation sovereign. 120 miles off the coast of California I will declare the sovereign nation of Fredonia, free from colonial rule. (Because of it’s size, Fredonia will be able to move large numbers of refugees around the world.)

But first, we will sail to the Vanuatu islands where I will deliver free cargo to Chief Issac.
and. . .

I plan on breeding 400,000 armadillos to be released free inside the D.C. beltway. They’ll never forget me after that. Why? Because, “if you make a oyster smile, the world is your armadillo.” (I miss Blake Edwards.)

I won’t forget to spend a couple of million on whores and drugs. But only out of tradition. Otherwise they won’t put me on The Curse of the Lottery!!!! the greatest television ever created.

Republican Culture of Corruption

I finally finished. My list of Republican criminals is complete and the experience has warped my fragile little mind. I put the whole list onto one site, 272 names. 60 are pedophiles. Weird.

I almost understand the need of pedophiles to join the fine, upstanding, GOP. It’s a way to cover up their crimes; hiding behind the illusion of piety. What garnered my attention was large number of Republican public officials that have no problem with using their office for personal monetary gain. Arrogance. Pure arrogance.

Republicans, a true culture of corruption. If you consider that the Republican party consists almost entirely of haters, it shouldn’t be a surprise.