John Wayne by any other name...

I know I've been away for a while, spent the last few weeks trolling various cruise ships trying to come down with an e coli infection from the food in order to take down their demonic empires from the inside.  No such luck.  Only thing I did was gain thirty-seven pounds from shell fish buffets and develop a taste for the Reese's Pieces Martini.

But I came back just in time to catch this:

Now it may or may not be obvious from my postings here on this blog, but I love America.  And loving America means I love the greatest American that ever lived, Marion Morrison.  In a real life application of the "Boy Named Sue" style of parenting, Marion grew up and became known to the world as John Wayne.  Now I love John Wayne so much that I personally police his wikipedia entry 24/7... one of three things I don't farm out to day laborers I pick up outside the Parsippany, NJ Home Depot off RT 46.  I love John Wayne so much that I have this above my bed:

I love John Wayne so much - you know, taking a moment to look at that picture outside the context of my bedroom shrine, I can see why some of the women I bring home look at me funny or say "Okay, that's cool if you're into that."

Anyway, point being, I love John Wayne so much that I know for a fact that his hometown isn't Waterloo, IA, it's in fact Winterset, IA.  So I got to thinking, Michele Bachmann is a sharp, on-the-ball politician who isn't known for confusing her facts.  So just who was she trying to compare herself to?  The answer?  America's other famous JW... John Wayne Gacy.

Yes, the same John Wayne Gacy who was executed by lethal injection in 1994 for the rape and murder of 33 boys, some of whom he kept in a crawl space, the rest he dumped in a nearby river.  The same guy who had to wear this to work everyday:

That's who Michele Bachmann compared herself to.  And thanks to Fox News spreading the story, rather than correct Bachmann and make her look bad, they will now try to rewrite history and make the real John Wayne's birthplace Waterloo, IA.

That makes John Wayne's wiki the front lines for this rewrite.  Guess I'm in for a seventy-two-straight-hour wikipedia stake out to stop Fox Nation from trying to corrupt the real John Wayne's entry just to help out Bachmann.

The Midnight Ride of Paul Revere: As Told By Sarah Palin

My only response to watching that?

I'm starting to wonder if I even need to comment on anything Sarah Palin says at this point.  At least she defended herself with the same tenacity as the following dog running into a wall:

I hope her classy Constitution bus never runs out of gas and she keeps on keeping on with reporters because the internet can never have too many funny clips.

In other news, I apparently have seen Rep. Anthony Weiner's soft-on through a pair of boxer briefs.  Why in the name of all that is holy do we live in a world where I've seen that silhouette?  And in case you missed it... here it is!!!

I'm not a classy guy in the least.  You've probably guessed that by now.  But for fuck's sake, when I take a shot of my junk, I know the world is protected because I have no idea how to use any functions on my smart phone.  Rep. Weiner appears to know just enough to confuse sending a text to posting to twitter.  When my father had no idea how to program the VCR, there was never any danger of a high school teenager getting a sext from him.  An affair was just an affair, something between two people assuming they were both decent liars with a clear understanding of where things were headed at the beginning... something she says I lost sight of and that's why she has to end it even though there's no way I'm letting go that easy because I will totally boil her rabbit.  Today's technology raises the stakes.

So my heartfelt sorrow to Rep. Weiner's family.  You are married to/fathered by a guy who takes shots of his own junk and doesn't know how to work his phone.

In which the Lazy Observer observes the passing of Osama Bin Laden

On May 1st, Czar Komerade Herr Doktor Karl Marx "President" Obama announced to the world that the United States launched a tactical assault into Pakistan and successfully eliminated Osama Bin Laden.  A man that successfully eluded our country for fifteen years and flaunted that fact in the face of our totally exceptional American exceptionalism.  The United States finally got him, or if you believe the string of pronouns from Obama's announcement, he single-handedly flew the chopper in, fast-roped down the the ground, was the first one through the door, and took the shot that killed America's most vile enemy.

Also, in a classy move, Obama interrupted The Donald's climax on Celebrity Apprentice.  Not sure I'd want to mess with the man who will be our country's next president.  What's that?  The Donald just announced he's not running?  DAMMIT!  What a combed-over cock tease.  I believed with all my heart that he was the one man who could save our country from its impending communism bizarrely driven by massive banking institutions, big oil, and the defense industry.  Now that dream is gone.  You know what? As far as I'm concerned, The Donald's gone, too.  Fuck him.  He thinks he can toy with an entire nation of uninformed right-wing voters and The Blacks who were ready to go to the line for him to fight against this country's impending Nazi Marxist Federalism.  I'm starting to realize that his worldview may actually be reality television and Celebrity Apprentice the highest point his moral character may ever reach.  And that's still two notches lower than the moral character of a bus station urinal.

My next choice for American savior never bothered to doctor his birth certificate when he immigrated as a fully grown adult into the world of body building and Hollywood fame.  Arnold "The Governator" Schwarzenegger had everything we need in a president... thirty-six inch biceps and about a dozen quotable catch phrases that would have totally killed when in the throes of tough international negotiations.  Think China would have said no to Conan the Barbarian when he "asked" them to stop being such douches about trade and currency imbalances?  The Governator totally would have brought the lamentations of the women all over China if they weren't so successfully doing that to themselves already.  What's that?  The Governator totally knocked up his maid and has an illegitimate child born on U.S. soil?  When does that badboy turn 35?  His marriage is a small price to pay for the future of our country.

Didn't someone close to Maria Schriver say something about not asking what your country can do for you?  Apparently what she could do for her country was let her husband act like a juiced up sex addict and impregnate someone on his staff, then pretend for 10 years that the kid belonged to the mother's husband, then run for governor and continue to lie to your wife for personal ambitions, and then once those ambitions were fulfilled, tell her and scuttle your marriage that was essentially over anyway because of other man-whoring.  As American as apple pie or Newt Gingrich... who used to go to his car and get blow jobs from his mistress while still married to his second wife all while prosecuting Bill Clinton for getting his own extramarital BJs.  The difference between Gingrich's conservative moral fortitude and Slick Willie's evil?  Gingrich had the class to completely dump his second wife and marry the car-servicing mistress and make an honest woman out of her.

Anyway, I guess that leaves us with Obama for the next year or so minimum, but nailing Bin Laden might just give Obama all the clout he needs to get re-elected, and despite my quotes around President early in this post, I'm a little torn about my feelings toward a second Obama term.  A team of brave, heroic Navy Seals swept in and killed Osama Bin Laden on President Obama's watch.  It happened because Obama shifted resources toward an intelligence-backed surgical approach rather than total invasion.  It happened through classic intelligence gathering methods and not through torture (but we still totally waterboard, baby!!!).  Basically it happened by not following the blunt, obtuse methods of the second greatest president in American history, George W. Bush.

You know, I never admitted this to my friends, and I always felt guilty for even thinking it, but Bush's floppy bitchery about Bin Laden never sat well with me.  First he was all like "Bin Laden Dead Or Alive" like a character from a John Ford western.  Then a few months later, drowning in the stink of failure, he was all like "Bin Laden who I don't even think about him" like a teenager who caught his crush making out with someone else.  Bush followed that up with literally the biggest strawman attack in human history when he invaded the wrong country in response to a different question, prematurely ejaculated a Mission Accomplished banner, fumbled that occupation and Afghanistan, fucked up Katrina, and then watched the economy implode.  But at least he wasn't a democrat...

All this current democrat has done is print money like it's going out of style... to be used as trillions of band-aids for the aforementioned imploding economy, pass a bail-out that has been since repaid in full, shut up mouth-breathing conspiracy theory Birther morons like myself by providing a birth certificate all while successfully closing in and eliminating the man responsible for 9/11.

I wasn't personally affected by that tragedy.  I didn't know anyone who died.  In fact, I was asleep when the planes crashed into the towers.  Living in Soho, I thought that would have been loud enough to wake me up, but it was my mother calling me to make sure I wasn't anywhere near the World Trade Center that got me up.  But I saw the towers fall, I watched the smoke plume cover miles of sky, I saw the horror, sadness, and later emptiness on people's faces, I later smelled the odors of decay, and I watched a country fail to avenge that for nearly ten years.  But that's no longer the case, and despite the prolific use of the pronoun "I" in Obama's announcement, he really does deserve a good deal of the credit, or at least his own Mission Accomplished banner since he actually got the job done.  And maybe he deserves people like me to stop being such an asshole about him and politics in general, choosing sides like we're talking about an NFL rivalry and not the future of our country... to stop attaching genuine hatred to differences in political ideology instead compartmentalizing those differences away from raw emotion.

Maybe it's time I rethought a few of my lines of reasoning.  Then again, that seems like it will involve nuance, and nuance is hard, and like a lot of Americans, I'm stupid lazy.

The Middle Class: America's Muffin Top

First, one matter of bookkeeping.  Apparently "President" Obama just released his official birth certificate that does indeed show that he was born in the quasi-state of Hawaii.  Granted, concerned barely literate citizens started demanding that document years ago, so obviously I'm going to assume "Komerade Ayatollah Rabbi El Generalissimo" Barry Obama used that time wisely to create a counterfeit.  Hear me, "Mr." President, my best people will eat this forgery for lunch and still have plenty of time for the three martinis that come standard in the Lazy Observer happy meal.  Here's what we were given:

First of all, I can't read any of the signatures so who knows if those people even existed.  Second, there's no proof that 1961 was even a year.  And third, how can you have a "Gynecological Hospital" when that's obviously a made up word.  My top semi-retired irrelevant Mafia contacts will be getting this shortly.

No matter, score one straw-man point for The Donald.  He blustered, and the White House had to respond.

Unfortunately, with the birther "debate" on hold, I'm now going to have to listen to people endlessly drone on about The Middle Class and its dude's-junk-in-cold-water-like shrinkage.  My response?  Good riddance.  No one likes fat around the middle and it's about time this country got back into dating scene shape.  Me?  I like them big up top and down low (but not cankles low, just talking about some T&A on my ladies).  It's about time our precious America finally obtained the socio-economic equivalent of a Kim Kardashian figure.  If you're middle class, choose a side.  Either join the 1% up top or get out of the way and join the unwashed millions down below, but please stop hanging over the waistline of our collectively ill-fitting jeans.

Like my fellow republicans in Washington, I feel like you lazy middle classers with your one disaster away from ruin lifestyle should be taxed out of existence.  And when that fails?  We should totally screw with social safety nets to make sure social and actual Darwinism emotionally and physically kill you faster.  Sure this line of thinking completely contradicts every Christian teaching many republicans espouse when debating politically irrelevant hot button issues like abortion or gay marriage, but there is a time to be sincere about your faith and there is a time not to be.  The time to be sincere is when it helps you win, the time not to be is when it prevents big business from contributing to your re-election campaign.  Sure, that may earn some of these "total fucking scumbags" (as some people might call them) a first class ticket to hell with recliner seats and satellite TVs in every seat, but thinking of the long game just isn't very American.

Damn you, George Soros... and other insights into irrelevant television.

Well, George, you heartless bastard, you finally got your wish.  Sir Glenn Beck Esq. Herr Docktor has announced he's leaving his show on Fox.  Soros, I too have enough cash to roll around naked in and I know the evil compulsions that materialize when all of those luscious bills covered in trace amounts of cocaine and human feces graze the darkest crevasses of the male body.  So don't think for one second that I don't know that you didn't somehow bring down Beck.

A lot of Soros apologists are going to tell me Beck did it to himself with misquoted bullshit like:

or like this gem from the socialist controlled media:

or:

Leave it to the left to think that hard-working Americans like the ones I've seen really far below me as I'm in my private helicopter flying over Nassau County can't detect a smear campaign made of bullshit.  A bull's shit smeared... everywhere... on freedom.

Fine, well what's done is done, and I hope that Beck goes out and starts his own television network because let's be honest, his conspiracy chalk board and crying won't play on radio.  The former, well it's a visual aid.  The latter just comes across like a prissy girl with asthma.  I look forward to not being able to get your new channel on either my local cable provider or the Dish Network.

Also, Pia voted off American Idol?  What the hell, America?  I still love this country right through to the loins, but you pushed Tom Hanks, a national treasure for his portrayal of Robert Langdon in the movie based off the national treasure of a novel The DaVinci Code written by a national treasure Dan Brown and directed by one more national treasure, Ron Jeremy.  Mr. Hanks tweeted, and I quote:

"Don’t have an IDOL habit, but how could the USA vote Pia off? I may be done for the season!"  

First based on the doth protest too much line of reasoning, he totally has an Idol habit, and why be ashamed to admit it?  Me personally?  No, I don't watch it too often, just here and there.  I really barely ever catch it, I mean if it happens to be on I might leave it going until the next commercial, but that's it really.  I mean, some of my best friends are idol watchers and while I believe Simon was the biggest d-bag, the show went down the toilet when he left despite Jenny from the block's best efforts (that girl still has it and I hope the money she makes as a judge totally pays off her husband's back taxes and gets filed properly with the IRS to avoid future discrepancies!!).  And second, he's right to be outraged, Pia owned it every time she took the stage.  I'm starting to doubt the credibility of the voting process driving American Idol.  If you kill that faith in me, you might as well kill all the faith in me.

Anyway, here's waiting to see how George Soros kills off American Idol, Ice Truckers, NCIS Los Angeles, and everything else that makes it good to be an American.

St. Patrick's Day: Recovery and Prayer

Yesterday was my religious holiday of religious holidays.  A day where I bury my lapsed Catholic life even deeper and embrace the traces of Irish heritage in my blood.  It's a day where I forego my usual seven hundred dollar a bottle scotch and indulge in the guilty secret that I like Jameson on the rocks better.  It's also a conflicted day for me, because St. Patrick's Day allows this "everyone's Irish on St. Paddy's Day" mentality and it makes it a little hard to separate the wheat from the chaff for genetically bred hardcore drinkers.  Everyone tries to line up shots and go like it's in their blood, and the aftermath of that can prove tragic to witness.  A perfectly attractive woman not wearing any underwear can end up covered in her own vomit mumbling about elevators while she tries to sleep it off against the outdoor ATM of a 24-hour pizzeria.  Who wants thats?

Not that I'm any better, I often have to reconstruct my St. Patrick's Day exploits from receipts and traffic cam footage, but I'm proud to say I actually remember fleeting memories from last night.  My years of heavy drinking have taught me a number of things, one of which is that there's good pizza and there's drunk pizza, and the pizza I want when I'm drunk happens to be somewhere in Penn Station.  Not sure where since I'm always blitzed, but I've spent a lot of time eating pizza in Manhattan's "other train station." St. Patrick's Day is the best day for drunk pizza there because you get to watch the drunk Jersey trains fill up and ship out.  Some fake tans, overly layered haircuts, college kids with gin and juice in their Poland Springs bottles, fat people in their late fifties drinking the same but wearing a lot more plastic green bowler hats... the spectacle can be worth the trip.  Granted, I'd rather take a stiletto heel to the groin then get on a train to that forsaken land with those forsaken people, but watching them shuffle and stumble while I down seven slices of buffalo chicken baked ziti pizza (according to one receipt) ended up being a good time.  I don't remember who I went home with, what they did with one of my thumb rings, or how I got to DUMBO afterward, but that's neither here nor there.

But here I am back at home, making sure to eat plenty of greasy eggs and bacon, surfing around on my laptop.  I went over to Facebook for a bit just to see what my arch-nemesis, Sarah Palin, was posting about today with all the wit and insight of a malfunctioning Roomba and got distracted.  A lot of pictures and stories on the "walls" of my "friends" about St. Patrick's Day.  Some funny, some sweet, some typical, some boring, but there was a moment where I came dangerously close to getting Facebook.  Almost posted a picture myself until I realized my pictures were all drunk shots of my own balls.  So I went back into some of the history on these "walls" of "friends" and saw something that snapped me back from the brink of Facebook make-believe.

I mentioned earlier that I'm a lapsed Catholic, but that doesn't mean I'm still not spiritual, maybe more than I care to admit at times because what I saw shocked me a bit.  People, in their status updates, were constantly asking for other people's prayers.  And those people were constantly responding to the original update with confirmation of prayers on the way.  Some were genuine and serious, a gravely ill family member took a turn for the worse.  Most, though, were so trivial... pray for my lawn mower, pray that the soup special has a decent vegetarian option, pray for minor crap that distracts me from just how fortunate I truly am.  The prayer requests were so prevalent that they couldn't have been sincere, and not the kind of sincere when you really like someone's t-shirt.  The kind of sincere when you're dealing with God.  At this rate, there's going to be a Pray button next to the Like button on Facebook just to save time and cap the meaninglessness of most of it.

So there you have it, another St. Patrick's Day in the books and another day wondering how Hemingway and James Joyce got as much writing done with all the drinking.

Sadness.

I've been sober for 4 days now, but then I see this.  Not much to say, just wishing everyone Godspeed through this terrible time.

Melissa Gilbert and Bruce Boxleitner Split.

I hope we all see each other emerging from the darker side.

The Hollywood Left Continues to Hate America

Like any straight male who admits to watching the Oscars, I'm there for the foxy ladies and the chance at a nipple slip.  The always tasteful and entertaining pageantry that comes as a free bonus reminds me these people truly deserve to be the exceptionalism on top of the de facto level of American Exceptionalism.  They are America's royalty, and their chemical dependence, alcoholic binges, semi-informed stances on important topics of the day, cheesy tattoos, and imploding disposable marriages reaffirms that belief daily.

Just because they are American royalty doesn't mean I have to blindly do their bidding.  Here in the United States, we have a long, proud tradition paid for in blood that allows me to choose to do the bidding of whichever extended basic cable personality talking head I choose.  I cannot, and will not do that for Hollywood because they hate our country.

The latest proof?  Last night's Oscar ceremony, where the Academy, in all of its French-worshipping wisdom, bestowed the highest honor our country has to offer, the Best Picture Academy Award, to The King's Speech over The Social Network - which just drips with made in the USA.  Hollywood chose to honor the story of a stuttering weakling with his fancy clothes and accent learning how to talk (something I did at 29 months thank you very much) so he could avoid embarrassing himself when he had to beg Uncle Sam and George Patton to pull England's ass out of the Nazi fire.

The Social Network is an American story... have an idea that's the intellectual equivalent of those bottles that hang on hospital beds that you piss in when you can't make it to the toilet, and ride it to the stratosphere of billions of dollars.  Facebook is America, and looking at recent events in the Middle East, maybe we should have sent Facebook into Iraq and Afghanistan if the goal was to give those countries the taste of American awesome that I assume every country totally wants.

Once again, Hollywood's actions force me to ask why they hate our country?  They also sort of make me wonder why they hate real men?  Sure, The Social Network is pure America, but even more pure America was True Grit, so when the overrated Social Network screenplay beat out True Grit, I had to wonder why were they celebrating dweebs over cowboys?

Who can crack the riddle of the left-wing liberal agenda?

Insights into Irrelevant Television

Traffic Light versus Perfect Couples

My all-time favorite show, Two and a Half Men, with its Jason Voorhees-esque ability to stick around, had to go on a brief production hiatus because one of its stars, Charlie Sheen, needed a little "me time."  So I thought I would check out a few of the other shows out there.  I have my Tivo set to automatically record anything that has any remotely hot women in it, and while I may miss a few shows because my standards are evidently lower than my Tivo's, I usually do alright sifting through the 40 terabytes of additional storage I have hooked up to my box.

Through pure happenstance, I watched two particular mid-season replacements back to back.  Perfect Couples and Traffic Light are both shows featuring an almost identical casts of early 30-somethings in almost identical places in their lives going through a few identical comedy bits. 

Tough thing for me is that I haven't laughed once during either of the two episodes of Traffic Light that I've seen, and given my penchant for CBS sitcoms, I'll obviously laugh at anything.  Even when I'm sober, I'm a wet dream for stand-up comedians doing their Laugh Factory Comedy Central specials because I nearly piss myself from moment one (I guess I'm basically the same drunk, just more handsy).  Starting the tired routine about how men and women differ?  Totally there.  Stole a joke from Dane Cook?  No problem.  Laughed the first time, still going to laugh now. 

So for a sitcom not to illicit a single laugh from me over the course of two episodes is disturbing.  Maybe they could call it Law and Order: Traffic Light, rebrand it as a cop show, and save some jobs.  The heart-string twist at the end of the pilot felt like it was meant for another series and rubber cemented onto this show.

Perfect Couples has a few more episodes under its belt, so while it also did not illicit a single laugh from me in the first two shows, I've gotten an isolated snort here and there from later episodes.  Perfect Couples goes a little further with the stereotypical archetypes, and that helps separates it from the cast of Traffic Light, which so far has been the TV equivalent of sodium-free soup.  Perfect Couples also has a foxy ace up its sleeve and her name is Olivia Munn.  Always thought she was stunning, but I genuinely consider her a pretty funny personality as well.  Traffic Light has no answer for Munn, and therefore I have to give this round of Insights into Irrelevant Television to Perfect Couples.

Now onto a Keeping Up With the Kardashians sorbet to cleanse the palate.

Could it be love?

A few posts ago, right around New Year's 2011, I opened up more than I expected to and confessed that as much as I tout my writing as a means to score babes, what I might really want is for writing to help me find true love.  Sure, there's something to be said for a high three-digit tally in the "Who banged the most Butter Faces with crazy stairmaster legs" game of life, but that game grows tiresome as you get older, if only because most hot chicks don't like old guys.

Then a revelation occurs, much like it did around New Year's Eve.  Last night, I decide to take a night off from my usual lifestyle, and get comfortable on the sofa with a half gallon of activa yogurt and a thermos-full of my mother's world famous sea breeze.  I'm all in for every moment of Justin Bieber I can get my hands on with about twelve different devices recording the Grammys in various capacities so I can pour over every moment later on.  Needless to say, Bieber mofo'ing rocked it, as did my mother's Sea Breeze recipe.  Show's over, and I start to assemble fan montages for the blogs that I know will have me up all night.  That's when I saw her.

A vision from another world with the language skills to prove it.  I don't know what the words to her angelic song meant, but I know they touched my soul, my deepest being.  Sure, she lives in Los Angeles and I live in New York, but at least I have an idea of where my heart, and therefore my writing, want to take me.  I hope she'll wait for me, because if anyone thinks I'm moving to LA so I can mix with all those Illegal Immigrant Scientologists praying to the earthquake gods, they're sorely mistaken.

Until then, au revoir, my love.  I anxiously await getting to know you better when the Autotune the News folks go to town on this.

Everyday miracles

Sure, some people get to see the Virgin Mary in their blueberry pancakes or Munch's The Scream on their moldy butter.  Then said people get to make an easy grand selling these food products on ebay or getting an interview on some local morning show.  Not me, here's what I get:

I get the potato shaped like a dude's junk.  Not even awe-inspiring junk, if I rolled that small I'd never stop crying.  But there you have it, fortune took a moment to smile on me and that smile took the form of oven-roasted genitalia giving it that sweet leprosy vibe.

After I took that picture, I totally ate it and honestly it tasted exactly as an oven-roasted, garlic, rosemary, and olive oil coated set of balls made out of an organic potato should.  It's nice, if not a bit strange, to actually remember how this dong ended up in my mouth as opposed to all those bizarre mornings waking from a night of blackout drinking in former Soviet satellite nations.

These digressions constantly remind me that I haven't cracked the writer's block I've suffered since I got my first two paragraphs down.  I know a lot of writers use a tool called outlining, but I never knew what it was until recently.  Apparently it's common practice at homicide scenes as well, but I can't see how outlines would accomplish anything there.  Regardless, I decided maybe it was time I started expanding my writing tool box to get over this Chapter 1, Paragraph 2 hump I've crashed into.

1. Introduce King Rex on a penal mining asteroid working a jackhammer from the future.  I mean really working it, glistening and grunting.

(Easy enough since I already wrote this.)

2. ????
3. ????
4-????. ????
????. King Rex and Hotina Fox totally do it.  End with the hook to save the galaxy.

(Also easy enough since I already wrote this.)

Seeing my idea laid out like this has helped tremendously.  I get so wrapped up in wanting to explore the beauty of language and wanting to score so many hot chicks, that I forget how often writing boils down to nose-to-the-grindstone work.  It's not brain surgery, I just need to think of a few points that get Rex and Hotina from that first paragraph to complete carnal grunting.  To do that, I'm going to need the right tools such as those giant touch screen displays I see on the 24-hour news channels.  Can't do a proper outline without special-ordering a few of those.

Sure, I may still be climbing the slopes of Mount Writer's Block, but at least I can buy my way into sight of the peak.

Taking a stand

Sometimes there comes a moment in people's lives where they are forced to look destiny in the eye and shout to the heavens,  "No further!  We draw the line here."  I assume this goes double when children are concerned, not that I'd know given how much I've spent on doctor's and lawyers to prove I'm not the baby daddy of any of those kids (you all know who you are).

So when Denise Richards tweets (Twitter?  For the love of...) "If you caught 'GMA' today..FYI.. No 'adult film star' will be babysitting our kids!" I'm likely to believe her.  I'd hate to be the porn star trying to get between a mother and her child, especially considering what Ms. Richard's character was capable of in Wild Things (no, not the champagne scene... which may be one of the finest in cinematic history).

Standards are not dead, except for those of the people who create a twitter account and say to themselves "I think I want to keep my finger on the pulse of Denise Richards' moment to moment existence."  I take that back, I'm sure if I spent 30 seconds on twitter, I could find a former reality TV star whose only current claim to fame would be twitter posts and "I want a baby" headline interviews to US Weekly.

That said, Ms. Richards still looks fantastic, may need to bust out my Wild Things/Starship Troopers Laser Disc twin pack.

The day my world shattered.

That day is today, and it's because of left-wing media agendas such as this:

When is Beef not Beef?

The American media has always had it in for one of the staples of my diet, Taco Bell, and now they are going after Taco Bell's "beef" tacos.  The fact that I now have to put Taco Bell "beef" inside quotes sickens my stomach, but that's the media for you.

Apparently some socialist decided to call Taco Bell's bluff about what they actually put inside their food and found out that the product Taco Bell uses to fill its "beef" taco doesn't meet the federal requirements necessary to call something beef.  The USDA requires products called beef to contain 40% actual beef (seems like they are setting the bar a little high just to prevent competition) and Taco Bell's taco filler only gets to the 36% mark.  Honestly, what's a measly 4% among friends?  Just think how many American successes occurred throughout history because we weren't a bunch of clenched-ass hall monitors quibbling over 4%.

Sure, the labels used on Taco Bell's internal packaging meet the guidelines -

- but if I wanted to know exactly what I was eating, I wouldn't be standing in a Taco Bell Drive-Thru at 3am because that's the only part of the store open when I'm batshit hallucinating and need a snack.  In fact, just to show my support, I'm going to mix the most there-is-no-God hallucinogenic cocktail I can muster and hit up a Bell right now.

Screw all of you muckrakers and go back to 1985's Mother Russia.  As a side benefit, this will also get me out of having to fill in the gap in Chapter 1 that I left in my last blog post.  Writer's block came on hard and fast.

So it begins...

With scotch in hand, I bantered back and forth yesterday with my writing partner.  I wasn't sure how adding an extra person to the mix would play out, but that tactic has always proven effective in the bedroom so it seemed like a safe bet.  The process, heated.  The results speak for themselves as I will show you in a minute.

But what about the process of letting someone into that protected space that is your creativity?  At first, I approached it like I assume a marriage would be based on the razor sharp situational comedies of CBS.  That worked well for a while, but creativity - at least my creativity - comes from inner storms and unrest.  Before long, shouts, tears, foxhole embraces through an unceasing horror and promises that we would make it through to the other side.  When those clouds broke and I saw what I had written before me, I knew every step of the journey had been worth it

That is, of course, until my driver, The Register, found me doubled over the toilet inducing myself to vomit while a voice from Poison Control could be heard shouting through my cell "stay with me, dammit, don't close your eyes!"  Turns out in my bleary-eyed state, I accidentally poured myself a full three fingers of some cleaner from under my sink and in the ensuing hallucinations, embraced a somewhat tacky lamp as my writing partner.

Regardless, let me debut the embers from which my conflagration that is my novel will emerge, like a Phoenix rising from an Arizona...

King Rex toiled sweatily in the dank asteroid corridors of PC-1208, the dankest hardcore penal colony this side of heaven.  King Rex used to be a king, and now look at him, kingly was the last word I would use to describe him.  Every muscle tightened and throbbed as he worked the electro-pick-axe against the tunnel wall, and she noticed.  A piece of mineral rocket fuel fell.  King Rex grunted and sweated as he lifted the fallen rock into a nearby mining gravity cart.  She noticed the horse noises King Rex made as he did this as well.

(To be filled in later)

King Rex and Hotina Fox tore at each other passionately.  To say they made love would be an insult to all those middle-aged suburbanites that have their boring sex.  No, King Rex and Hotina Fox made beast, and after a few days of healing, they would have the scars to prove it.  Their beast-making was the best in the history of recorded time, Hotina loved that she made this man make the same horse noises as lifting a heavy rock.

"Hi, my name is Hotina Fox."

"And mine is King Rex, should we save the galaxy?"

So there you have it.  I figure I just need to fill in that little gap there and I've got the first chapter of my opus in the bag.  Many thanks to The Register for knowing CPR, Mandy from Poison Control, and the lamp in my upstairs bathroom shaped like a bottle of Tabasco sauce.  I couldn't have gotten this far without all of you.  A heart-felt thank you.

Irony

Another three-alarm hangover, so just a quick checking in.

I thought that maybe I was jumping into this writing thing a little too en fuego, so I decided to back up and start a little closer to the beginning.  I can read and write at a fourth grade level, so that already gives me a leg up on some newspapers and internet news sites, but I soon came across something that has  been the bane of many writers.

Irony.

And let me tell you, the one person I definitely would not want to explain irony to me is Saint Peter, as he will unfortunately have to do for these poor people:

Westboro Baptist Church Agrees Not To Protest Arizona Shooting Funeral

Alright, back to a steady regiment of Advil, bloody Mary's, and Domino Pizza side dishes.

Damn you, Interwebs

As you can guess from my early entries on this blog, I'm a bit of an internet neophyte, and I'm constantly amazed that I can instantly stream some really tasteless, hardcore stuff with a picture quality that puts my vast, but aged, VHS collection to shame.

What I find difficult about internet video is how frequently a clip ends just as it gets to something interesting.  With the aforementioned streams, I can usually sate my curiosity by entering my credit card number, but I'm at a loss when I run into a situation like this:




Obviously I have an interest in writing, which implies an interest in a narrative as a general concept.  Here we have a situation established... family at the door eavesdropping.  A mailman arrives to allow a character the chance to verbally explain the entire set up which otherwise makes no sense and strains all logical credibility.  As a fan of allowing characters the chance to have to explain everything going on to salvage any sense, I applaud this ad's efforts.

Then my nightmare begins.  The video feed cuts off, no one asks for my credit card number, and now I'll never know how this well-meaning family resolved their nonsensical dilemma arbitrarily created to shill products that I could very well want to defecate money away on.  I have a lot of money, I like to defecate it away whenever I can, and nothing has proven more valuable to that pursuit than TV advertising.

So I say to the interwebs, please... if you start to show something, have the stones to see it to the end.  At the very least, let me pay you to have the stones to see it to the end.

The clip also had a brief mention of my nemesis, Sarah Palin, before that charming family vignette began.  Before I started this blog, I never expected to side against her, but she's embraced two things I've talked about here before, fat chicks and Facebook.  I'm not sure what she had to do with the unspeakable tragedy the gentleman in the video was addressing, but since Sarah Palin often has nothing to do with anything that she shoves her uninformed, social-media fueled thoughts on, I thought a little unfair tit for tat was in order.

You want to use Facebook (seriously... what self-respecting politician - eh forget it) to make hay out of fiction like Death Panels?  How about we use Facebook to make a little logically unfounded hay for you?

As a champion defender against the dangers of strawmen, I'm sure you'll appreciate a little taste of strawman vengeance.