I promise the article is better than this title.

The Writer’s Guild of America recently came to an agreement with the major studio heads meaning that not only was there a recent influx of virgins resuming work in Hollywood, but also that this year’s Academy Awards ceremony didn’t have to be cancelled. I know that a lot of people hold some contempt for the ceremonies claiming that it’s just another opportunity for the Hollywood elite to gather together to congratulate themselves on a job well done. I disagree. I think that most of the celebrities do a very good job of coming off as humble and down to earth, and for that they should congratulate themselves. NBC can have broadcast rights.

Jon Stewart returned as host this year and did a formidable job. Originally they were considering getting Whoopi Goldberg to return as host, but eventually decided that with a woman or a black man set for the presidency, there was no need be politically correct and instead went for a fair representation of the Republican party; an upper class, aging, white guy. Coincidentally, he also makes a living laughing at the Iraq war.

I love the Oscars. Every year me and a few friends gather together to watch it, placing bets on all the winners. This year, however, I had to cancel the get together a mere hour before the festivities began because I came down with what can aptly be described as the plague. It’s just as well though; I had to go to a family dinner at 6:30 which would have caused me to miss half the show. Some of my family knew this and thus when I told them I was sick probably assumed that I was just making up a bullshit excuse. I was not. I do, however, understand why they would be upset. They think that family’s the most important thing and that I’m blowing it off, the jokes on them though. I haven’t told anyone yet, but I’m adopted.

As my sickness threatened to engulf me entirely I was given the perfect remedy, the OSCARS!!!! Beautiful people wearing beautiful clothing; and only for the split second the screen goes black as they cut to commercial was I forced to look at my own disgusting reflection. I am not an attractive man.

There weren’t many upsets this year. Among the few were Tilda Swinton for Michael Clayton. She upset Ruby Dee, the grandmother from American Gangster, who was favorited to win because, well, she’s old and black. Also taking a bit of an upset was Marion Cottilard, who won best actress for her performance in La Vie en Rose. Her portrayal of Edith Piaf was a historic performance and truly gut wrenching, but the film isn’t American, so really, who gives a shit?

There were a few other events which cannot go unmentioned. Owen Wilson made an appearance presenting the Best Live Action Short Oscar and later went on to lose the ‘Best Suicide’ award to Heath Ledger. The Academy made a public statement explaining their decision thusly, “While we have great respect and admiration for Mr. Wilson both professionally and personally, we could not honor him with this award as he simply did not get the job done.” Mr. Ledger was not in attendance to accept his award.

Speaking of wildly inappropriate and inconsiderate jokes, the portion of the show where they have a memorial for the celebrities that passed away was really good this year. It’s always fun listening to the audience clap harder and louder depending on how famous the person being honored is. If E! has taught me anything, it’s that famous people are better than me and attractive famous people doubly so. Probably because you have to account not only for their lives but also for the lives of all their illegitimate children who will now never have the opportunity to have their existence denied.

I have no real problem with any of the winners, except maybe Best Sound Mixing, which was total bullshit. The sound in Transformers was mixed way better than in The Bourne Ultimatum, everyone knows that. Aside from that one fictitious discrepancy I only had any real “beef,” as the kids say, with one film and its many nominations. Now don’t get me wrong, I liked Juno. I thought it was a sweet little film that was pretty funny and had heart. But it’s the type of film that you buy at Starbucks, not a Best Picture contender. Best Actress, Best Director, and Best Picture nominations? Ahh, the immeasurable power of hype. Diablo Cody, former stripper and current screenwriter, also won for Best Original Screenplay. Now I know what you’re thinking, you’re thinking, “honest to blog?” but I assure you this story about a chicko who’s eggo was preggo ain’t no jive, turkey, and it took home the best writing Oscar, Home Skillet. I can see the quality in the story, but the dialogue in this film is like how a 97 year old Alzheimer’s patient imagines today’s youth speaks. It’s a combination of 1870s slang and retarded diction.

Finally, No Country for Old Men was a great movie and normally would be a deserving recipient of the Best Picture award. This year, however, it beat out the epic There Will be Blood, which is one of, if not, the best film of the past century. I have no joke or witty rhetoric. Just go see this movie, and bring a colostomy bag, because it will literally make you shit your pants.

So again the Oscars came and went, like a cheap male gigolo. I got my fix of pretty people honoring pretty people, and if even for a mere 4 hours I got to escape into the small window that is the world I wish I lived in. I got to see the people I admire sit in a room and tribute the artwork that I live for. One day of the year to honor these people. These celebrities, these idols, these gods.

Now I get another full year to make fun of the stupid shit they wore.

...not that there's anything wrong with that.

Since the beginning of time man has dreamed of the future. It seems not long ago that professors and doctors were predicting the great advancements we would face in the new millennium. Alas the year 2000 came and went quickly, giving way to 2001 and there were no meals in pill form, there were no flying cars or jetpacks, there was no great technological revolution. These dreamers of yesteryear prophesizing self cleaning homes and lasers would surely be surprised to instead find married dudes sticking it in each other’s butts.

It’s hard, in today’s world where homosexuality seems to lurk around every corner, where every song on the radio seems to written by the gays, where the most offensive homosexual remark I can think of is calling them ‘the gays,’ to imagine a world where homosexuality isn’t accepted. Believing that homosexuality was always revered is not only naïve, but it’s a stupid belief and you’re a stupid person for believing it.

Until recently Gay Marriage was a concept as strange and ridiculous as Elephants having pillow fights on the Moon. All that changed, however, when in 2001 the Netherlands legalized gay marriage. For the first time in history you could legally get a prostitute, smoke a joint, and marry a dude (not necessarily in that order). It didn’t take long for North America to follow suit with Canada legalizing gay marriage and although some states haven’t legalized it yet, America’s well on their way. Every state in America has legalized gay marriage with the exception of Alabama, Alaska, Arizona, Arkansas, California, Colorado, Connecticut, Delaware, Florida, Georgia, Hawaii, Idaho, Illinois, Indiana, Kansas, Kentucky, Louisiana, Maine, Maryland, Michigan, Minnesota, Mississippi, Missouri, Montana, Nebraska, Nevada, New Hampshire, New Jersey, New Mexico, New York, North Carolina, North Dakota, Ohio, Oklahoma, Oregon, Pennsylvania, Rhode Island, South Carolina, South Dakota, Tennessee, Texas, Utah, Vermont, Virginia, Washington, West Virginia, Wisconsin, and Wyoming.

Three cheers for progress!!!!
Hip, Hip, Hooray!

It’s understandable that gay acceptance is still an issue. It seemed like the gay rights movement was ready to make great progress in the 80s, and then all of a sudden came the AIDS pandemic. As terrible as this was it’s hard to sympathize with them as they brought it upon themselves when they had all that unprotected sex with wild monkeys. Foolish gays.

In the new millennium gay rights is again a hot topic. It’s great that people are at least discussing legalizing gay marriage, but I really don’t understand the dilemma. Just once I’d love to sit in on one of the trials, I wonder what the arguments would be.

Defense: You’re honor, my client, a homosexual, is a human being entitled to the same rights as any other person. He’s an upstanding civilian, a legal citizen, and he asks nothing from the state other than to be recognized as a married couple with his partner. The only grounds to refuse his legal marriage are grounded in religion but the First Amendment to United States Constitution states that there is to be a separation of church and state. Why then can he not be married to his lover, grounded solely on the basis that he is a man?

Judge: Thank you. Would the prosecution like to state their argument?

Prosecution: I would, your honor. He slowly stands and turns to address the jury. Your honor, ladies and gentlemen of the jury. THEY’RE FUCKING FAGGOTS!!!!!! Long pause. FAGGOTS!!!!! The prosecution rests your honor.

It’s a shame that Christianity holds such power in these matters, because that seems to be the strongest opposing point. Christianity views homosexuality as heretic and would prefer to focus their efforts on holier practices, such as child molestation. Sure it may seem contradictory to condemn homosexuality then play with boys ding dongs, but you see, Christianity views homosexuality as a sexual act between two men, not a man and a child.

Still though, we should consider ourselves lucky to live in such a comparatively tolerant place. During a famous 2007 speech at Columbia University, Iranian President Mahmoud Ahmadinejad asserted that there are no gay people in Iran. This seems to contradict with an Iranian law forbidding homosexuality, punishable by death, however President Ahmadinejad assures that this law was simply a side clause attached to the Unicorn and Leprechaun Mandate of 1996.

When I first heard of the case of two male teenagers, Mahmoud Asgari and Ayaz Marhoni who were hanged in 2005 because they had been caught having sex with each other, I was shocked. I was relieved however when reflecting on President Ahmadinejad’s speech, I realized that these two individuals did not in fact exist.

While being gay must be a very harrowing experience, its’ not all bad. First of all for males, they don’t have to worry about their partner having a headache, not being in the mood, or still recovering from ‘the abortion.’ The benefits for lesbians, god bless them, are far more obvious: they get to sleep with women. Also, all gay men can bake (it’s science) and real scientific studies have shown that gay men have, on average, slightly longer and thicker penises. See, I’m not gay.

Now that I’ve kissed some gay ass (figuratively speaking) I can rip it to pieces (literally). I’m so freaking sick of gay pride parades. You’re here, you’re queer, I’m fucking used to it. I mean Jesus Christ, riding down the street on a float shaped like balls, filled with other butch guys wearing, as implausible as it may seem, even smaller leather shorts, throwing out free condoms lined with toilet paper, only furthers your stereotypical image. It’s like having a Mexican awareness parade and just parking the floats on your lawn. Or a Black Awareness parade where everyone just rides down the street on my bike. My point is, if you want people to accept you as fellow members of society then you need to stop depicting yourselves as a circus sideshow.

For instance, in 1973 when the American Psychiatric Association removed homosexuality from the Diagnostic and Statistical manual of Mental Disorders, meaning that homosexuality was no longer considered a mental disorder, you could’ve just taken pride in the strides you’d made. It wasn’t necessary to hold a press conference where an unnamed leader in the gay community refuted this change by proclaiming that he was, and I quote, “crazy for cock.”

I apologize for the length of this entry and the lack of my usual hysterical pointed satire but I actually did some research and I felt this was a good opportunity for me to show off to you how smart I am. So why did I decide to write about homosexuality? Don’t get too excited dad, I’m not coming out. Last week I wrote about racism and I noticed a lot of parallels between homosexuality and the plight of the black man. While African Americans are struggling for social equality, homosexuals are still fighting for people to recognize their basic civil rights. What people do between closed doors is really nobody else’s business and as long as they’re not squirting ‘gay sauce’ at us, I see no reason for any type of differential treatment. Also, maybe some hot lesbians will read this and decide they wanna be my friend. So why did I write about homosexuality? Because I wanted to.

… I swear I’m not gay.

Keep Dreaming.

There are a lot of things wrong with the world. I know that, I’m not naïve. No world that gives Flava Flav a dating show, Al Gore a Nobel Prize, and women the right to vote is perfect. That being said, things are pretty okay. Now with that being said, there are still two things that really piss me off: Racism and Mexicans.

I’m just kidding, as long as they keep their cars off my roads and on their lawns, I couldn’t care less. Here’s the truth, I honestly have nothing against Mexicans, I don’t even know any Mexicans. So why would I say all that? Why am I so inherently racist?

In pursuit of an answer I thought I’d turn to Martin Luther King’s famous speech. I’ll admit that I was surprised by what I found. It started as I had expected but then went in a much more literal direction than I had anticipated.

“I have a dream,” he reassuredly began, but then,
“There’s, like, this… uhh… 12 foot tall hotdog. And he’s like, chasing me down the street,”
I made sure I was watching the right speech. He continued,
“And he’s screaming ‘I’m gonna eat your feet Martin!!!’ and I’m like, ‘Don’t eat my feet, giant hot dog!! Don’t eat my feet!!!”

Disappointed by how misquoted and unhelpful Mr. King was, I went to my grandfather for some answers. “Grandfather,” I asked, my rippling biceps glistening in the sun, “Black people are born black. When they’re in the sun they stay black, and when they’re embarrassed they remain black. When white people are born, we’re born pink. When we’re in the sun we turn bronze then red, and when we’re embarrassed we blush. Why then are black people referred to as coloreds?” He took a sip of his brandy, flashed a knowing smile, and replied, “Because when you hang them from a tree, they’re blue.”

I politely finished my dinner, respectfully smiled as he showed me his collection of Nazi paraphernalia, then excused myself when he insisted I take a shower. Needless to say I was shocked. Completely taken aback that my grandfather would hang a man from a tree when he could get a Filipino to do it for him.

See, I did it again. I have no reason to insult Filipinos. I’ve had Filipinos living with me all my life. Sure, they’ve stolen our car and dog, slept with my dad, and made up fantastical lies about my family, but they’ve never been anything but polite to my face.

The alarming thing to me is that I know I’m not racist. Correction: I know I’m not very racist. Everybody’s a little bit racist. Nobody sees an Arab on their airplane and doesn’t plan out their goodbye phone call; just like nobody would bet on the Chinese driver at the Indy 500. So I’m a little racist; fine, but why?

Is it because I’m white? Is it because I come from a long lineage of suppressors and abusers and it’s in my blood? Do I ask too many rhetorical questions? The definitive answer to all those questions is a big fat stinking “NO.”

I categorize people and believe in stereotypes for one simple reason, they’re true. Need proof? Well here’s the smoking gun: I’m Jewish and, I swear to god, I like money!!!!! Now I consider myself a smart guy and would usually avoid any type of circumstantial evidence, but let’s face it, the facts are clear. Society has told me a bunch of ridiculous classifications for entire nationalities of people and I dare not question it. Sure, I’d love to be able to stand up against society and yell ‘Hey, Society!” then scrunch up my face and make a pouty noise indicating my disapproval, but let’s face it, I’m just one man. Not only am I just one man, but I’m a Jewish man, and as a Jew I don’t have a very good track record when it comes to conflict. In fact I believe the only recorded instance of a Jewish person winning any type of confrontation was during the 2000 Vice Presidential Debates when Joe Lieberman and Dick Cheney debated over which “Back to the Future” was the best (Lieberman: The second one, and fuck all of you).

The point I’m trying to make is that not only is Racism real, but it’s also hilarious. Now before you go pre-judging me as a racist and shoving me into ovens, let me just make one more incredibly ignorant observation. With sympathy for minorities running so rampant nowadays, it’s become increasingly difficult for me to be white. That’s right, I’m a middle class white man, and I’m complaining about intolerance! The fact of the matter is that the “white devil” was responsible for a lot of terrible terrible things. Granted, I wasn’t one of those people and I’m genuinely not a racist; but darkie don’t care. I’m not filled with hate, I don’t have a white hood in my closet, and my igniting crosses has nothing to do with racial intolerance, I just hate crosses.

Being Black, or Chinese, or Filipino, or Mexican nowadays paints a picture of your cultural heritage. It associates you with a group; with a history. When somebody looks at any ‘minority’ they see a lineage of ancestors travelled here from the great rocks of wherever, overcoming great hardships, and making a name for themselves and their families. When people look at me, they just see a white guy. I’m a blank canvas. Frankly, I don’t think I should have to live with this shame. I shouldn’t feel guilty when I get a black waiter or when I stone a Muslim.

Looking at the progression of racial attitudes over the past few centuries it’s truly unbelievable; we’ve come so far, changed so much, and built a whole new world. Just imagine how much more we could’ve done with slaves. The progress truly is astounding though. African Americans are no longer required to sit in the back of the bus (although they’re always welcome), my family now let’s our housekeeper sleep inside the house, and I continue to hold out hope that one day I’ll see a white guy on BET.

Happy Black History Month, everybody.

Abortion is Hilarious!

There are two types of people in this world, those that have been aborted, and those that have not. Now granted, in a perfect world many more of the latter would fall into the former group, alas this is not the case. The world is filled with dipshit assholes and no matter how persuasive that voice in your head is you can’t get away with killing them. No matter how liberal a judge you draw, chances are he won’t buy into your ‘belated abortion’ theory. Abortion is a serious matter. It’s an issue as close to my heart as a hanger to the head. But it's also a sensitive issue. People get pissed off when you joke about it, so for this reason I’m going to try to hold back on the jokes. For experimentations sake I’m gonna try to discuss a serious issue, Abortion, in a mature manner. Boobs.

It’s important to learn the difference between an aborted person and a non-aborted person. The central difference you will find is that an aborted person is dead, while a non-aborted person is often alive. When encountering an individual whom you believe to be a victim of abortion there is one important question you must ask. ‘Is this a functional human being, or a bloody mess of placenta on the floor?’ Generally, if the second answer is the correct one this person is an aborted person. If this is the case then Congratulations, you’ve found yourself an abortion. Pick that bad boy up and put it in your front pocket. Don’t worry, the mother doesn’t want it, that’s why she’s here. The first rule of aborted babies is ‘finders keepers,’ and chances are the doctor, father, and security guard all want it for themselves, so run. Run fast.

Once you get to a safe place you’re free to do all kinds of things with your new baby fetus. Remember, if the baby was aborted the law doesn’t consider it a person. It’s therefore legal to do whatever you want to it. Be creative, have fun. But be selective with who you tell about these escapades, most people tend to get upset if they hear about any sexual endeavors. Remember, that’s how you got into this mess in the first place, so be careful.

Eating it is always a safe and delicious choice. I know it sounds gross, but it’s not cannibalism if it’s not a person. Be warned, though, if your abortion is Indian, it will be spicy.

I’m just kidding folks. I don’t believe most of that crap, it’s just satire. It is only by joking about those issues that haunt us that we can fully overcome them. What’s the difference between a jew and pepperoni pizza? A pizza doesn’t scream when you put it in the over. Let the healing begin, people.

Let’s get down to some political analysis shall we? The irony of the whole abortion debate is that most pro-lifers are right wing. The people who are protesting in the streets screaming that every life is sacred are the same people voting for the death penalty. It’s absolutely ridiculous. How do you justify something like that? It’s like saying that if they’re gonna murder the guy, the least they can do is let him kill a couple people first. I guess they’re okay with institutionalized murder, as long as they get to watch.

I’m talking about the issues people!

What right does the government have to decide when it is and isn’t okay to kill a baby? It is a mother’s inherent right to decided when to murder her children! It’s right there in the Constitution, or… the bible. Or something.

It’s against the law to abort a baby once it reaches 7 weeks of age, but if it’s only been 6 weeks than shove that vacuum up your vajay jay, Momma’s goin’ dancing tonight! At what point of development does a person become a person? I don’t think there’s a date you can put on that kind of thing. I think you should be allowed to kill a baby until the moment you leave the hospital. And I don’t necessarily mean your baby, I mean any baby.

Baby killing’s a hot topic. There’re no easy answers. Some would argue that killing a baby is murder, plain and simple. Others argue that there’s blood and a potential baby pouring out of a woman at least 12 times a year, so what’s the big deal. There’s no right or wrong answer. Only one thing is certain; everyone’s got an opinion, and some are more complicated than others. I, for instance, am anti-abortion, but pro killing babies. The hunt is half the fun.

So who’s right? If only some omnipotent being could wrap it all up for is. Give us a Jerry Springer final thought on the issue, but that’s not gonna happen. All we can do is have our own opinions, do what we believe, and most importantly, joke about it. If we can’t laugh about the terrible things in this world then we just become a group of angry, unforgiving people. And then we’re no better than the blacks.

I feel better already.

Everyone's Got a Poopinion!

I haven’t had a lot going on in my life recently so I’ve been very bored very often. Afraid that my boredom would soon lead to insanity, I enthusiastically asked Ramon, my imaginary friend, if he wanted to play a game of ‘Checkers’. He enthusiastically punched me in the gut and called me a “Fag.”

‘Hey,’ I sternly warned him, ‘You call me that 5 or 6 more times and I might go and talk to somebody who’s not a figment of my imagination.’
Now as anybody who has even remotely studied the subject can tell you, once a fictional character becomes conscious of their imaginary existence, they immediately cease to exist, exploding in a beautiful mess of imaginary color and gore. It was immediately following this that I found myself sitting pants-less on the park bench, alone and bored. I packed up my satchel, put away my magical beans and tiara, and went to find a friend to talk to.

After a brief negotiation, 22 dollars, and a street vendor hot dog, my new ‘friend’ agreed to grant me 7 minutes of conversation. He told me of how, just the other day, he found himself in the ‘Museum’ subway station where he found a poster promoting the new renovations about to be undertaken at that very station. The government, apparently, plans to put mummies, and dinosaurs (hopefully just bones), and artifacts there turning the Museum station into an actual museum!!! At the top of the poster was a brief tagline which read "What's Going on Here?" to which some hilarious individual graffitied, ‘A misallocation of public funds.’

While I find this a funny social statement, some patriotic passerby felt so outraged by this blatant act of Treason that he pulled out his sharpie, which he conveniently keeps in his wallet, and responded with the simple yet meaningful, ‘Have pride in your city.’

Now don’t get me wrong, I think a subway poster is an appropriate location for debate. A much better forum than, let’s say, an actual forum. In fact I think we should change the electoral system by replacing televised debates with candidates taking turns writing their opinions on subway advertisements for museum renovations and gay dating websites. I mean, moderators and civil conduct? What are we? Animals?

Now I know it’s a tired subject that we’ve all wondered aloud to ourselves and, if you’re not me, others, but the phenomenon of inappropriately located opinionated debate is beginning to get out of hand. For example, when I go to the bathroom in a public place there are some messages that I’m willing to accept. If you’re trying to tell the world that there’s no toilet paper left, then I think it’s your right, nay, you’re responsibility to wipe your feces on the wall, and if you’re tall enough, the ceiling. If you wanna hand me a paper towel and ask me for a tip, it’s your right to express your opinion; you’re an asshole, I get it. But when I sit down to unload my fecal demons, the last thing I need to be informed of is that ‘Michael Jackson hates Kykes.’ I mean, whoever’s theory this is clearly found it so important that he took the time to scribble it on the wall of the stall, yet he has left no further facts supporting his argument nor his contact information had I wished to learn more on the subject. If it’s true than I’m pretty mad at MJ, but as it stands I gotta chalk this one up to pure speculation. Ruined my poo, too.

I’ve never understood why angry opinionated people bring pens into the bathroom with them. It’s like there’s some sort of underground therapeutic methodology that I’m just not keen too. I can even accept this being their opportune moment to express themselves, I know when I’m pooping my brain kicks it into high gear, but why is everyone always so angry. There are always offensive statements like, ‘Nuke Africa,’ or ‘I have aids and I rubbed my blood all over that toilet seat.’ I’m not an angry pooer; I would assume I’m not the only one. Yet I have never seen an amiable or even sedate comment in a bathroom stall. Just once I wanna swing the door shut and see, written in faint grey letters, ‘I’m feeling pretty good, I guess,’ or ‘Danny DeVito is an alright actor!’

The only thing that bothers me more than angry rants is generic mean spirited statements like, ‘You Suck.’ It’s like, if you’re gonna take the time to carve your viewpoints into this slab of wood, than make it count man. You don’t even know me.

I’ve always wondered if this phenomenon is strictly isolated to men, or if women do it, too. It would probably be different; women are too in touch with their feelings to leave such rudimentary carvings. They’re probably much more civil, like ‘Black people are generally darker in complexion than caucasions.’ Underneath which an African American would rebut. ‘As a light skinned woman of color, I resent that assumption’ ‘Oh yeah!?!’ the original poster would threaten, ‘well I apologize!,’ and with that the white woman, now finished clogging her bleeding vagina, would leave the stall, defeated, never to return. Underneath that somebody probably carved the recipe for nice bunt cake.

I guess what really set off this insightful tirade was an unsettling comment I read the other day. I sat down to do my business, and as if they had timed my arrival to the second, written in large block letters across from my face were the words ‘I fucked your mom.’ Now this type of bold statement would upset nearly any man, but this situation hurt doubly so because I could feel, deep down in my loins, that it was the truth. That being said, I’d like to take this opportunity to ask my dad to please not write on the walls of our house anymore.

So why does all class and respect go out the window as soon as our asses touch those porcelain bowls of honest expression? Is it a deep rooted desire to return to our roots, writing hieroglyphics on blank walls, leaving our mark for the future? Do we feel this a safe anonymous venue for expression, without having to worry about the consequences? Has the public bathroom stall become the new confessional? Or are we all, deep down in the core of our very being, simply assholes? I don’t think it matters, really. Human beings need somewhere to truly express themselves. If we can get things off our shoulders and out of our bowels simultaneously, then who cares why we choose the formats we choose? Besides, there’s no need to speculate.

The writings right up on the wall.

Breaking News: Lying to Children bad?

There’s a saying, probably from a song I’m too lazy to look up, that says, “Time can change me, but I can’t change time.” While this saying has no real meaning in the larger sense of the theme of this entry, it holds as little weight in the short-term. Basically what I’m saying is that it has absolutely nothing to do with what I’m about to talk about. ‘So why leave it in’ you ask? I’ll tell you why. Well, actually I won’t.

Parenting styles have changed a lot over the years as have the attitudes of my generation. Whereas my grandfather’s generation was tough, beaten, and strong; my generation cries watching Oprah. My grandmother once told me the story of when my grandfather lost his left arm in the war and spent the next 42 years without any medical attention claiming it was ‘just a papercut.’ Actually, none of that is true. It’s just the same though, none of this has to do with this entry anyways.

I’ll just skip the introductions and get to the point: We need to stop lying to children. Granted it’s fun lying to little kids because, well, they’re stupid, but ridiculing our future doctors and lawyers is no laughing matter. At least not to them. I think that parents completely under appreciate the affect that lies have on their kids. Don’t get me wrong I’m just as guilty as the next guy. I’ll play along when I hear a parent telling their kids myths about Santa Clause, the Easter Bunny, or The Holocaust (too soon?), but I can justify this to myself because: a) they’re not my kids, and b) I’m a horrific human being.

Also, I’m a second generation liar. Whether I lie because it’s just the way I am or because I grew up surrounded by lies is up for debate. We could argue about ‘Nature vs. Nurture’ all day, but until somebody actually arranges the fight it’s all speculation. Regardless of the result (I’d take Nature in the 4th) it doesn’t change the fact that as much as my parents assure me they’re honest, it’s clear they lie to me. When I was young my father used to pretend I had a little brother who died tragically performing whatever dangerous task I was about to embark on to keep me from doing it, and as if that wasn’t enough, both my parents, to this day, continue to tell me that they love me.

I have a baby brother named Evan. He’s about 2 years old and he can’t speak yet. So when I sit down with him and he points to a picture of a train, he says ‘Choo, Choo,’ and I say ‘Yes Evan, that’s a choo choo.’ But it’s not a fucking choo choo; it’s a train! I’m lying to the bastard and he’s not even old enough to join the Israeli army (two more months). He’s also currently being toilet trained. So every time he goes to the washroom we all act impressed and clap and cheer like he was just named president, which is ironic because he's no longer full of shit. But none of us are actually proud. We can poo on our own, we’ve been doing it all our freakin’ lives. I mean, my cat poos in one spot, I should expect the same from a tiny human being.

It’s not just parents lying to babies to keep them from crying and shitting in their shoes, we also lie to them through childhood. I have some cousins that I go to visit occasionally and they’re in that stage where they draw everything, and everything they draw gets put up on the fridge. Not just the fridge, also the walls, the cupboards, and my nightmares. It’s one thing if you’re putting them up because you wanna be supportive of your children or you think they have a gift, but let’s face it, that orange scribbling that Jenny claims is a giraffe is no Picasso. It looks more like I cut a cat in half and threw it at a blank piece of paper.

Again, I’m just as guilty as the next guy. Recently one of my cousins drew a picture of me, which was really sweet and I was genuinely touched. But when she actually showed me the drawing an inexplicable sense of contempt for her grew over me. I looked like a clown whose face had been lit on fire and extinguished with a rake. To make matters worse my name had been written on the bottom, with one of those backwards S’s and a few extra vowels. All I could think about was how our school system had failed them, and if there were any specialty schools for children with no creative center in their brains. And while I was thinking about how pathetic this child’s perception or “art” seemed to be, all I was able to say was how beautiful it was as I reached for the tape to put it up on the fridge.

My point is that I am no saint. I lie to children; I even smack ‘em around a bit if nobody’s watching, but I’m not concerned. For the past twenty years I’ve been told that Jesus died for my sins, so I’m going to heaven with a clean slate.

Unless of course they were lying about Jesus. But my elders wouldn’t lie to me.

Right?

The Smartest Bastards Alive

Marketers are the smartest people on planet Earth. Seriously. How many times have you seen a commercial on television and as if you have no control over your body you find yourselves buying 4, 5, even 6 dozen cases of kitty litter before you realize you don’t even have a cat? Now you have to go buy a cat, a cage and some toys plus you’ve got to spay and neuter it lest you disappoint Bob Barker, go buy some ointment for that rash on your groin that won’t go away when suddenly you realize that you haven’t update your blog in over 2 months and while writing the first paragraph of your most recent update you realize that you’ve been typing a sentence for way too long and it’s time to either delete everything you just wrote or press the period key, pretend this never happened, and try to get back on track.

I got a computer virus recently. It’s a pain in the ass and it’s dangerous but I just can’t bring myself to get rid of it. I got a piece of spy ware, which essentially means that I get popups nonstop. The beautiful thing about the whole situation is that the popups pretend to be my friend, they inform me that I have a virus and like the good pal that it is tells me where to get the top of the line popup blocker. Essentially I have a virus that tells me that I have a virus in order for me to buy their new anti virus software. The very concept of this marketing strategy literally makes me crap my pants. They give a virus telling you how to get rid of it. It’s like if Aspirin came out with a new pill that gave you migraine headaches. ‘Try our new and improved Aspirin. It’ll give you the worst fucking headache of your life but it’ll make it go away within moments.” On the one hand I wanna be angry at them for giving me this virus, but on the other I’m just impressed. Damn you, you magnificent bastards.

A well used jingle or mascot will make you buy shit you didn’t even realize existed. Prime example: The Kool Aid guy. Why would anybody ever buy kool-aid? It’s like any other fruit punch but you have to make it yourself. Nobody in their right mind should ever want Kool-aid, but have a Walking Talking Jug of Tropical Island Splash Fruit Cocktail tell you to buy it while wearing those funky Hawaiian shorts and suddenly you fucking need it. What is the allure of the Kool-Aid man? He’s not a nice guy, he’s a jerk. Has the Kool-aid man ever asked how anybody was? Hell no, the Kool aid man doesn’t give a shit. Has he ever walked through the front door and kindly inquired ‘Hello Billy, how are you?’ No! He bursts right through your fucking living room wall screaming ‘Oh yeah, Oh yeah!!’ If a pitcher of Fruit Punch burst through my wall my first reaction wouldn’t be ‘Oh hurray! Let’s drink him.’ It would be ‘Holy Shit, we’re all gonna die.’ The Kool-Aid guy must’ve had a screwed up childhood to think that this is socially acceptable behavior. Kool-aid is basically just colored sugar that you use to make your own drink, but hey, that animated cup told me to buy it and his glasses are pretty fucking cool, so I think I better do what he says.

Cereal mascots also blow me away. Tony the tiger, Captain Crunch, the Trix rabbit, all animated, all creepy. Why is a tiger telling me to buy Bran Flakes? Why am I listening? Why do--- what? The tiger rides a skateboard? Oh… well that’s actually pretty cool. Okay, Tony I can handle but Captain Crunch is where I draw the line. When did we start taking advice on what to eat from pirates? I mean, I understand that it would be pretty badass to get scurvy but it’s just not worth cutting the top of my mouth. Besides a general rule of thumb is to not take advice from people whose eyebrows are attached to their hat. Finally, Trix the Rabbit. Need I say anything? These ads promote racial segregation, distrust of strangers, and general contempt for those different from you. While these are all important values to instill in our youth there was just no excuse for the way those children treated that rabbit. He just wanted some damn cereal, what’s wrong with you children? Where are your parents?

Nicotine gum has a large advertising campaign running right now and it’s surprisingly effective. I find myself wishing that I smoked just so I could quit. They make the gum sound so rewarding and delicious that while I’m afraid I may become addicted to it, I still must try it but I wouldn’t dare just try the gum without being addicted to nicotine, it might be bad for my health. Then it hits me, that camel has been telling me to try his cigarettes, and his glasses are pretty fucking cool so I better do what he says. So I head out in my Mazda (Zoom Zoom) pick up a pack of cigarettes with the intent of getting addicted so I can try that sweet sweet Nicorette gum when all of a sudden a commercial for the anti-smoking campaign ‘Truth’ comes on. These kids are committing mini terrorist acts to promote their anti-smoking propaganda? COOL!!!!!!!!! What was I thinking? I almost let the media manipulate me, oh well, learn from my mistakes right? I throw my cigarettes into my glad twist tie garbage bag, sit back on my La-z-boy recliner, turn the channel to MTV, and pop open a new Diet Pepsi.

There's nothing wrong with purchasing products based on advertisements as long as you realize why you're getting something. Understand that marketeres are way smarter than you and you should be fine. That's what I do, and you wanna be as cool as me, don't you? I've got some really fucking cool glasses.

Generic Halloween Entry

Halloween is an interesting time of year. It allows adults to pretend to be something else so that they can surprise and frighten children who want nothing more than candy. They might as well call it Internet predator day.

I don’t wanna be a party pooper or anything but Halloween just makes no friggin sense! It’s a bunch of people who wear odd clothing, annoy strangers, and are rewarded with food. You gotta imagine that the novelty of Halloween is totally lost on the homeless. I’ve always wanted to walk up to a hobo on Halloween, knock on his box or whatever habitat he’s inhabiting, and scream ‘TRICK OR TREAT!!’ Then cry until he gives me either candy or money. Or sexual favors.

The problem with this plan is that I’ve never been able to find a homeless person on Halloween. My theory is that there’s no such thing as a ‘hobo costume,’ only a trick-or-treating hobo. I can only imagine the intensity of Halloween when you trick-or-treat to survive.

Still though, it’s amazing to see how entire communities can come together for a holiday with a main subtext of devil worship. Entire neighbourhoods decked out with orange lights, and scarecrows. There’s always one house that just takes it to far. That one house that covers the lawn with graves. Has scary music, and surprises waiting. You go walking up the path and somebody jumps out from behind a bush or a tree and kills one out of every three children. Those were good times. I sure do miss Mr. Somberland.

On the other hand there are those families who don’t wanna buy candy, decorate, or deal with little children. You can tell these houses by several subtle signs. First of all the lights will always be off to trick children that nobody is home this particular Thursday evening at 7. Secondly there will often be somebody just barely visible staring out the window with shifty eyes, praying to their god that you don’t knock. Thirdly there will be eggs splattered all over these houses.

The third group is by far the best. They’re well intentioned but just don’t seem to get the point of Halloween. These are the houses with pumpkins on the porches with little smiley faces drawn on with black magic marker. The houses with a grown man dressed as a character from ‘The Wizard of Oz’ wishing you a merry Christmas.

Sadly, once you reach the age of around 18 it’s shunned to be seen asking for Candy. Majority of these individuals tend to resort to the next best thing. Partying. Traditional Male costumes tend to aim for offensive and over-the-top: JFK (suit, lots of blood), erotic superheroes such as DildoMan, or simply an abortion. Traditional female costumes are very varied: Slut.

I prefer to spend my Halloweens in a unique way. I like to dress up as The Grim Reaper and go to the nearest retirement home. The rest pretty much writes itself. You should see the elderly’s eyes when they spot me. The range of reactions I get are almost as colorful as the stains that form in their pants.

Yup, Halloween truly is a time of terror. Gotta make you wonder how it all began. Was there a formal agreement that every year we change the rule from ‘never accept candy from strangers’ to ‘never accept candy from strangers, unless they’re dressed as a pirate’ on one day of the year? Or was it more an independent project that sort of gained a cult following.

Jim: Honey, what do you want to do tonight?
Samantha: I don’t know darling.
Jim: How about we dress up as Mr. and Mrs. Pacman and ask our neighbours for candy.
Samantha: That sounds like fun. Let me just hollow out this pumpkin, so I can place a miniature fire inside it.

I mean, how does that tradition catch on? It’s amazing how illogical people will act for free candy.

What’s truly amazing is that you don’t see more Santa Clause’s on Halloween. Christmas is only two months away, why not get a costume you can reuse. You don’t even have to be Christian. Hell, even if you’re Jewish go as Santa. It’s just practical.

I’d love to keep writing, but I’ve got a pile of candy to eat, and a Hurrican Katrina costume to put away. So try not to eat too much, and whatever you do, stay away from Mr. Somberland’s house.

Happy Halloween

Have the Time of Your Life

Please don't take the time to read this. Go outside; I have nothing productive or insightful to say.

These are the prime years of your life. Your older and wiser now then you’ve ever been and you’re spending your free time reading this dribble. I literally wrote that sentence while sitting on the toilet taking a crap.

Take it all in. This is your life.

Every second of every day you get older. Every passing moment you’re closer to death. Your good looks, your smarts, and that thing you can do with your tongue are all temporary. Enjoy them while you can, ‘cause soon enough you’ll have to page that nice new Intern to help you shit into a bag.

There is a saying from a very wise man about the nature of life. He says. “Life is a roller coaster. It moves really fast, and if you can’t handle it, it’s not stopping ‘till the ride’s over.” That wise man was me. Just now. And I completely forget what my point was.

I can’t believe you’re still reading this; you make me sad.

The beautiful thing about time is that once you’ve used up a part of it, you can never have that again. That’s why time travel is so appealing to all of us. Think of all the things that you could do with the ability to travel in time. Bring a cigar, a top hat, and little tuxedo to your own birth, so that you’re born smoking a cigar and dressed to kill. Bring a pack of condoms to the night your children were conceived, or simply perform your own rendition of ‘Ice Ice Baby’ to a group of cavemen. The possibilities are endless.

Even more enticing is the ability to travel to the future. Go to where you’re going to be, jump out from behind the corner and make your old self crap your pants out of fear. Then you can travel back in time and surprise your future self surprising yourself so that he craps his pants. There are literally a limitless supply of ways to make you crap your pants.

If only.

Time travel isn’t real. Everybody gets old and there’s nothing you can do to stop it. So enjoy your youth while you can. Take it from somebody who’s young and doesn’t spend much time with the elderly, that being old sucks. As my grandfather once said:

“Being old sucks. Please, kill me.”

Trust me on that one. He’d probably deny ever saying it if you confronted him, but what does he know? He’s senile.

This is your life. You get one shot and then you die. Do something productive or at the very least enjoy yourself. Don’t waste time.

And for god's sake, don't you dare read this again.

A Planet in Our Hearts

Recently, while conducting some research for a paper I just made up for the sake of this story, I came across some very startling information. Among the chaos that the world is going through; war in the middle east, the tragic and completely unpredictable death of a man who fights crocodiles for a living, and Rosh Hashanah, one story dwarfs them all by comparison, and in light of this new information, I simply have one question,

WHAT THE FUCK DO YOU MEAN PLUTO ISN’T A PLANET!!?!?!?!?

First my therapist tells me there’s no Santa Clause, my brother tells me I’m adopted, my dad tells me there’s no such thing as a female orgasm, Mel Gibson’s dad tells me there’s no such thing as the Holocaust, and now you scientist fuckers are telling me there’s no planted called Pluto!? This has been a terrible week.

I was raised my entire life believing that Pluto was a planet. It’s what allowed me sleep at night. Whenever I was feeling down and out, I could look out my window and now that Pluto was out there somewhere doing it’s thing: being a planet.

These so-called “ass-trologists” were the nerds that used to pick each others noses and practice French kissing with each other because they knew no girl would ever do it. These pathetic bastards held all their anger inside and finally decide to take it out on the most vulnerable culprit; Pluto. Beloved by all, cute, tiny, adorable, and doomed. “Hey,” one scientist says to another, “look there’s Pluto,” then simultaneously both scientists proclaim, “DWARF PLANET!!!!” then laugh so hard they shit their pants. Trust me, that’s what happened.

I mean, what the hell is a Dwarf Planet? It’s still called a planet, but it’s not really; sort of like ‘little people.’ Tiny, cute, still technically called ‘people,’ but I mean come on, who’re we kidding? We only still quasi-respect them because it would be such a hassle if they attacked.

Oh my god! What if Pluto decides to attack? What if Osama gets a hold of it and Pluto goes all meteoric on our asses? It will be like a tragic ending to a Hollywood film. Crashing towards earth at an incomprehensible speed, heartbroken Pluto seeks its revenge. After a failed brief stint with a nearby traveling meteor group Pluto has nowhere left to turn. Shunned by all his friend for his forbidden love of another planet, Pluto has nothing left to live for and focuses all its energy on the one planet that took it all away; Earth. As Pluto comes careening toward earth his lover can faintly be heard blaring in the distance. “PLUTOOOOO” comes the futile last scream from a heartbroken Jupiter; but it’s too late. A single tear comes streaming down Pluto’s face as he careens with the earth. The music picks up and suddenly all that can be heard is Louis Armstrong’s “What a Wonderful World,” over the image of a tragic end for both Pluto and its old friend, Earth. Roll End Credits.

Perhaps I’m being too dramatic. Perhaps Pluto will take it all in stride, going on to bigger and better things. I mean, who are we to decide who is and who isn’t a planet? Earth, with its one moon to Jupiter’s two. Earth has Moon. Pluto has Nix and Hydra, two European beauties who have run away from their strict and controlling parents to have carefree unprotected sex with dwarf planets day and night.

It is not Pluto that I worry about, for Pluto is a planet composed of methane, carbon monoxide and pure testicular fortitude, it is us that I worry about. For in the future, when my grandchildren are sitting on my lap asking me of what was in my day, I shall regale them with tales of Pluto. I will tell them of its size and it’s moons. I will tell them back when Pluto was a planet and life was easier. I will tell them of better times.