February 2007

February 16, 2007
So it sounds like full-blown AIDS ain't so fatal after all and/or the reports of Freddie Mercury's death were greatly exaggerated. Or so Mika would have you believe. This guy sounds so much like Freddie, I heard that Elton John's water broke. I don't even know what that means. I will tell you this, when Mika lets go with one of Freddie's little staccato "Hey!" shouts that sound like someone trying to hail a gay cab, it's like I'm wanting to ride my bicycle all over again.

Big fan.

February 10, 2007
Been watching a lot of Future Weapons lately. Now, I'm no gunporn connoisseur, understand, but it seems Saturday Night to me. The host is a real keyed-up ex-Navy Seal tool that's prone to narrating segments with excited, whispered pronouncements like, "I'd hate to be in an armored carrier when one of these .50 cal, armor-piercing, self-immolating, multi-retracting, heat-signature-reading, thermobaric, sensor-fused, high-enery projectiles comes knocking." Not exactly expert fucking witness testimony, but yeah, ok. I'm with you. Receiving end of Future Weapons bad. Got it.

I don't know what the hook is, given that the largest caliber weapon I've ever fired is... what's the caliber of a BB, anyways? Maybe it's just the balls-out, brutish joy of watching shit blow up, backed with the subconscious desire to believe that we've got some sort of magic arsenal that's going to stave off Revelations, which seems to be nearing full-tilt boogie.

I'm very nearly extra certain Ted Nugent watches the show spread eagle, naked on a bearskin pelt, surrounded by elephant guns, compound bows, slingshots, and sniper rifles, cowboy hat on, chaps off, mouth full of jerky, fists furious pounding his Nugenitalia until he reaches the creamy Nugent center. I imagine his sweaty, dimpled white ass leaves the rug only long enough to full-on bitchslap mounted zebra heads off the wall during commercial breaks.

Now that's Wango Tango.

February 1, 2007
Try to read this article aloud and recite the following after each and every sentence:

All men are created equal.

If you can finish the above task without taking pause multiple times to laugh, vomit, or (ideally) both, there is a void, a vacuous span, a ____, as it were, where your soul should be. I Google mapped this area and it's roughly 3 inches south of your belly button, in what the most high, learned Ayurvedic term "the cum dumpster chakra."

The end of the article is particularly heart-warming, as it recounts the scared-turbanless screams of one boy that "did pay off."

"No, no, I don't want it," the terrified boy kept yelling at the top of his voice.

After a few failed attempts, his mother quietly walked him down the stairs and out of the hall.

There's a happy fucking ending for you. Abso-fucking-guaranteed. Signed! Sealed! Delivered! Abdul! Yeah, I'm sure Mom threw him in the back of the Sienna, drove him home, pressed a lollypop into his palm, ruffled his hair, and said, "Go! But next year it's six slashes for you!" as he plopped down in front of his Wii.

No. That kid just dishonored his family in front of a member of the free world's press. I'd throw a couple dozen chips on the area of the felt marked, "He's going home to be ritually murdered."