If Ohio State Loses Tonight to that Slimy Fucking Snake Oil Salesman Back-Stabbing Scumbag John Calipari I'm Going to be so Fucking Pissed Off I Won't

Even be able to see straight. That is all. Have a nice day.

Turbo Boot

On my way home from the gym this morning I saw parked on Sedgwick Street, right next to the Danger Dominick's at Sedgwick and Division, a shiny new Porsche Cayenne Turbo. I admire the Porsche Cayenne. It is like an SUV, only you would never use it as an SUV. It is like a sportscar, but not really because it is large and boxy and would never drive like a sportscar. So you lose both ways. But where you win is the astronomical price you pay for it. You aren't taking it to drive the coastal highway and hug the curves and feel every pebble in the road. And you sure as shit aren't throwing a load of firewood in the back or hauling your boat with it. So what are you doing? If you want an SUV that performs like a utility vehicle, buy a Jeep. If you want a sportscar, buy a Porsche other than the Cayenne. If you want to shell out $106,000 for an auto that does neither well, then rock out with your small cock out, brah.

This particular Cayenne caught my eye for one reason; it had been "booted" by the city. Nothing screams "United Fucking States!" like a douchebag financing a $106,000 sport utility sports car for 8 years, when he can't afford to pay the parking tickets he gets on it. And before you say "He may have just forgotten to pay them", let me tell you this: You have to be dead or in jail for it to get to that point. They send you tickets for months upon months upon months, and mind you.....you have to have 3 separate delinquent parking tickets to get booted. He can't afford the $150. Live the dream brother! I hope he crushed so much pussy with that thing when he could still get the front driver-side wheel to roll forward. And I sincerely hope that the trollops who laid down for this smooth operator, enjoyed the 4 inches and 30 seconds they accepted into their body in exchange for being seen by like-minded vapid whores cruising around town in the Cayenne.

Dear Darfur: Find Some Oil or Shut the Fuck Up

In case you didn't notice, 6 people in Libya got a headache, 4 people turned their ankles, 3 people got diarrhea, 2 people pulled a hamstring, and 1 chick broke a newly manicured nail. And what happened? Tomahawk missiles up the ass of their oppressors.

What did you get in Darfur? Lets see, hundreds of thousands dead, famine, rape, torture, just a general ass kicking.....and I think you got some t-shirts, maybe a couple of shitty folk songs, a few righteous Hollywood assholes giving an overly dramatic Oscar acceptance speech not because they cared about you, but because they cared about everyone thinking they cared about something outside of their own giant head.

North Korea, Rwanda, Indonesia, Cambodia, Zimbabwe......cry us a fucking river. The USA and the "Allies", which always appear to consist of the USA, France for 36 hours of the operation, and England until their citizens start asking why they're killing people with their tax money, are the World Police. But not for you sorry sons of bitches. The World Police only police areas which sit on top of a shitload of Texas Tea, Liquid Gold, Oil that is. So until one of you goes out shootin' for some food and happens upon about 10,000,000 barrels of crude per month.....get fucked. Mugabe, Idi Amin, Janjaweed militia, Kim Jong Izzle can do whatever they want, all day baby. And unless you find some Tomahawks and a few F-14s out behind your dung huts, or better yet an assload of oil, you're hating life. So quit whining. We're too busy Tomahawking Tripoli back to a day when Hannibal would still recognize it, to listen to you.

We will bomb the McMutherfuck out of anyone starting trouble in a crude-pumping mecca. But if you start makin' trouble in your neighborhood, and your 'hood ain't oil-rich, eeehhhh, we'll say something really pointed about it at the next U.N. General Assembly. Right before we all head out to eat, drink and whore on the money our governments pledge to pretend to help people like you. It is what it is; lower your expectations to zero and fucking deal with it.

Why Aren't I Selling Magic Beans to Fools?

It is just so easy. I rail against Joel Osteen's "The Purpose Driven Life", and his horse teeth. But he is winning, while I lose every day. I need someone, a great friend or a trusted relative, to talk me into taking a dump on my principles and start selling snake oil. People fall all the fuck over themselves to pay their hard earned credit limits for someone to fill them full of false hope. They want Joel Osteen to put it in them slow and steady, then fast and with reckless abandon, and whisper filthy little tidbits in their ear like "Be everything you were meant to be", until they are moaning uncontrollably like the mouth-breathing idiots they truly are. I have precious few talents in this world, but there is one thing I excel at that most people are terrified of: Public speaking. I could be Joel Osteen, or Billy Graham, or Glenn Beck, or even Oprah (I obviously would have to become blacker and more lesbian). I just need to find a drug which suppresses my feelings of personal pride, honesty, and helps me to forget the social pact with my fellow man. Could I sleep at night, if my pillows were stuffed with the silky manes of unicorns and 100 harpists serenaded me to bed? My heart tells me: If you want to live a purpose-driven life, then go live a fucking purpose-driven life. If you want to be a decent person, go be a decent person right now. Don't waste your goddamn time reading a shitty book written by someone too sleazy to be a car salesman. Don't waste your time searching for the inspiration from Jeebus or "God" or whatever other mascot or talisman one of these bullshitters tells you to put your faith in. Just go and fucking do it. I do not--and probably will never--understand why people waste hours on the weekend listening to someone talk about living like Christ, when they could spend that same time on that same day volunteering to help the poor or improving their community. But hey, the church needs a fresh coat of paint and the pastor needs a new Caddy, and God sure as shit ain't painting and he doesn't own a car dealership. But I digress. Here is the big problem.....my heart is not a capitalist. My heart is not a ruthless, calculating businessman. I've got the skill set to be a total scumbag, but my heart doesn't match. Even in my darkest days of frat guy shenanigans where I would not have let my own daughter in the same town with, let alone room, myself or any of my friends, would I have ever dreamed of cheating people. But now that I am staring 40 more years of work-a-day hell in the face I wonder if someone should stab my heart to death and let my brain start calling the shots? Is speed the answer? Should I become a speed addict? On speed all of your ideas are straight aces and morals become completely negotiable, if not wholly obsolete. Do you think Osteen stands up there in his mega-church giving sermons with those wide-eyes, ethereal and spooky grin, cascading sweat....NOT on speed? Give me a fucking break. He's in the green room doing blasters off the wings of angels and laughing all the way to the bank.

Dear Books-A-Million, Go Fuck Yourself

If I've told these assholes once, I've told them a thousand times: "I don't want to join the fucking savings club". I've been going to Books-A-Million, purely out of convenience as it's next to where I work, for 7 years now. Had I ponied up the buy-in of $20 the first time you asked me, given the hundreds of books I've bought for myself, as gifts, children's books for friends, etc, I would have saved over $14 million at this point. Guess what? I don't fucking care. I want to keep paying full price. It makes me feel like a big man. I'm about 500 books in at BAM, do you think I'm going to buy into the club and start saving NOW???? I'm way too smart for that, compadre. Today, as I paid full price for David Sedaris's "Me Talk Pretty One Day", which I've heard is lovely, after I refused for the 1 millionth time the discount club, I was additionally offered incredible discounts on subscriptions to some amazingly shitty magazines. One of the magazines she specifically pointed out to me was Ebony. Monica, know your fucking audience. How many white-as-snow 32 year old males are subscribing to Ebony? If it is more than 1, and if that 1 is not some wanna-be who is trying to nail black chicks at his "crib" in his parent's basement, I'll kiss your sweet ass. I've threatened, under my breath and aimed at no one in particular, to quit coming into your store a thousand times. I began doing this 5 years ago, and I do so 75% of the times I make a purchase. One of these days I'll make good on that threat and never come in again. And then you'll be sorry.

Isn't Molesting Kids Enough?

Listen, everyone is already creeped the fuck out by Catholics, what with the boy-touching and all. I know that I give a very wide berth to Catholic priests when I see them skeezing down the block, sniffing their fingers. One would think they would want to do anything humanly possible to mitigate their own creepiness factor in society. Then Ash Wednesday rolls around. Why o fucking why do they leave the mark of the beast on their foreheads all goddamn day long? I don't mind if you hold to ancient fatwa and get the mark. But how about this? Walk out of church, walk into McDonald's, go into the bathroom, and spend 5 seconds wiping that shit off your head? Am I out of the loop? Is being Catholic so fucking cool that you want to leave it on so as to make sure everyone you pass knows just how awesome you are? Maybe that was the case prior to the buggering of the altar boys, but it certainly isn't the case anymore.

Every year when this happens there is a moment where I have a panic attack and think that a zombie virus hit and I'm going to have the contents of my cranium devoured by the undead. And then I realize it is only the fish-eaters doing their yearly creep-out of all the normals. The lone exception came a few years back when a guy I worked with went out on Ash Wednesday and got utterly pissed. Came into work the next day hungover to the nines. Also forgot to shower, comb his hair, change clothes or remove the eerie Christ tribal tat from his forehead. Now that shit was amusing.

Does Fat Insulate?

I pondered this question as I sat, shoulders dislocated inward with knees locked tightly, on the bus this morning. I entered the bus today with a strong determination to find a seat. I eagerly sought refuge from my pathetic, miserable, workaday life in the pages of a fiction novel I've been reading. I like to disappear into such stories on the way to and fro my godforsaken workplace. As I scanned the bus right, left and back, I saw but two openings. Or what appeared to be openings. See, they were not normal seat openings, but rather appeared to be half-seats. I quickly surmised the reason; in the seat connected to each empty half-seat sat a heifer of epic proportions. I did not let this dissuade me from my mission to sit and read. I scanned the bulk and the face which sat atop it of each Jersey cow. It appeared the pig on the right might also stink. Why? I don't know, a hunch I guess. She appeared to be someone who stinks is all I can say. Resigning myself to my fate I seated myself next to pig port-side. I made several attempts at asserting myself physically to gain some small portion of my seat back, but to no avail. Each time I thrust an arm and elbow into the mound, the space created was slowly taken back as the pork flesh oozed to fill all voids. Not wanting to strain my shoulder in this losing fight I took out my book and huddled between Tons of Fun and the aisle. It was at this point I noticed the starboard swine was wearing a colossal down parka. I glanced right to see that the pig I went home with also wore a gargantuan down coat. It is 45 degrees today. Certainly not warm, but at least 25 degrees too warm for down parkas. Looking at these women one would think it were colder than a well digger's ass. Others were appropriately dressed, your protagonist included. Maybe I'm wrong, but I thought that fat insulated? I thought the morbidly obese were chronically overheated, foreheads beading sweat as they sat near motionless eating hot dogs at a football game on a 12 degree January day. Perhaps I'm wrong. What I do know is that the rest of us suffer when someone of this stature multiplies their own ample girth with unnecessary goose fill.