BRANDOLAND: Talking to God...For You!

Thursday, May 29, 2003

THE HISTORY OF THE WORLD, PART II – The King sets the record

“Because. I’m the king.”

Rumbles and mumbles and rumbles and mumbles and rumbles and mumbles.

“The what?”

“The king.”

“One more time, Bob.”

“Not Bob. King Bob. Your king. The boss. The chairman of the board. The HNIC. Your leader.”


“From now on, I make the decisions around here. Who does what, who does who, who goes where –“

“Hold on. We all make decisions. Together. We are a family.”

“Not me. I’m not family. I’m the king.”

“We make decisions together. That’s…how it is.”

“You people can barely tie your shoes.”

“Everyone helps out. Everyone is smiling.”

“Come on. Look at you. You’re a peasant.”

“I’m a what?”

“A peasant. A nothing. A mud person.”


“You’re all peasants.”

“We are happy people.”

“You think you are. But you’re not. That’s why you need me.”

“We ‘need’ you to be the king?”

“To tell you what to do. To keep you in line. Right? To make the laws.”


“Rules. Guidelines. You can do this; you can’t do that.”

“We do not say those kinds of things to each other.”

“That’s why you people are such a mess.”

“But. Okay. Tell me a…law.”

“You can’t murder someone.”

“Murder? What is murder?”

“You’re not allowed to stick the sacred spear in someone’s chest.”

Confusion and rumbling.

“Why would I want to do that?”

“If you get mad at someone, you might stick the sacred spear in their chest.”

“If I…mad? Explain mad?”

“If one of the Larrys takes a chicken from your hut without asking you first, you might feel bad things for him. Like a stomachache in your head. You might get mad at Larry, and then you might stick the sacred spear in his chest.”

“But…Larry can take the chicken from my hut if he wants to.”

“No he can’t. It’s against the law.”

“He is my brother. We are all brothers. If he wants a chicken, he can take the chicken without asking.”

“You know what, I’m really sick of that hippie shit. ‘We’re all brothers.’ Bullshit. Do we come from the same family?”

“Not the same mother, but we are all brothers.”

“Did my birth mother give birth to you?”


“Then fuck you. What’s mine is mine and mine only. An especially important idea given the fact that I am king.”

“So under this new…law…what happens if I stick the scared spear in Larry’s chest.”

“You go to jail.”

“What is jail?”

“A place where I put peasants like you.”

“A place? Like my hut.”

“Yes, but with no windows, no food and no place to sleep.”

“That sounds like a that I do not want to be.”

“It’s supposed to be.”

Rumbles and mumbles.

“Oh. (Pause) do you have more laws.”

“You better fucking believe it. I got lotsa laws. From now on, if you want to hunt the scared beasts, you gotta ask me first. If you want to build a hut, sell bread, dance in the street…you gotta ask for my permission.”

“I…we…we do those things everyday.”

“Right. But now…you gotta ask for my permission before you do them.”

“I have to ask you if I can do the things that our fathers and mothers and their fathers and mothers were doing before we were born?”

“You got that right.”


“Because I’m the king, that’s why. And I might not want you doing those things.”

“We do those things everyday.”

“And it drives me crazy. From now on, if you want to do things, you have to ask me. And you have to pay me.”

“Pay you?”

“Yes. You have to pay me a tax.”


“A fee to do something. Remember the coins?”


“Well, if you want to hunt on my land, you have to ask for my permission and you have to give me a coin.”

“But, that land belongs to us.”

“The land belongs to me.”

“Because you are the king?”

“You are catching on.”

“And if I don’t ask for permission or pay you this…tax?”

“I throw you in jail.”

“Wow. I must say, I do not…like these…laws that you are talking about. There are so many of them, they are confusing, and they sound…bad.”

“Tough shit. I’m the king.”

“Why can’t I be king? If I was the king, I wouldn’t make so many…laws.”

“You can’t be ‘coz I already am. And there can be only one. One king, and that is me.”

“Only one king?”

“That’s right.”

“Well, how did you get to be king?”

“I was born the king.”

“Says who?”




“Uh oh.”


Comments to my "personal" e-mail if you have it.

Sunday, May 25, 2003

THE HISTORY OF THE WORLD, PART I: And on the eighth day…someone created the job.

Mumble-mumble, bells and whistles, chant-chant, rumble-rumble, crescendo. The drumbling drums come to a stop. Loads of cheers, then…

“Bless you, music people, your skills with the sound things bring us great joy. Okay, everybody, gather ‘round, it’s that time again. The rains have stopped, the grass is green, the beasties have returned to the plains, so…Bob…it’s your turn to go out and grab a couple of, you know, a couple of big ones for the village. Here you go. The sacred spear and the sacred shield. Good luck!”

Wild cheering, then…

“Not going.”

Silence followed by mumbles.

“Come again?”

“I said…not going.”

More mumbles followed by some rumbling.

“I…uh…it’s…uh…your turn to…you know…it’s your turn. It’s food time.”

“I’m aware of that. I’m sending the Larrys to do it for me.”

“But. They’ve already gone. They’ve already…Larry did it, you know, during the half moon, and Larry did it, uh, right before that. It’s your turn.”

“I’m sending the Larrys to do it for me.”

“What do you mean, ‘I’m sending the Larrys?’ That’s not how we do it.”

“You mean, that’s not how you do it. I do it this way; the Larrys are hunting the beasties on my behalf. They work for me now.” .

“The Larrys what for you? Work? What is work?”

“Work is chasing a bunch of fucking wildebeests around the flatlands all afternoon. Something I don’t want to do. That’s why I’m paying the Larrys to do it for me.”

“Paying? These…these…these are new words to me. To all of us. Right?”

Nodding and mumbling all around.

(Aside) “Jesus H. Christ. This is gonna be easier than I thought.”


“The Larrys work for me…ie…they are my employees. I tell them what to do. They do it. Then…I pay them. I give them things in exchange for their services…ie…I compensate them. In fact, I’m giving them a chicken each for their efforts.”

“Chickens? What chickens?”

“Those chickens.”

“Those chickens are for the village.”

“No. They belong to me.”


“They are my chickens. The chickens belong to me. I own them.”

“The chickens…they…belong…to all of us. We…we…we’re all in this together. They…the chickens are for all of us.”

“Not anymore. From now on, if someone wants a chicken, they have to buy it from me.”

“Bob, once again, you speak words that are very confusing.”

“Are you retarded? If someone wants a chicken, they have to give me something in return for the fucking thing. Like, they have to paint my hut or they have to give me a pair of new sandals or a keg of beer or something.”

An incredible amount of rumbling and mumbling.

“But, we…we…we do that already. I make bread. Jim takes care of the chickens. If I need a chicken, I give Jim a loaf of bread.”

“You’re right. That system is totally fucked. From now on, if someone wants a chicken, they have to give me one of these.”

An object is held aloft.

Ooohs and ahhhs followed by light applause.

“It’s pretty, isn’t it?”

“The purple shiny thing?”

“The coin. The purple shiny thing is called a COIN.”

“But, the coin is just a small thing. You can’t do anything with it.”

“Bullshit. You can do LOTS of things with it. The coin might be small, but, use your head; it’s easier to carry a coin than a chicken. You see, this coin has value. One coin equals one chicken. One coin equals a pair of sandals. 100 coins equals a down payment on a new hut in the subdivision I’m developing.”

“I’m…completely lost.”

“Instead of spending an entire day making a loaf of sourdough just to get a chicken, you can give me a coin. You give me a coin, I give you a chicken.”

“I don’t have any coins.”

“Then you gotta get some.”


“You can work for me.”

“I thought the Larrys worked for you?”

“What can I say? This company is growing by the minute, my man. I’m sure we can find a place for you. And get this: the harder you work, the more coins you get. The more coins you get, the happier you will be.”

“But…I am happy.”

“No you’re not. Look at you. You’re a trainwreck. You’re losing your hair, you smell, and your teeth are really, really bad.”

Some nodding and mumbling.


“Yes. What do you do again?”

“I make bread and I dance.”

“Great. If I liked bread, I might buy some from ‘ya. Unfortunately, I don’t, so you might want to think about doing something else. And forget about the dancing. That’s ‘art.’ You’ll never get coins doing art. You might be able to make people smile at a party or something, but you’ll never be able to support a family as a dancer.”

“Okay, wait. Let me get this straight. The Larrys are gonna kill a sacred beast or two on your behalf, and then you’re gonna pay them with chickens? Or these coin things?”

“I’m gonna pay them in coins. If they want the chickens, they can buy them from me. Chickens are a coin each.”

“Hold on. You’re gonna give them some coins --”

“In exchange for their services –“

“But then…they’re gonna turn around and give you the same coins for the chickens?”

“It’s a beautiful system, isn’t it?”

“It’s not…it’s not…right. This all feels…not right. That’s not how we do things.”

“It is NOW.”

“You keep saying that. How can you say that?”

“Because. I’m the king.”

Rumbles and mumbles and rumbles and mumbles and rumbles and mumbles.

“The what?”

“The king.”


Thursday, May 22, 2003

Have to talk something that’s really been bothering me lately…


(THE MAN is everywhere nowadays, isn’t he? I wonder how that happened?)


“NY’s finest” are now under pressure to “generate funds” ie to write more tickets. (This news comes from a friend of mine who happens to be a New York City cop.) The economy is in the shitter, the city is strapped for cash, funds are drying up, so…you get the idea. The cops have been “told” to write tickets in situations where they might normally use “personal discretion.”

This is scary for many obvious reasons. Believe it or not, a cop has a big book of reasons to stop you, pull you over and ticket you…even if you think you’re “not doing anything.”



Here’s a neat little controversy in Washington. “Someone” at the Smithsonian moved a photo exhibit of Alaska’s (incredibly controversial) Arctic National Wildlife Reserve (ANWR) to a dark corner of the museum AND trimmed the captions/descriptions from the photos.

“Why’d they do that?”
Gee, I wonder.

You know ANWR; it’s a giant chunk of land that the Bushies would just love to rip up, and an area that environmentalists desperately wish to preserve. (“Good luck!”)

A few Democrats on the Senate Rules Committee (most notably Dick Durbin) have cried “foul” and accused Smithsonian officials of acquiescing to conservative pressure to hide the exhibit. Ted Stevens, R-Alaska, praised museum officials for “being astute enough to recognize (political) advocacy when they saw it,” and for trimming the (liberal) captions from the photos.

No one wants to rip ANWR up more than Senator Ted, ‘cepting for the folks at BushCo.

(Should we really worry about a fucking “orange alert” if the Dems and Repubs in the Senate have time to worry about the Smithsonian exhibit?)


What happened to the soda can? Where did it go? Yes, you can still find six-packs of Coke at your local grocer. However, most of my area convenience stores and vending machines have been pushing the 20 oz plastic bottle…hard…and that freaks me out.

I recently strolled into the Circle K on the corner of Vermont & Beverly to buy a can of Barq’s Root Beer. I was shocked (and awed) to find myself staring at a refrigerated wall of 20 oz bottles. No cans. Just a wall of 20 oz plastic bottles.

“Why is this,” I asked the attendant.
“Mumble, mumble. Whir, click.”

Translation - profit, baby. Pure profit. The good old days? 12 oz can, 50-75 cents. Today? 20 oz bottle, $1-1.25. See how easy it is? Economics for dummies.

Trust me, that “extra” eight ounces doesn’t cost THE MAN a thing.

“But I don’t want 20 ounces of cola. I’m trying to lose weight.”
“Hit the button for the diet one.”
“Oh. Right.”


“Wait, won’t the Nutrasweet in the diet one give me brain cancer?”
“Haven’t heard that.”
Clink, clink…
“The machine takes dollars, man.”

Hey, the 20 oz bottle is a party for kids, teens and adult males 18-35. They love the pretty bottles, and they love the extra eight ounces.

“But, sir, Research has been concerned about the alarming rate of obesity and diabetes among those groups. We might be at fa – “
“Research? Alarming?! Fuck those dorks! The quarterly report comes out tomorrow and I’m on my way to Aspen!”
“But, sir, we have a responsibility —“
“To our shareholders, fuck you!”

The snack industry has been doing the same thing. You can’t find the little (2 oz) bags of chips anymore. Just bigger bags, like Dorito’s 5 oz “Mega Grab” bag. “Mega” meaning…it’s a step up from the 3.5 oz “Big Grab” bag…which replaced the 2 oz bag years ago. Mega meaning…five ounces of hardcore saturated fat. A sixteen year old dude will plow through that “Mega Grab” bag before you can say, “Hey, take it easy, kid. There are five servings of chips in that one bag.”

“Ugga bugga?”

Oh, forget it.

More later.

Monday, May 19, 2003



The BBC aired a report last night (of a story first covered in the UK’s Guardian) that the (now famous) rescue of Pvt. Jessica Lynch (from an Iraqi hospital) was completely staged. According to the Brits, U.S. troops knew in advance that they would not come under enemy fire but “stormed” the hospital (where Pvt. Lynch was being watched over by sympathetic Iraqi doctors and nurses) just to catch the action “on tape.” One Iraqi doctor said that the soldiers were “acting like they were in a Hollywood movie or something” when they rescued their injured (but safe) comrade by screaming, yelling, subduing doctors and nurses, and waving their guns in the air.


Apparently, a five-minute tape of the rescue was produced within hours of the “event.” Requests for unedited footage of the rescue have been laughed at. The BBC report went on to say that the “rescue” was staged to boost (low) morale among the “coalition forces” and to bolster support from the Wal-Martians…er…American people.

Doo bee doo bee doo.

We’re all glad that Pvt. Lynch made it through her ordeal alive. Unfortunately, Pvt. Lynch cannot remember the details of her ordeal because she has amnesia.


Wait. Does she have amnesia or…? Wink wink, nudge nudge. You know what I’m saying.

Guaranteed, production on her "made for TV" movie is almost finished. (I think NBC/GE has the rights.)

“How can we make a movie if we don’t have her version of the story?”
“We have OUR version of the story.”
“Oh. Right.”

And speaking of life inside the Matrix – White house Press Secretary Ari Fleischer is “retiring” in July. (Ding dong, there is a god.) The news is not too surprising since this post tends to turn over a few times during any administration. However, it is good news for those of us who can’t stand the sight of Ari or the sound of his voice. Ari’s ability to dodge or lie without emotion or feeling is second too none. He will not be missed.

I’m sure that most of the members of the White House press corps would agree.

“This is a public service announcement…with guitars!” – The Clash

And finally…who’s the big baby that’s been defacing the NOFX posters around Hollywood?

NOFX, a popular SoCal punk band, have a new album called “The War on Errorism.” The album art (which is excellent, by the way) features an illustration of GW as a CLOWN. (Depicting political leaders as clowns, retards and freaks has long been a main ingredient in punk art. Punk flyers from the early 80’s - Dead Kennedys, the Adolescents and Minor Threat – had Reagan doing just about every awful sexual thing the punks could think of.) Promo posters for this album were plastered all over Hollywood a couple of weeks ago (you know, on construction sites, on bus benches, in front of record stores, etc), but have been defaced in the last few days. Lest anyone think that Hollywood is a liberal town, some jackass has been racing around and “ripping” the Resident’s face off the posters.


Get a life, man. You can’t stop NOFX. They’ve been at this for way too long.

More later.

Thursday, May 15, 2003

Ah, one of my favorite subjects, Yale’s Skull & Bones Club, popped up this morning in the Boston Herald. The focus of the article is on Sen. John F. Kerry, D-Mass. Dude has been getting hammered in the press lately for (stupid) things like the amount of money his wife “might” shell out for his campaign and the “confusion” over his true ethnicity (“Is he Jewish, Irish or what? I can’t vote for him if I don’t know what he is”). “Someone” has decided that Kerry is the front-runner for the Democratic nomination, so they attack machine has been switched to “on.” This time, the press goes after Kerry for his (alleged) membership in a secret society that has (allegedly) been cranking out world leaders and captains of industry since it’s inception in the 19th Century. Read on.

Kerry made his Bones in secret club - like Bush
by Andrew Miga
Thursday, May 15, 2003

WASHINGTON - Sen. John F. Kerry expounds on many issues in his presidential campaign, but he's completely silent on one topic: his membership in Skull and Bones, Yale's infamous secret society.

“John Kerry has absolutely nothing to say on that subject. Sorry,” said Kerry spokeswoman Kelley Benander.

Kerry is a respected senator and a decorated Vietnam War combat veteran, but 36 years after he was initiated into what has been called the “ultimate old boy network,” he's wary of breaking the ultra-exclusive club's strict secrecy code.

There's also another high-profile member of the club: President Bush.

Bonesmen already are buzzing over the prospect of the first Bones vs. Bones presidential race should Kerry win his party's nomination and face Bush in 2004.

“Bones don't care who wins,'' said author Alexandra Robbins, whose book “Secrets of the Tomb” pierced the secrecy shrouding the 171-year-old society. “If Kerry wins, it's still a Bones presidency.”


Wait. Does that mean that we’re living under “Bones presidency” now? I guess it does.


Who has the guts to ask that question? Is that why GW ignored Helen Thomas during his last press conference?

“Sir, are you, or were you, a member of Yale’s Skull & Bones Club?”
“Freedom. Terra-rists. Smoke ‘em out.”
“And, if you are a Bonesman, does that mean anything?”
“The Iraqi people love freedom.”
“Are you obligated to take care of the business needs of your fellow Bonesmen before you take care of the needs of the American people?”
“Tax cuts. Get ‘em running. Now watch this drive.”
“Are there any Bonesmen involved in the reconstruction of Iraq?”
“Evildoers. Tax cuts. Merica.”
“In the Afghani pipeline?”
“They don’t understand freedom like we do.”
“In your administration?”
“Freedom (whir, click). Freedom (buzz, click). Freedom.”
“Will you debate Senator Kerry, a fellow Bonesman, if he gets the Democratic nomination?”
“Let’s roll (click).”

There’s a (really bad) late 90’s flick called “The Skulls” (starring “CSI’s” Billy Peterson and one of the kids from “Dawson’s Creek”) that covers life in a fictionalized version of the S&B Club. In one scene, the young “bonesmen” are taken to party at a mansion on a secret island where they get to mingle with some uber-successful alumni (senators, judges, CEO’s, etc). After the shmooze-fest is finished, each pledge is given a sports car, a ton of cash, and a super-foxy lady ie the perks of being a “bonesman.” (Membership in the club “sets you up for life,” so long as you remain loyal to the club and use your post-Yale “positions” to further the interests of your fellow Bonesmen.)


Is that where GW "met" Laura?

By the way, Papa Bush was a “Bonesman,” too.

More later.

Wednesday, May 14, 2003

Ah, yes. Another day, another Bush appearance, another group of Bush protester’s pushed away from said Bush appearance. From the AP…

OMAHA – “While President Bush heard many cheers during his brief visit to Nebraska on Monday, there were some jeers.

A small group of protesters lined parts of Abbott Drive between the airport and Airlite Plastics Co., where the president spoke to the plant's employees and supporters about his economic stimulus plan.

Organizer Patrick Pannett said the group was moved away from an original protest site designated by the Secret Service.

The group had been told it could protest at the back entrance of Airlite Plastics. However, the Secret Service instead taped off an area more than a block away from the plant and the presidential motorcade route.”

You gotta love the parameters of political dissent in the 19th Century.

I think the AP writer meant to say that the “Secret Service instead taped off a FREE SPEECH ZONE more than a block away from the plant and the presidential motorcade route.” Actually, that’s pretty good; the free speech zones are usually “taped off” more than a HALF MILE from GW.

Maybe we’re getting closer.


Don’t worry, dear reader. There’s a sunny side to this particular street. There were many other fine Americans on hand to hear GW huff and puff about evildoers, freedom and the need for more tax cuts. Read on.

“It was easy to spot the 11 members of the Valley Mustangs baseball team in the crowd on hand to see President Bush at Airlite Plastics Co.
That is because each member of the Little League team wore his purple uniform. The boys ages 9 and 10 waved small U.S. flags -- or had them sticking out of the tops of their ball caps.

Only one member of team missed the chance to see Bush. Coach Scott Hill said that player had become so excited about seeing the president that he became ill on the 17-mile car ride from Valley to Omaha. The boy was taken back to Valley.”

Wait. “Coach Scott Hill said that” the boy “became ill” because he “had become so excited about seeing the President?” I know you folks out there in the “heartland” love Governor Bush, but…c’mon, Coach, do you really think that the boy tossed his cookies because he was excited about seeing the President?

“Of course I do.”
“Did you ask him?”
“Didn’t need to. This is a special day for all of us.”
“Indulge me.”
“Fine. Son, why the copious amounts of chunder in the back of the bus?”
“Haven’t been sleeping. Nightmares. Fox News. Computerized voting machines. Four more years of this jackass. Then…his brother. Plus, the memory of GW in that Top Gun suit…it haunts me. And too many team lunches at McDonald’s. I know you need the collectable toys for Ebay, but fucking hell, Coach, you’re killing me.”
“Christ! Someone call an ambulance! This boy really IS sick!”

One final piece of info from the article worth noting…

“The team's second baseman had secured tickets for the boys to attend. That player, Nolan Terry, is the son of Rep. Lee Terry, R-Neb.”

Right. Of course. God bless America.

P.S. – is there such a thing as a “D-Neb.?”

Monday, May 12, 2003

Quickly – saw this great message on a Wendy’s marquee in suburban Pittsburgh, PA this past weekend; “Now hiring – PREMIUM WAGE.”

Enticing. If you live in the Baldwin/Whitehall/Pleasant Hills area of Pittsburgh and are looking for a job, you need look no further.

I’ve been trying to get in touch with this particular Wendy’s to find out just how much the PREMIUM WAGE IS. When I find out, I’ll let you know.

Any guesses? $12? $13? $15.65? Don’t worry; I’m sure that “premium” means “more than enough.”

And, ah yes, read another classic “golf course moment” re: our dear, dear Prez yesterday. The following is an excerpt from the Guardian (5/11/03).

“Bush was playing golf for the second day on a private course close to the private residence where he is spending the weekend. The home is owned by Roland Betts, a Yale classmate and former business partner in the Texas Rangers baseball team.”

“The president expressed exasperation at several photographers whom he apparently thought had inched too close to his ball's potential trajectory as he prepared to swing.”

“You are one of my favorites AND I'D HATE TO STICK THIS TITLEST (GOLF BALL) BETWEEN YOUR EYES,'' he said to one. Photographers quickly scurried back and Bush completed his swing.,1282,-2664810,00.html

What a guy, what a dick, and what a classic frat guy line; I'd hate to stick this Titlest between your eyes. You don’t tug on Superman’s cape, you don’t spit into the wind, you don’t pull the mask off the old Lone Ranger, and you don’t mess around with George W. Bush when he’s on the golf course.

What’s that, dear reader? No, this is not an isolated incident. Don’t you remember this classic GW bit dated August 5, 2002?

“The intrusion of world affairs was evident yesterday when Bush was visiting the family compound in Kennebunkport, Maine. A suicide bombing in the Middle East prompted the president to briefly delay the start of his sunrise golf game with his father and gospel singer Michael W. Smith. Bush approached reporters to say he was distressed about the violence.

"I call upon all nations to do everything they can to stop these terrorist killers," said Bush, golf club in his hand. "Thank you. NOW WATCH THIS DRIVE."

Well, at least he’s consistent. An admirable quality, to say the least.


Do I need to comment on this?

Don’t think so.

More later,

Thursday, May 08, 2003

(Note - If you don’t have the new White Stripes album “Elephant,” GO GET IT.)


My friends, something hit me after I posted yesterday’s entry re: the Dixie Chicks. No, it wasn’t the tremendous joy I felt when I heard that President Cheney is down for another run in ’04. (So awesome!) I’ve come to the realization that, well, the good Lord put me on this planet to expose the Dixie Chicks for what they are; evil. Pure Satan-loving, Clinton-worshipping, chidren-hating, liberal evil. There’s a reason that they’ve been banned from country radio (by folks who are much wiser than I am); they’re trying to destroy our great nation with their demonic music.

Well, sir, I won’t let ‘em do that anymore.

It’s time to take the Chicks down. I’m gonna dive right back into the cesspool of Dixie Chick lyrics to show you, the reader, just what these liberal harlots are up to (with lots of help from HELLywood, of course).

Let’s start with the lyrics to “Sin Wagon.”

Praise the Lord and pass the ammunition
Need a little bit more of my twelve-ounce nutrition
One more helpin' of what I've been havin'
I'm takin' my turn on the sin wagon

Boy, that is really fucking sad. Blasphemin’ the Lord and attacking W for being an alcoholic in the same sentence. I said this yesterday; their obsession with W’s “drinking” (ie his admitted YOUTHFUL indiscretions) is laughable. Hello? He’s sober, ladies. Deal with it.

What’s that? He’s a “dry drunk?” What’s that mean? You’re still bothered by his “alcoholic behavior” even though he’s sober? Two words for you then; Al-Anon. Look it up. Bet you guys can find tons of meetings out there in Hellywood, ie your new home, ie the only place that will accept you because, ie it’s the only place in this country as sick and disgusting as you are.

I’m moving on to the next song. Check out the lyrics to “Goodbye Earl.”

Mary Anne and Wanda were the best of friends
All through their high school days
Both members of the 4H Club
Both active in the FFA

After graduation Mary Anne went out
Lookin' for a bright new world
Wanda looked all around this town
And all she found was Earl

Well it wasn't two weeks after she got married
That Wanda started getting abused
She put on dark glasses and long sleeved blouses
And make-up to cover a bruise

Well she finally got the nerve to file for divorce
She let the law take it from there
But Earl walked right through that restraining order
And put her in intensive care

Ugh. I think I’m gonna throw up. Again. (Yack.)

Three things are going on here.

One, they’re taking another swing at our President (ie Earl) by portraying him as a guy who a) isn’t good enough for Mary Anne, and b) can walk through restraining orders (whatever that means). That’s just plain stupid.

Two, the song is a clear slap at Rick Santorum’s recent pro-heterosexual comments (comments that have been proven to be true, since we all know that the gays spend most of their time cruising around in their “Minis” looking for “man on dog” action).

Three, it’s a violent attack on the American family, family values and life in the heartland of America. The Dixie Chicks are mocking American (ie Christian) children for participating in solidly American (ergo conservative) institutions like 4H and Future Farmer’s, institutions that teach nothing but solidly American family values. Have they no shame?

And four, (okay, I said three but I meant four) the Dixie Chicks are saying that it’s possible for a man to beat his wife. Maybe in (liberal) cities like Jew York or San Francisgay, but not out here in the heartland.

If Wanda “started getting abused” it was probably because she deserved it. Why? Oh, I don’t know. Probably for acting like a slut and disrespecting Earl. The Bible gives Earl, her husband, the right to teach her a lesson if she did.

Jesus. I’m moving on to the next song, “Never Say Die.”

Lyin' next to you in the dark
I can feel your beating heart
You've been here beside me
Through the test of time

We've both had our share of doubts
Waited out those ole storm clouds
Boy it's nights like this that I know why
Lovers like you and me will never say die

'Cause there's a long line of folks giving up on love
So many hearts get broken in the push and shove
I'll believe in you for the rest of my life
Baby lovers like you and me will never say die

Another perfect example of their psychotic romanticism with life in a middle-eastern terrorist camp. How they can sing about “lyin’ next to” an Al-Qaeda type is beyond me. Read between the lines, people; “We both had our share of doubts (about attacking the US military base), waited out those ole storm clouds (to attack the US military base), boy it’s nights like this that I know why (I wanna join your organization and attack the US military base), lovers like you and me will never say die (so kiss me, grab your rifle and let’s attack the base).”

I mean, oh, man, can it get any worse?

Yes it can. Read the lyrics to “I'll Take Care Of You.”

Times are hard and rents are high
What can a working girl do
But struggle through another day
Then I'll take care of you

Nights are long and dreams are cold
If they're all you wake up to
But should you rise with cryin' eyes
Then I'll take care of you

Plain as day. The Chicks are telling Saddam (nee Bin Laden) that they will totally take care of him (you know, they’ll find him an apartment, they’ll sleep with him, they’ll buy him groceries, etc) if he can make his way to Nashville. Double yack.

Are they done yet?


This is the chorus to their biggest hit, “Landslide,” a song originally recorded by Fleetwood Mac.

Well I've been afraid of changing
Cause I built my life around you
But time makes you bolder
Children get older
And I'm getting older too

Sit tight, people. I’ve got some bad news. If you play their version of “Landslide” backwards, you can hear the Dixie Chicks screaming, “Hilary in ‘08, Hilary in ’08, Hilary in ‘08.”

Unacceptable. Totally and completely unacceptable. Stevie Nicks did not write that beautiful song to brainwash the youth of America into electing the Devil into the White House.

But that’s just what the Dixie Chicks are tryin’ to do.

It’s gotta stop, and it’s gotta stop right now. Ever heard of the Patriot Act, Natalie Maines? You haven’t? Well, you better ask your Jew lawyer about it because I’m talking prison, baby. You can’t criticize the President when we’re at war. What’s the matter with you?

Can’t wait to find out (soon, I hope) what your songs sound like in a cell block. Ha ha! I can see it now! You singing to your new girlfriend on the friggin’ basketball court. Ho ho! Hey, Dixie Chicks, you wanna hear a real country song before you take your first and last trip to Chino? One that promotes family values, our President and the good ol’ USA (ie things you hate)? Well check this out, bitches; it’s the number one country song of the year. And I KNOW you KNOW it, ‘coz it fucking haunts you! Take it away, Darrel Worley.

I hear people sayin'. We Don't need this war.
I say there's some things worth fightin' for.
What about our freedom, and this piece of ground?
We didn't get to keep 'em by backin' down.
They say we don't realize the mess we're gettin' in
Before you start preachin' let me ask you this my friend.

HAVE YOU FORGOTTEN, how it felt that day?
To see your homeland under fire
And her people blown away
Have you forgotten, when those towers fell
We had neighbors still inside goin through a livin hell
And you say we shouldn't worry bout Bin Laden
Have you forgotten?

Now that is a song. A song written by a genius. That rhyme scheme? Genius. War, for. Ground, down. In, friend. Bin Laden, forgotten?

Total genius.

Man, that song fills me with…Christ, I don’t know what. Fucking pride. I feel like I could take on Osama Bin Hussein all by my lonesome. I feel like…like driving my SUV to Abercrombie and buying me a new rugby. No, I feel like driving my Humvee to my favorite restaurant (Hooters) and having a giant plate of buffalo wings and a pitcher of Coors Light. And then, I’m gonna take that one waitress home with me. The one who’s been looking at me.

That’s just what I’m gonna do. Because I’m an American.


Tuesday, May 06, 2003

Today’s must read re: Bush’s “Top Gun” schtick –

Thank god for Paul Krugman.

Now, Christian soldiers, let’s turn our attention to a few things Dixie Chick.

Check out this story from the AP via

May 6, 2003 | COLORADO SPRINGS, Colo. (AP) --

Country station KKCS has suspended two disc jockeys for playing the Dixie Chicks, violating a ban imposed after the group criticized President Bush.

Lead singer Natalie Maines told a British newspaper she was "ashamed that the president of the United States is from Texas."

"We pulled their music two months ago, and it's been a difficult decision because how can you ignore the hottest group in country music," station manager Jerry Grant said.

He said there has been discussion about whether to reinstate the music, but the DJs, Dave Moore and Jeff Singer, became impatient.

"They made it very clear that they support wholeheartedly the president of the United States. They support wholeheartedly the troops, the military. But they also support the right of free speech," Grant said.

The station has received a couple of hundred calls and 75 percent favored playing the music.

Grant said Moore and Singer will be out for a couple of days.

"I gave them an alternative: stop it now and they'll be on suspension, or they can continue playing them and when they come out of the studio they won't have a job."

The station plans to play the group's music again eventually. "Most stations are starting to play them again anyhow, a song here, a song there. I just have a problem with the way this was done. We would have put them in anyhow. But we'd like to do it on our terms," he said.


I’m so sick of reading about Clear channel and country music stations and the Dixie Chick ban and Dixie Chick protests and CD burning parties and moms wondering if they should take their little girls to Dixie Chick concerts and…aaaggghhh.

Hello, country people? Why are you people still running from the Dixie Chicks?! We’re not talking about The Clash or Public Enemy or Bob Dylan here. We’re talking about three girls with a bunch of fucking fiddles who sing about love and dating and trucks and stuff. Play their fucking music. What are you afraid of? Their music will not turn your listeners into a bunch of Saddam–loving, W-bashing, commie pinkos.

Or will it? Let’s dig through some Chick music to find the subversive (liberal) messages. We’ll start with “I Can Love You Better.”

I can love you better than that
I know how to make you forget her
All I'm asking is for one little chance
Cause baby I can love you
Baby I can love you better

I can’t believe it. A love note to Saddam Hussein. Makes me wanna puke, giving comfort to an evildoer like that. The Chicks should be shot. But wait, there’s more. Check out the lyrics to “Cowboy, Take Me Away.”

Wanna sleep on the hard ground
In the comfort of your arms
On a pillow of bluebonnets
In a blanket made of stars
Oh it sounds good to me

Did you hear that? The Chicks are practically begging Osama Bin Laden to wisk them away to an Al-Qaeda training camp. Outrageous.

Hold on, it gets worse. This is an excerpt from “White Trash Wedding”

You can't afford no ring
You can't afford no ring
I shouldn't be wearing white and you can't afford no ring

You finally took my hand
You finally took my hand
It took a nip of gin
But you finally took my hand

Now I’m really mad. Haven’t they had enough? How dare they attack the President. The Dixie Chicks should be jailed for even “suggesting” that W has a drinking problem. He doesn’t. The Lord took care of that “problem” back in ’86. And let me finish this session by saying that you will be offended by the lyrics to “Hello Mr. Heartache.”

Hello Mr. Heartache
I've been expecting you
Come in and wear your welcome out
The way you always do
You never say if you're here to stay
Or only passin' through
So hello Mr. Heartache
I've been expecting you

An anti-Newt Gingrich tune if I’ve ever heard one. The Chicks are clearly saying that it’s wrong to leave your wife for a younger woman, especially if your wife has cancer. Sick and disgusting.

Jesus H. Christ, country people, get over it. You want an anti-war song? I’ll give you a great one. Take it away, Ozzy:

Generals gathered in their masses
just like witches at black masses
evil minds that plot destruction
sorcerers of death's construction
in the fields the bodies burning as the war machine keeps turning
death and hatred to mankind
poisoning their brainwashed minds... Oh lord yeah!

Until the Chicks bust out a country version of “War Pigs,” leave them alone. (And god help us if they do.)

Thursday, May 01, 2003

Quickly - Can’t stand the fact that the following excerpt if from Murdoch’s NY Post, but it’s a good one. Found it off a link from

Get ready:

April 29, 2003 -- HUSTLER magazine honcho Larry Flynt is hunting for a videotape rumored to show First Daughter Barbara Bush in the nude.

Flynt's cronies are scouring the New Haven, Conn., campus of Yale University, where Barbara, 21, is a student, in hopes of buying a video supposedly made at one of Yale's notorious "naked parties."

"We definitely have heard the story and we definitely have a rep over there but so far we have not been able to substantiate anything - yet," Flynt told PAGE SIX yesterday. "But usually where there's smoke, there's fire, so we're still looking."

“A source says Barbara has attended plenty of the bare-all bacchanals, a Yale tradition in which overworked Ivy Leaguers relieve stress by doffing their duds and drinking some suds.”


I was not familiar with “Yale’s notorious naked parties,” and will work the phones this morn to get a personal account or two.

Having said that, is it any wonder that the young Barb has “attended plenty of the bare-all bacchanals?” She’s the Bush twin who led the Secret Service on a high-speed SUV chase through Connecticut, right after she tried to lose them in the log-jam of a busy Tri-State toll plaza. (She was returning to New Haven from a night of “partying” in NY with some pals when she decided to play “Fast & Furious” on the Cross Bronx with the men assigned to protect her.)

I was hoping that SOMETHING fun would happen while Barb was at Yale (you know, like a photo of a bar dance at Toad’s Place), but never thought it would be this good.

(Any chance that similar footage of GW exists? We all know that he relieved his own collegiate stress with suds. What are the chances that he doffed his own duds? Doff? Duds? Ah, the fine art of tabloid journalism.)

The only drag re: the above-mentioned story is this:

“The footage in question was allegedly taken at a naked party several months ago, and Flynt's foot soldiers have been in talks with a student who says he is friends with the guy who has the tape.

"Flynt offered the person $1 million," says our source. "But he doesn't have it - he says his friend does. So it's kind of in limbo."


How much you wanna bet the Secret Service went straight to Def-Con V yesterday? And what are the odds that the Secret Service will find these “dudes” before Larry does? I’m guessing that THEY ALREADY HAVE. Those two unfortunate frats (“C’mon, Chip, break out the digi-cam. She’s his fucking daughter!”) are probably twenty miles below sea level, in the top-secret chamber beneath the Skull & Bones Club, duct-taped, bound, gagged, naked and freaking. (Oh, the irony!) If they haven’t snagged the “dudes” yet, YOU KNOW the Secret Service will SWARM over New Haven until they do.

If it does exist, the tape (and the dudes) in question will not last the day.

(I knew a kid who SWORE that the Secret Service burned his Stanford dorm down because they were looking for anti-Chelsea material. A girl on his hallway made some stupid remarks about hurting the young Clinton girl, and the next thing HE knew, his floor was in flames and the rest of his dormmates were looking for new housing.)

How did the naked party “slip by” those assigned to protect GW from his daughters? Come on. “Secret Service - Barbara Bush Detail” rule numero uno; Barb is not allowed to go to a naked party. Period. In fact, Barb is not allowed to get naked. She can “disrobe if she is showering,” but that’s it. (“Sorority sisters will be led out of the building until the shower is completed and the First Daughter is back in her Donna Karans.”) YOU KNOW that New Haven is teeming with agents assigned to CONTROL Barbara and to keep her from things like “naked parties,” because in the months before 9/11, the Bush Twins were in full “Girls Gone Wild” mode, W’s approval rating was in the LOW-40’S (fact), and the White house was running scared.

Ari used to scream and yell at the press (on a daily basis) over Bush Twin reports like this.

“Those girls are off limits!”
“Give us a break, Ari. They’re hilarious.”
“THEY are none of your business!”
“Didn’t you see the photo of Jenna tackling her gal pal at a UT spring break party? She’s holding a smoke AND a bottle of Michelob. It’s awesome.”

Hey, don’t get me wrong; I’m totally down with whatever Barbara wants to do while she’s “studying” at Yale (especially if it’s potentially embarrassing to her father). I went to college. I know what’s going on. My name is on a plaque (somewhere in Evanston, IL) for doing 200 shots of beer in 200 hundred minutes. I get that kind of collegiate behavior. However, my dad was not the President of the United States. I didn’t have to worry about “what would happen to him” if I attended a bare-all bacchanal, because there’d be zero chance that my naked photo would end up in Hustler. (It might end up in Frat House Fuck, but - oh, god, that’s a scary thought. Nevermind.)

Barbara has to worry about these things. Is that fair? Not to her. But that IS the way it IS. I’m sure that the WH is still in a huff about Uday Hussein having a picture of the twins on his gym wall (what’s that about?), but this is ten times worse, ‘coz Larry will publish the photo if he wheels across it. This is the man who brought down Bob Livingston, the former Republican Speaker of the House, with very real threats of exposing some very real behavior during the final days of the Clinton/Lewinsky scandal because he wanted to teach the Repubs a lesson; he ain’t afraid of the Bushies.

Note – I never had the chance to attend a bare all bacchanal in college. Never even heard of one. I did lip-sync my way through Black Sabbath’s “Vol. IV” (in its entirety) in front of a chapter-roomful of people, (a full-on Ozzy impersonation for about an hour) but that’s a “whole ‘nuther story.”

And another thing: what the hell is Rupert doing with a story like this in his newspaper? Why would he be giving Larry Flynt, GOP public enemy #3 (right after Bill and Hillary), free publicity?! It doesn’t make any sense. I’d expect to see a blurb like this in the Village Voice or the LA Weekly, but not the NY Post. The Post is the vanguard of mainstream, conservative propaganda and scandal in the US. It’s their job to take down liberal freakshows like Michael Jackson and Gary Condit. They’re not supposed to eat their own.

So why is Rupert giving free advertisement to Larry Flynt?

Answer? Sex sells…even if we’re talking about a Bush twin.

It got my attention.

Can’t avoid the brainwashing,

X-men. Tonight at midnight. Ya-hoo!