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If anyone who reads this blog is still laboring under the delusion that humanity did not evolve from monkeys, this bit of news will come as a blow. Our kinship to the little buggers should never again be in doubt, for you see, kids:
Many of you no doubt noticed, in the dark days immediately following November 2nd, a picture showing up all over the left side of the blogosphere. Perhaps a friend even forwarded it to you:
At first, I too was momentarily seduced by the prospect of secession from Jesusland and annexation by our neighbors from the North. But upon further reflection, my ardor waned. After all, would we really be any better off? Sure, ‘Murrica likes its invasions and its wars and shit, but you just know those crafty Canadians harbor their own imperialist ambitions. If you listen very, very closely, you can hear them up there in Ottawa, cracking their knuckles, their beady little eyes squinting and heads flapping maniacally, as they hungrily eye Eastern Siberia on one coast and Greenland on the other. How long before the Canadian bombs rain down on Kamchatka and Nuuk?
And besides, do we really want to be part of the same country as Winnipeg? (Think “Indianapolis with eight feet of snow on the ground.” How’s that for a mental picture?) And do we really want to relearn all the high school French we gleefully forgot three seconds after graduation, just to appease those wine-sucking snobs over in Quebec?
I say no! We shall not leave one gang of crazed imperialists, merely to be swallowed whole by another. We shall chart an independent course! We shall escape! And how fitting it is that today, the day after the guy who wrote memos legitimizing torture and called the Geneva Conventions “obsolete” and “quaint” was all but rubber stamped to be our next Attorney General, I would stumble upon a website that would make the nature of that escape clear to me:
(Incidentally, after Cascadia secedes, we will be mounting a 50 foot electrified fence along our borders, to keep all you American and Canadian rabble out. Nothing personal, you understand.)
Good Lord, where are your priorities, Reverend Dobson? Granted, SpongeBob’s sexual identity is an issue of critical importance to the health and well-being of our nation; but meanwhile, you remain curiously silent on the far deeper and more insidious problem of crazed Romanians attacking churches with axes!
Cozma, who lives near the church, said he had politely asked the priest to take it easy with the bells early in the morning and late at night.He said: “I spoke to the priest several times asking him not to ring the bells so loud and often.
“But did he listen? No, they did it louder and louder as if they wanted to make me crazy or something.”
I’ve said it many times before, and I’ll say it again: when real life events start to sound like Monty Python skits, we will all soon be buried neck deep in a giant Metaphysical KFC Bucket of Rancid Karma.
Aaron here.
Remember me? Once upon a time, this was my blog….before it was taken over by a slobbering gang of depraved religious lunatics. Unfortunately for them, however, I still know all the logins and passwords, both for the blog itself and for the server management console that controls the entire website. Therefore, I am in a position to impose Hydraulic Despotism; or as Paul Atreides says in Dune, “He who can destroy a thing, controls that thing.” Or, to put it still another way, I informed that “Pope Horatio” joker that, if he didn’t want to see his “church’s” precious mouthpiece blog destroyed, he’d best let me post occasionally.
Yeah…the “Church of the Uber Nixon.” Jesus H. Christ, what a band of whack-jobs. You know, they tried to induct me into their little cult, right after they moved into my old neighborhood back in New Hampshire. I went to the meeting at their “temple” (the basement pool room of a neighborhood bar), thinking to myself, “Oh yeah, now I’ll get me some strange. Cult chicks are easy.” Not a chance! There wasn’t a single female member. Total sausage party! And, to be honest, I think the clown who called himself “Cardinal Ugenesis Nixon Thunderfawk” preferred it that way. He kept talking about this “fiance” he supposedly had, but his constant habit of grabbing everyone’s packages and saying “Whoops, my hand slipped,” led one to question the veracity of that claim.
So, to sum up: The Church of the Uber Nixon is sort of like the Manson Family….minus the guns, knives, Manson Girls, and hairlines. Basically, a bunch of lazy, thirty-something drunks who want to take over the world. So far, all they’ve managed to take over is my blog.
Anyway, back to my favorite subject: Me. When last we spoke, back in early November, the reelection of George W. Bush had just driven a final stake through the heart of what used to be called the American Dream, humanity as a whole continued its unabated Reverse Evolution back to our apelike ancestors…and I had just gotten a new job. I currently work as the librarian in a small school that caters to the city’s homeless population. The kids who attend classes here are, not surprisingly, somewhat troubled. They have had horrible lives, and almost all have some sort of emotional or psychological problem. Today, for instance, a seven year old kid called me “motherfucker,” and another second grader spoke openly of raping a fellow student.
Have I mentioned that Moose Drool Brown Ale is a fantastic beer? I’m on my sixth one right now. Gee, can’t imagine why.
We now return you to your regularly scheduled posts about poop and monkeys and aliens.
I can hardly contain myself! In two short days, our Dear Leader will take the oath of office for his second term, an event that will kickstart three days of uber-expensive soirees. Now, there are some people who will try to tell you that the concept of a President throwing himself a $40 million dollar partay while the nation is at war, hundreds of millions of dollars in debt, and facing the world’s worst-ever humanitarian disaster in South Asia, is just obscene. We have a name for those types of people. They’re called “goddamn Commies.”
Other people might try to tell you that the administration’s decision to pass tens of millions of dollars in costs onto the cash-strapped District of Columbia, and tell them to take it out of their Homeland Security budget, is cheap and stingy. Wrong, wrong, wrong! This administration is most manifestly not cheap and stingy; just ask Armstrong Williams!
Anyway, the intent of this post was not to bandy words with bleeding-heart bedwetters. No no, it was to announce that, thanks to my network of highly placed contacts within the Bush Administration, I have obtained a copy of the lyrics to the Official Theme Song of the Inaugural Ball!
I’m ever upper class high society
God’s gift to ballroom notoriety
I always fill my ballroom
The event is never small
The social pages say I’ve got
The biggest balls of allOh, I’ve got big balls
I’ve got big balls
And they’re such big balls
Dirty big balls
And he’s got big balls
And she’s got big balls
But we’ve got the biggest balls of them all
Interestingly enough, the theme song (full lyrics here) was not, as one might naturally assume, written by Toby Keith, or even by an American. No, those profound, touching words were penned by the late Australian existentialist philosopher Bon Scott way back in 1975.
Scott, sadly, is not here to see his words achieve their utmost expression; he choked to death on his own vomit a few years after composing them. Truly, a cautionary tale if ever there were one. Thank Jeebus our Dear Leader had the courage and fortitude to win his own battle with the Demon Alcohol before he went and did anything stupid to put other people’s lives at risk.
I always knew those damn Old Europeans weren’t serious about fighting the War On Terror. Not only are they set to land a space probe on the Saturn moon Titan tomorrow, alerting any resident Titanites (Titanians?) to our presence, but the probe will also include a cd containing rock music:
The European Space Agency asked French musicians Julien Civange and Louis Haeri to write the music to raise awareness of space travel amongst youngsters.
Civange, who has worked with the Rolling Stones and David Bowie, said: “The European Space Agency wanted to add artistic content to the mission, to leave some trace of humanity in the unknown and send a sign to any possible extra-terrestrial populations.”
Let’s just digest that, shall we? The first impression of mankind these probably-hostile aliens will receive is music composed by a Frenchman. Jumping Jesus on a pogo stick! Did we include a white flag in the capsule too? We might as well have sent a note saying “Ooh, please come invade our planet and vaporize the White House with your massive space laser and grind up the human race as a cheap source of fiber supplement, Mr. Titan Men!”
At first I was flabberghasted to learn that the Euro-Wimp probe piggybacked on an American rocket. How could Donald Rumsfeld have been party to such a tragic show of weakness? Of course, when I found out that the Cassini rocket was actually launched way back in 1997, during the heyday of that Titan-terrorist coddler Clinton, it all made sense.
And don’t think that Jeff Goldblum will save us this time, either. That “Upload a virus off a laptop computer that magically causes a Moon-sized alien spaceship to spontaneously explode” trick only works once, folks. It’s like running a Flea-Flicker or Hook And Lateral play in football. You can get away with it once per season, at most. And since Saturn takes 29.5 years to orbit the sun, you know those aliens are working on a much longer season than we are.
Now, I know what you’re saying: “Sure, Titan has an atmosphere, and astronomers have predicted that it may have oceans of liquid methane. But it’s 294 degrees below zero! How could there possibly be life?” To which I reply: Well, people live in Texas, don’t they?*
Well, children, I’m taking no chances. It will be at least two or three years before the United States possesses a nuclear missile capable of hitting Saturn, and another seven years after that for the rocket to travel there and wipe out the evil Titan-creatures. Meanwhile, with their advanced alien technology, they can be here in a matter of days.
So I’m bugging out. Tomorrow evening, I’m boarding a super-secret commercial airline flight, and heading down to Father Loquacious High Finger’s fortified compound in lovely Santa Rosa, California. There, with our massive stockpiles of canned food and shotgun shells, we can hold out for as long as it takes.** Those little green moon men will pry the shotgun from my cold, dead, fingers!
* Or at least until I have to be back at work on Tuesday.
How could such a thing be? My world has been turned upside down, my naive, innocent faith in the supernatural prescience of Our Leader sorely tested. It seems that the weapons teams sent to Iraq to search for WMDs finally ended their search last month and came home. Their conclusion? There not only were there no Weapons of Mass Destruction in Iraq, but the programs had been dismantled back in 1991, and there was no evidence Iraq had any ability or means to restart them.
Bush has expressed disappointment that no weapons or weapons programs were found, but the White House has been reluctant to call off the hunt, holding out the possibility that weapons were moved out of Iraq before the war or are well hidden somewhere inside the country. But the intelligence official said that possibility is very small.
This is awful! Where could those wily bastards have hidden all their weapons? After all, we know they must be there; to believe otherwise would suggest the traitorous conclusion that Our Leader and his people have been lying all along, and thousands of Americans and Iraqis have died because of those lies! And that, of course, is simply not possible.
Personally, I think the Iraqis had help in hiding the thousands of nuclear warheads we know they must have had. And I have the sneaking suspicion we need look no further than our own backyard for the identity of that help. Was it Dan Rather? Susan Sarandon? The New York Times? The Gays? Are the WMDs hidden in a certain Commie filmmaker’s Size 72 tightie whities? Good Lord, the turncoat might even be Saint Mad Max! I thought he was One Of Us, but it appears I may have been wrong.
It’s a shame Susan Sontag passed away before we had a chance to get her down to Gitmo or Abu Ghraib; a few days there, and I’m sure she would’ve spilled the entire nefarious plot.
I don’t know who’s to blame, but I fully expect Brothers Hannity, O’Reilly, Limbaugh, Savage, Drudge, et al, to get to the bottom of this in the next few days. Who are the traitors? Who must we smite?
Fox rejects commercial featuring Mickey Rooney’s bare ass:
The network rejected a cold remedy commercial that includes a brief shot of the 84-year-old actor’s behind, said Fox Sports spokesman Lou D’Ermilio.
“Our standards department reviewed the ad, and it was deemed inappropriate for broadcast television,” he said.
Wait, I’m confused: a Rupert Murdoch-owned network has a “standards department?”
I’m not sure what’s more amusing: the idea that the network responsible for “Who’s Your Daddy?” could deem anything inappropriate for broadcast television, or the fact that I thought Mickey Rooney was the cranky old guy on “60 Minutes…”
Apparently, the original script for the commercial called for Rooney to whip off his towel and jump into Terrell Owens’ arms, but it was scrapped when T.O. broke his leg…
When danger reared its ugly head,
He bravely turned his tail and fled.
Yes, brave Sir Robin turned about
And gallantly he chickened out.
Bravely taking to his feet
He beat a very brave retreat,
Bravest of the brave, Sir Robin!
- Monty Python and the Holy Grail
What’s really amusing is that the picture of DubYa on the t-shirt even looks like something Terry Gilliam might’ve drawn for an episode of Flying Circus.
PS. This shirt just arrived yesterday, in a package of presents my mother sent me for Christmas. I think that fact goes a long way towards explaining why I turned out as warped as I did.
Now look, Reverends Falwell, Dobson, Wildmon. I realize that the vast majority of the estimated 150,000 tsunami victims are not American or Christian or Republican Party donors or even white, but couldn’t you at least pretend to have some compassion?
Seriously, you guys are giving the rest of us religious fanatics a bad name.
Maybe you should actually try reading that book you’re always waving in people’s faces. Just for shits and giggles, you might want to start with this section.
But I’m guessing you guys don’t go for that “bleeding heart hippie” crap. Nah, punishment and vengeance is more your gig, right? In that case, try this passage on for size.
Oh, and invest heavily in asbestos underwear. You’ll need it where you’re going.
