Category Archives: In the news
For decades, hell, for centuries adults have uttered the same phrase over and over again. For the Greeks it was Εκείνοι δεκάρα παιδιά κάθαρμα! For the Vikings it went a little like Þeir sem fjandinn börn fantur! The Germans, the planet’s nation of Hallmark card poets gutturally spitting out their words use the phrase Jene verdammten Bastardkinder! We English speakers just say: Those damn bastard kids!
I hated it when “old” people told me to do shit. “Don’t run.” “Don’t play in the street.” “Don’t smash a land line telephone junction box.” And my favorite, “Don’t gouge obscene messages on someone’s car,” even though you assumed it was a gesture of trust and understanding.
But, then I grew older. I’ve matured. More or less. OK, I still think it’s hilarious when I shove someone’s [read: Ren] camera into a mini bar fridge and lock it. I still giggle like a 5-year-old when I watch Adult Swim. And, as you read this, my latest mission in life is to see a movie about a supernatural, mass murdering tire.
A complete and utter conspiracy that this movie wasn’t even nominated for that piece of shit farce that is the Academy Awards. It’s because Robert the Tire is black, isn’t it? Fucking racists.
But, I am fully aware that in the eyes of the US federal government that I’m an adult. I’ve got a mortgage, car payment, gym membership, and all that good shit grown ups have to shell out money for in order to sit comfortably with society. Hell, even if you wanted to start your own militia in the middle of Montana somewhere you would still have to cover your initial expenses. You work hard to set up a state-of-the-art security fence with sensor flood lights and barbwire. That bunker isn’t going to dig itself. Next thing you know, some jackass is going to charge you $50 a gallon to haul all the necessary armor and collapsible guard towers to your Bartertown that will surely be a feature story on CNN one day (if you play it right).
Apartment or estate, condo or compound in the middle of Idaho; there is one common denominator. Everyone is protective over what they have. Stuff breaks. Sometimes it’s shit that can wait a few years until it REALLY has to be fixed or replaced (screen doors, toilet seats, starter motor). Other times it’s shit that needs to be repaired ASAP. We’ve worked hard on our hovels and already have two strikes against us. With all the snow storms, heat waves, floods, and Yeti attacks, the last thing any of us needs is to have some snot nosed little bastard breaking our shit, because he’s bored.
One fine morning in the Tresckow home (read: way too fucking early) I was woken up out of my normal drunken stupor after a night of mixing whiskey and vanilla extract. Apparently, our kitchen window was broken. OK. Fine. I’ll do something Roode never does and take a deep breath. I won’t jump to the worst conclusion. There was one hell of a windstorm the night before. Shit was flying everywhere.
It was completely reasonable that the wind from hell slammed something into our window just so Mother Nature could have a good laugh. Suck a dick, Mother Nature. I had hope that was the case and I wouldn’t have to start hating so early in the morning. I mean, if I start hating before 10 AM I get burned out by 3. It throws me off kilter. But, I should have known better.
I went outside to find the branch or squirrel, or whatever that the wind sent smashing into our window. My plan was to set it on fire and damn it to hell. Sifting around through the rubble of broken glass and morning sleep, I saw it there. Staring at me. Mocking me. It was a big ass rock. Not just any rock. It was a throw’in rock.
Let me clue you in on some of the mouth-breathing fucktarded children that roam around the neighborhood. They do not deserve to exist. They walk in the middle of the street, laugh at on-coming cars (surely 2 tons of SUV can’t hurt them), and break shit when they’re bored. You know those big boxes Verizon uses to carry land phone lines and the internet? Those shit grinning dicks demolish them on a weekly basis. Writing racial epithets on the side of someone’s house? We’ve got that too. Throwing rocks through car windows? We fucking have that! In fact, the first week we moved into this little paradise, one of those snot flinging dipshits broke the rear window of our truck. And, before you smartasses say something about my winning personality being a magnet for rocks, keep in mind that we were in the house for less than THREE DAYS when this happened. Trust me, three days isn’t enough time for the Inner Tresckow to shine. Mother f’in Theresa could have just moved in. Those shit stains didn’t know either way.
I know what you’re thinking. No, I don’t live in downtown Beirut or somewhere along the Gaza Strip. It’s your average neighborhood filled with a mixture of hard-working people, retirees, assclowns, and bored groups of free-range children. These ape shits wander around the neighborhood like it’s their job. Their parents don’t seem to give a shit. Ma and Pa are nowhere to be found when little Jimmy is taking a nap in the middle of the street or when Leroy is playing a rousing game of “dump the trash cans.” Nice parental guidance, cornholes. Prepare for the day when the only time you get to talk to your delinquent is through a sheet of plexiglass while he’s sporting an orange jumper.
The rock still sit there. I’m not sure why. Maybe as a reminder that the next generation is full of assholes. Maybe I’ll use it as a weapon. It’s quite possible that I’m too lazy to pick it up. If I knew how Voo Doo worked, I’d stick it with pins or something on the off-chance the jackass who threw it end up in blinding, mind crippling pain.
It’s not just the damage to the window that put chocolate pudding in my trousers. It’s the fact that I had to call all God’s creation to report it. I’m not paying for this shit. You have to call your homeowner’s association, insurance company, the police… Oh, yeah. The police. Maybe, if they applied themselves and really worked hard, they could give even less of a shit. Here’s a hint that the police have no interest in your little vandalism problem: they take your report over the phone. You don’t know what the hell is really happening on the other end. For all I know, the desk jockey was washing his taint while occasionally saying, “Uh-huh.”
I, suppose, the lesson I learned is that today’s kids can roam free and do whatever they want without any consequences. And, I’m still not allowed to shoot them. How is this fair?
Lest we forget:
FWTC Amnesia Lane: A Girl, Her Whisky, and an Irish Holiday
P.S. We are obliged to publish Ren’s emergency article in case we don’t see her again after this year’s Saint Patrick Day’s shenanigans.
By Abby K.
If I were to tell you Len Lesser died yesterday you would give me a blank stare. Then, if I told Uncle Leo died you would immediately open palm slap your forehead and say, “No! Uncle Leo? Say it ain’t so.” OK, maybe you wouldn’t say it exactly that way, but you know what I mean.
Len Less… ah screw it… Uncle Leo had a long and storied acting career. He was in Clint Eastwood flicks like, The Outlaw Josey Wales and Kelly’s Heroes. Remember? Come on! I can let Kelly’s Heroes slide, but if you never heard of The Outlaw Josey Wales , you’re either a particularly dainty woman or a castrated man.
Don’t feel bad. The majority of the Free World really only know Lesser as Uncle Leo. To tell you the truth, that’s good enough. No, he didn’t get Orson Wells spherical nor was he well known for his penchant for hookers and rock cocaine. He just, I don’t know, COMPLETELY BECAME ONE OF THE 20TH CENTURY’S BIGGEST PRIME TIME TELEVISION POP ICONS. Don’t agree? You’re lying. Quick, which one of these characters from Lesser’s career do you remember?
Or Uncle Friggin Leo?
That’s what I thought.
Uncle Leo was a character that stuck out in a sitcom that already had tons of quirky goofy ass one-dimensional circus clowns. That’s no small feat. Sure, he wasn’t in the main cast, having just appeared in 15 episodes. 15 out of 180 episodes. That’s nothing, it’s a speck of corn in the cow pie of life. But, those 15 episodes are among the ones we best remember. Why? Uncle Leo had it all; dashing good looks, a wardrobe to die for, and one of the best catch phrases of 90’s television. “Jerry! Hello!”
But, why did we take notice of our dear, precious Uncle Leo within the sea of Neumans, Kramers, Mickeys, and close-talkers? Was it talent? Gravitas? Yes. But, it was more than that. Only one word can sum it all up accurately. Genius. Uncle Leo was the Macbeth of our time. He was Rosencrantz and Guildenstern all wrapped up into one hunk of a thrift store sweater wearing man.
The real tragedy is that Uncle Leo never had his own spin-off series. Think about it. Episode after episode of “HELLO!” We would finally get to see Uncle Leo’s personal side. His sensitive side. His studly side. Hey, don’t be so quick to judge. That description was already more than Jersey Shore gives you and those hosers make millions for being stupid and VD ridden.
Look, all I’m saying is that growing up in Alberta didn’t exactly provide a girl with an ample supply of man candy. We had Eugene Levy while the US had David Hasselhoff (in his pre- cheeseburger/bathroom floor stage).
How was this fair? You tell me!
Maybe I was a traumatized child. I did see my father in a speedo once. I guess that pushed me into the strong, slightly mothball smelling arms of Uncle Leo. Look, don’t judge me. Funny is sexy.
Apparently, I’m not alone in my Uncle Leo worship.
That’s right, a tribute to Uncle Leo set to “Hello” by Lionel Ritcie. And you thought I had issues.
Safe home, Uncle Leo. Without you, life is meaningless and dark. We no longer have the bright light of your “hello” to warm ourselves by. I guess I’ll just nurse my crush on James Earl Jones.
Oh, yeah. That eases the pain.
I’m in debt just like the vast majority of Americans. Unlike a lot of people, I don’t pay attention when the government tells me to spend more in order to improve the US economy. Spending more means I’ll have to deepen my already chin-high shit pool of credit card debt. It’s the difference between getting kicked in the balls when you’re awake and getting kicked in the balls while you’re asleep.
After trying the “ignore it and see if it goes away” approach with my bills, I decided I should probably pay them. Being that I’ve been unemployed for over a year (Whooo hooo! Economy!) that’s easier said than done. So, I did what any other red-blooded American with a family and a stint in the poor house looking him in the face would do; I cashed in my retirement. Who cares about the future when you can’t feed yourself now, right? Who gives a shit? That’s something for Future Tresckow to worry about. Present Tresckow wants to stop eating saltines and shoe leather.
I’ve unleashed a Blitzkrieg of bill payments when I took money away from Future Tresckow. I carpet bombed the ever-loving shit out of those credit card bastards. Hell, some of those balances went right down to zero. Fuck you, whitey! Wow. Where did that come from? Can a whitey say “fuck you, whitey” and not sound completely fuck-stupid? Probably not.
Things went according to plan, for the most part. The only weird backlash was when one of my creditors rewarded me with paying off my balance with a severely reduced credit limit. So, let me get this straight: teeter on the brink of maxing out my credit card balance for three years and they don’t say word one. Pay off the balance and they react by slashing my credit limit like Jack the Ripper (which, I guess, makes me a British prostitute). Yeah, that sounds completely logical.
But, I’m not here to bitch about that. It sort of makes sense, if you think about it. Without a “Charlie Sheen high” balance, the money-grubbing fuckers can’t nickel and dime me with interest. Fine. Eat me you Ebeneezer Scrooge motherfuckers. I plan on wiping my ass with your credit card and sending it back in. Have fun with that handful of e-coli and resentment. But, I digress. What really chapped my ass is the outright fatwah one service provider issued for being short-changed 48 cents. Yes, 48 cents. $0.48. We’re not even talking about enough to buy a soda here.
Look, it isn’t the fact that I don’t want to pay the 48 cents. I do. I have that much in my pocket right now. I think I can scrounge 48 pennies around the house. I could even go so far as to use a 5¢ check to pay them their 48 cents. Paying the balance isn’t the issue here. Going after me like I committed a Hans Gruber-esq heist is.
A totally unprecedented campaign is being waged against your truly to get the owed 48% of a dollar. The first time I got a nasty gram I felt embarrassed. How could I have underpaid a bill by 48 cents? Damn, I’m bad at math. OK, I’ll put the bill in the pile and send them their money.
The second time I got a nasty gram I was a little confused. Surely, they recognized the irony of sending me two bills for 48¢ when US postage stamps cost 44¢ each. Shit, they’re 40¢ in the hole now. Maybe what was starting to move me from embarrassed to slightly annoyed is that both notices came within the same week. Two days apart.
I was quickly making the transfer from feeling stupid to getting pissed off. The rational part of me said to just pay the 48 cents and get it over with. The sooner it’s paid the sooner these people will shut their cake holes. But, the irrational and petty part of me (which is substantially larger than the rational part) said, “NO!” These assclowns were crossing the line. Two fucking bills for 48-shit eating-cents in the same week is ridiculous. I’ve owed hundreds before and haven’t been hunted down like this. For fuck’s sake, my student loans don’t give me this much shit. Still, it would just make more sense to take a deep breath, down a shot of whiskey, and send them a check. A check for 48¢. I even toyed with the idea of driving to their office and tossing two quarters on the counter and walking away. The point is, even at this point, I still felt obligated to pay my outstanding balance of 48-bullshit-cents.
Before the week ended, I received a THIRD bill for the same 48¢! A third! In the same goddamned week! These sweaty taints were now 84 cents in the hole pursuing their 48¢. Does this amount really require three shit-eating nasty grams in one week? Will my 48¢ make or break their business? Holy shit, will my 48¢ cost someone their job? What the hell is wrong with you people?!
Now, any semblance or rational thinking has been put in a headlock and strangled by my ever-growing irrational side. I know, in reality, I have a bill to pay. 48¢ or not, a bill is a bill. But, my God in heaven, three friggin bills in one week all worded like I raped every one of their daughters and took a dump on their sons’ faces. This shit is too much. I’ve had it! Now, I’m going out of my way NOT to pay this bill. Or, at the very least, not to pay until it costs the company an absurd amount of cash to collect their 48¢. I have had enough! No one is in a hurry when they owe me money. I’m still waiting for my cut of a class action lawsuit that ended four years ago!
It’s on now! I’ll see you in hell for your 48¢!
I take voting very seriously. I believe it’s every American’s civic duty to decide who their elected officials are. OK, would you believe it’s everyone’s civic duty to stand inside a curtained booth and push buttons?
I have no delusions about the voting process. Too much bullshit exists to trust the system completely. Poll workers make mistakes, voting officials “misplace” ballot boxes, and a fruit salad of other shit falls to pieces.
But, my Da taught me to embrace my God-given rights (or the illusion) and vote my ass off. Sure, when he first got to this country and became a citizen, he was a little confused by the “Green Party.”
Northern Irish nationalism aside, I come a voting family. I was born and raised in Idaho (insert potato eating Mick joke here). There are about six people in that state and none of the elections are exactly thrilling. The rest of the country and the Electoral College doesn’t give a goat’s shit about Idaho’s votes. Now, I live in Montana, a state with four people living in it. The races are a little more hectic and up in the air. Usually. This was a midterm election. Some states vote for a shit ton of elected officials during a midterm. Some don’t. There were states in the Union that, flat-out, didn’t have any elections. The sadder states had one. Guess which state Montana was?
That’s right, there was one office up for grabs and two people running for it. And by “two people” I really mean one guy that didn’t have a prayer in Protestant hell of winning… and the other one. The kick i the ovaries was that the majority of universities were closed for the big election. Think about it. Every single college institution closed their offices and suspended classes so the staff, administration, and students could race to the polls and push the button for the dude who was going to win or the poor bastard that already lost. That’s time well spent!
I like my elections the way I like my riots: mobbed, confusing, and violent. Call me a sentimental little girl, but a tear comes to my eye when a bar fight breaks out during a presidential primary. Someone cares enough about the election to smash a beer bottle over another dipthong’s head. That’s patriotism!
I want excitement, damn it! Momma wants to have fun while casting her constitutionally guaranteed, if not somewhat useless, vote. Voting doesn’t have to be a chore! It can be a big bowl of OK. So, I went to my designated voting place determined to make the most of this wonderful event. Democracy, baby! It tastes delicious!
It was fucking cold. We don’t get fall ’round these parts. It goes straight from 90 degrees to Ice Age. The line extended out the door and down the sidewalk a bit. I thought, maybe, I could promote voter bonding by lighting a fire to huddle around. No. Apparently, even suggesting that will get your ass carted off to jail. Fine. Fuck you. Am I the only one who cares?
A round of beer pong was out; no one had a table or cups, for that matter. I thought a round of shots would relax my fellow patriots. When the hell did it become illegal to offer alcohol to strangers in public? Fucking seriously? That cop hanging around the entrance was a serious buzz kill.
As I got closer to the entrance, I realized I was hungry. I sure as hell couldn’t do my duty (doody) as a citizen on an empty stomach. So, I broke out the hotcakes meal I got from McDonald’s. Momma loves her pancakes. The bitch of it was that it’s really hard to hold that little tray of pancakes, use your fork, and sneak a sip from your bible flask at the same time.
Wouldn’t you know it, as soon as I mastered the art of two-handed sidewalk breakfast and whisky drinking, it was my turn. I put my shit on the table surrounded by blue hairs. I don’t know if it’s a requirement on the state or federal level, but I think every poll worker has to be 70 and above. The old bag I talked to got bent out of shape when I handed her my driver’s license covered in pancake syrup.
I don’t know how they do this voting booth thing in other states, but the booth you go to is a big fucking deal. The one next to me was free. But, nooooooo. I had to wait in ANOTHER line to get to the assigned one. Here’s another thing I’ve learned: most people don’t take kindly to you asking who they’re going to vote for. In fact, making a guess then shouting it out so everyone can hear is frowned upon too. Everyone was such a friggin grump.
Finally, I was permitted to step inside the little curtained peep show-esq booth. Before a voter goes in, for some reason, they have to announce your name. Well, I thought the least I could do was give some sort of acceptance speech. I thanked my parents, my brother, alcohol, bacon… you know, it doesn’t matter. I didn’t get to finish. Fucking geriatric fascist cut me off and made me go in.
There I was, about to unload a pile of democracy on the nation. But, I had to finish my pancakes first. I don’t like to rush, so I took my time. Cripes, take more than ten minutes in a voting booth and everyone gets bent out of shape. I didn’t know what to do with my trash, so I tossed it over the curtain. I carefully reviewed the race and the two people running for it. This was a big deal. Whoever I chose would have the potential to be a success, like that Chocolate Rain guy, or a failure, like Brett Micheals.
I couldn’t make up my mind. I pressed both buttons, but the machine-made some sort of disapproving noise at me. I tried to select a blank button, but again, disapproving noise. At this time, Jessica Tandy who was monitoring the booth outside, was giving me shit for goofing around.
I was at an impasse, so I did what any other red-blooded American would in such a situation. I flipped a coin. Well, sort of. Instead of a coin, it was my cold cup of coffee and instead of heads or tails it was “if I managed to hit the old bitty giving me shit.” The decision was made for me and I pressed the button. There! I have carried out my obligation to the nation. I’m awesome!
I learned a few very valuable lessons. Voting is serious business. People get all touchy when you talk about making a campfire outside an elementary school, and pancakes aren’t the best breakfast to eat while waiting for your turn to vote.
Fame does some pretty strange things to your head. Look at Madonna, for example. She was the definition of popular music and made being a “material girl” acceptable. Now, she speaks with a faux British accent, aggressively adopts/shanghais African children, and became an out and out caricature of herself. Not in a funny way like Charlie Sheen or Steven Seagal. In a tragic, sad way like Drew Carey.
We miss you, Mel. Remember all the good times we had? Mad Max? Thunderdome? Lethal Weapon 1-3? We stuck by you in your low points; Dying Young, What Women Want, Maverick. That’s because we knew you were going to bounce back and give us something like Payback or Ransom or We Were Soldiers. So, we got Signs. I mean, it was OK, for a Shamalan flick. It could have been 45 minutes shorter and the antagonists probably shouldn’t have been able to be killed with water (how much of the surface of the Earth is water, again? That’s just poor planning). But, that wasn’t your fault, Mel.
Everyone has the right to go nuts once in a while. Shit, Russel Crow still has a career. The key is to bounce back long enough for your fans to be able to defend you. OK, Russel Crow threw a cell phone at someone and punched a few dozen people in the face. But, he was in Gladiator and…. come to think on it, that’s really the only Russel Crow movie I liked. A Beautiful Mind? Come on! Who hasn’t had a university professor that wasn’t completely batshit nuts?
But, I digress. The world loves its eccentric actors. The world loves impossibly tanned douche bags from New Jersey. They all know their boundaries, though. Sure, Alec Baldwin verbally abused his daughter in voice mail. The public is willing to let that go, because he’s on 30 Rock. That and was only one recording lasting only a few minutes.
I’m not sure when it all went downhill for you, Melvin. Some say it was The Passion of the Christ. I wouldn’t. It was an interpretation of a story four books of the Bible told in different ways that WAAAY too many people took too seriously. Both the devout and cynical spent too much time dissecting the damn film and making it fit their personal views. After several months of this shit, I just wanted everyone to shut the hell up. No one was outraged by The Hottie and the Nottie and that was an outright punch to the collective nuts of humanity by Satan.
It didn’t take a cinema expert to figure out that you were working through some major issues while filming Passion. Maybe you were having a crisis of faith. If Michael Moore can use movies to make an attempt to choke people with the fat of his opinions, why not you? It was therapeutic; I get that. But, this seems to have been the last vestige of your sanity. After making an opus for such a personal subject AND raking in almost $612 million bucks, I’d probably call it a day and swim in a pile of money like Scrooge McDuck.
Then the other shoe dropped, Melbert. A story started to circulate about your drunken, antisemitic rampage. What? No way! After making a blockbuster movie centering around the most famous and arguably most revered JEW in history you start cracking wise about the Jewish community? At least you waited until after the flick already made the rounds in theatres. That would have been shitty PR, otherwise.
This was utterly baffling to your fans. But, after some thought, we chalked it up to drinking sour mash on an empty stomach and crippling emotional issues. Who among us hasn’t gotten shit faced and launched into a racist tirade? It might as well be part of the warning on the label.
- According to the Surgeon General, women should not drink alcoholic beverages during pregnancy because of the risk of birth defects.
- Consumption of alcoholic beverages impairs your ability to drive a car or operate machinery, and may cause health problems.
- Consumption of alcohol may induce a flood of racist remarks that TMZ will immediately broadcast the next day.
Surely, this was the sign of a very troubled man. We wanted you to get help. We took pity. For God’s sake, David Hasselhoff managed to maintain (and increase) his following after his “eat the burger off the bathroom floor” booze fueled escapade.
We were bummed, but at least you haven’t sunken to the Andy Dick level of drunken dipshittery.
HA HA! Oh, Andy. He may have indirectly caused the murder of Phil Hartman, you know.
Things seemed to die down. We thought you were getting the help you needed. You know, before you made a smoking crater where your career and reputation were. Ah, shit.
Now, I won’t bother recanting every action packed, domestic violence chalked, racist soliloquy. But, in case someone has cut themselves off from society for decades and just now decided it was time to catch up on all the celebrity gossip, this article in the Guardian will fill them in. Why, Mel, why? Didn’t Nixon teach you anything? NEVER put yourself in a situation where you could risk being recorded.
According to this expert who has been involved in the super sophisticated career of creative forensics and crime busting, there is a good possibility that your soon-to-be ex-wife doctored those tapes . They were just too perfect. In a nutshell, the audio is just too clear and you can almost hear the editing in some of the clips. Let’s be realistic. If I can pick these anomalies out, then actual professionals must be having a field day with them. She wants a payday. So that’s something, isn’t it, Mel?
Yes, it’s something, but just not enough. Even if what’s-her-face had a team of recording engineers at MIT split and re-mix the calls, the indisputable fact is that those are your words, Mel. That was your voice pushing racial and sexist epithets like a crack dealer on third graders at a playground. The finished product may be just that; a product. But, the content is 100% Mel. We want to help you. We’ll do what it takes. Chamomile tea? A five year stint at Betty Ford? Shock therapy? Lobotomy? Everything’s on the table. We just want our quirky Mel back.
Above it all, that funny, cheeky, action star we see above was oh, so charitable. You and Glover were the stars, but you let another sweep us off our feet. We have never been the same since.
Is any of this getting through to you, Mel? You’re a step away from Gary Busey level insanity. You can still turn it around; drop out of the public eye for a few years, then come back better and stronger than ever! Look what that plan has done for John Travolta. The John Travolta Pulp Fiction and Face/Off era that is. The rest of it is just a shame filled diaper that Hollywood occasionally shoves in our faces.
Okay, Travolta isn’t a very good example these days. Stallone! Yeah! Sylvester Stallone! He did it, Mel. Granted he was just accused of popping human growth hormones like Tic Tacs, not of threatening to bury his woman in a rose garden. However, Stallone dropped off the face of the Earth for years, came back, for some reason made Get Carter, ran away, then rocked us all with Rocky Balboa. Sure, he struggled with the most recent Rambo atrocity, but he bounced back and made The Expendables. Sly managed to get the world to forget about Cop Land by uniting the single most badass group of 80’s and 90’s action superstars. No, there are no recording of Stallone dropping the N bomb or hexing someone with gang rape, but he has struggled against the handicap of having Frank Stallone as a brother.
Mel, we love you. You’ve just taken a bad turn. Well, a bad series of turns. I guess it’s safe to say you’ve crashed the car, set it on fire, then ran face first into a brick wall yelling racial slurs. But for logic defying reasons, you keep getting back up and launching yourself back into the brick wall. I guess I’m asking that you take a breather, invest in some seriously aggressive therapy, and STOP slamming yourself into that goddamn wall. One of these times you’re going to collide with it so hard you’ll open a rift in the space-time continuum and obliterate Mad Max and Martin Riggs. At this point, Mel, they’re all you’ve got.
I’m just going to come right out and say it. I am out of work. Got a problem with that? Conservatives would say I’m just too lazy and spoiled by unemployment. Liberals would say I can’t fend for myself. I say eat shit.
Roode alluded to this situation late last year. The difference is that Roode found a position that allows him to carry firearms and wield the law as his own, personal nightstick. You got it right, he’s a guard at one of the many strip clubs in Western Montana.
As “Chief Editor/Head Writer,” this whole situation is particularly aggravating. I am supposed to set the standard for the FWTC writing staff. You know, lead by example and shit. Sorry, I had problems keeping a straight face on that one. As long as Ren is on staff, I could live in a cardboard box while eating day old donuts slamming Thunderbird and I would STILL be the normal one.
Personally, I abhore the welfare state. I hate the nanny state, too. There are some horrific ham-fisted deals going on behind the scenes (if Cracked.com can be believed). Too many people take advantage of the system and take what they didn’t earn. But, I can’t bring down my household because of my ideals. Besides, it’s insurance. I paid for it. Fuck if I’m not going to use it. Still, getting less than half your old salary is a nutshot to the ego and severely limits your ability to buy and stockpile weapons for a Red Dawn-esq scenario..
But, your state’s department of labor is there to help you! Help you feel worse, I mean. What? Does your state actually help without inducing mind shattering shit-pissed rage? Then, you’re living in a fantasy land! Name one thing that government involvement has streamlined? The department of motor vehicles? Building permits? Highway construction? How about paperwork to eliminate the need for paperwork? It’s pretty much a given that government intervention designed to make your life “easier” is about as useful as an overflowing toilet without the charm.
Earlier this month, our president signed the unemployment extension legislation into law (I’m not here to debate that, because I really don’t care what you think). OK, great. It doesn’t look like it really impacts me. But, what the hell? Every little bit helps. Every state took the extension and ran with it. Not only were there thousands of thousands of people already in the system that had to refile, there were thousands that needed to file for the first time. Something this serious and complicated needs to be thought out. A proper plan needs to be drawn up so the state can wade through the throngs of citizens who were career raped. So, LET’S SQUEEZE IT ALL INTO ONE WEEK! It’s a raffle. Everyone gets their ticket and has to show up on their designated day. It’s sort of like jury duty, but less organized.
So, I did what I was told. I need, at least, some income. Christ knows this website doesn’t pay dick and I’m not pretty enough to whore the streets. I stupidly figured that the state had a plan. Come on, with that many people in the system, they surely had some sort of efficient process in place. It was as efficient as carrying water in a bottomless bucket. I decided that I needed to play this well. It’s like Christmas shopping on Black Friday. Get there before the doors open and you’re golden. WRONG! The 400 people before me had the same idea. There was a line leading all the way to the parking lot and little shanty towns set up under the trees. Fine, whatever. I’ll wait in the waiting area that smells like the steerage section on a 19th century steamer. I was number 88. They were on number 40. It’s not ideal, but it’s doable.
What the staff failed to tell me and everybody else, is that they ran out of tickets. They had to break into new rolls to have enough for the ever-growing crowd. So, there were blue tickets, green tickets, pink tickets, yellow tickets… it was a rainbow of pain. That’s the sort of thing you want to keep a secret. Instead of being number 88, I was 388 (pink ticket 88). That number 40 on the little display screen? Well, that was another color. There were roughly 348 pissed off people in front of me. Good times!
True to form, every chair had a sweaty ass in it. So, I stood. I’m a big boy. Sometimes you just have to stand. There were four staff members on duty attempting to process 500 people by 4:30. I’m no math wizard, but something about that shit doesn’t add up. Especially if you consider they were only processing less than 26 people an hour. Good thinking state bureaucrats!
After about two hours of this shit, I decided to get the hell out of Dodge. I did some quick math and figured that I could leave, go back to my house, eat lunch, watch some Futurama, and be back roughly two hours later and my number still wouldn’t have been called. By the time I returned, the crack staff at the Department of Labor should have gotten through enough mouth breathers to close the gap. Why, I bet I’ll be back with 20 people still in front of me. Weighing the odds and tired of standing in a strangely un-air conditioned building (it was only 98 degrees that day. That’s window opening weather) I beat cheeks like BP dodging real blame.
My plan was perfect. I laughed to myself as I pictured all those suckers in the state run cattle car. I’m the smart one! The amount of time I had to spend with a room full of “colorful” people from around the state was drastically reduced. I’m a fucking genius! I drive back to bureaucratic hell a little more energized. I’ve been gone almost two hours. They had to have made some serious progress during my absence.
Somehow, they seemed to have gone BACKWARDS while I was out. There were still over 100 people in front of me. How is that possible? Oh, right. They reduced the amount of staff on duty. It seemed like the right thing to do. It’s not like you need more than a few people to process a few hundred sweaty, annoyed, and smelly applicants.
At least this time around I found a chair. Hoo-hah! I get to sit down. Now, do you really think it would be that easy or painless? Not only do I have the worst luck with airline seating, my ass chaping misfortune seems to extend to seats of all kinds. To my right: an impossibly fat man that smelled like spoiled milk. To my left: an extra from the Road Warrior. In the middle of that mess was me, trying like hell not to physically touch either ass clown. I sucked in my extremities and got into what can only be described as a sitting fetal position.
What’s a long line leading to the mouth of hell without some dill weed throwing a monkey wrench in the gears? It never fails, whether in line for the movies or in the bank, there is ALWAYS someone who has to argue with the ticket monkey behind the counter. There we are, a shit ton of people waiting for our glorious turn. Then the brakes slam and the car comes to a screeching halt.
Following the rules the state sets for unemployment paperwork doesn’t require a rocket scientist, believe me. Literally, it’s:
- Fill out form
- Wait in line for as long as it takes for the earth to make one revolution around the sun
- Show your driver’s license and social security card (or something official with your name and the ssn on it)
- Say “yes” to a bunch of questions.
But, noooooooo! An old fiber muncher was having a debate with one of the clerks. I was close enough t o hear what was going on (so much for privacy). The hag was quibbling over something that was written in black and white in front of her friggin eyes! You know the type of person that just doesn’t get what you’re saying no matter how many different ways you try to explain it? This crone was the queen of that tribe of retards. It took three clerks to tell her that she needed her social security card. Not satisfied, the blue hair demanded to ask for the person in charge. So, not only was this jackhole tying up FOUR clerks, she wanted to sit there and argue with a fifth. The crowd behind her started to collect pitchforks and torches to get this bitch out of the way.
As the clocked wound down and the staff slogged through the numbers, all I could do was send SOS messages through my cell. I normally keep to myself in situations like these. I don’t want to talk to people and I sure as hell don’t want people starting random conversations with me. Just because we’re waiting in the same line doesn’t mean we’re buddies. Unfortunately, not everyone shares my cardinal rule. The fat bastard to the right of me was yucking it up with an old bitty behind him. It was like being a fly on the wall in a retirement home. Ceaseless discussions on how the “new” generation doesn’t work as hard as they did and their baseless feeling of entitlement. I wasn’t quite sure which generation they were talking about. Both were old enough to be referring to the baby boomers, gen x, gen y, and whatever the hell the subsequent generations are called. I managed to suppress my urge to slap both of them across the face, Three Stooges style. I’m not saying I totally disagree with what they were saying (every generation has their group of whiny little bitches). I had an issue with something else coming out of the rotund dude’s mouth.
Each stale word he pushed out of his mouth was accompanied by new levels of ass breath. At first, I wasn’t sure what the hell it was. Did someone leave a sandwich in the sun? Did a dog take a dump in the waiting room? Wait a minute, the putrid odor gets stronger whenever this dude speaks. Son-of-a-bitch! Really? Who’s messing with me? The smell was a cross between spoiled milk and dog ass. How couldn’t he know? This shit made my eyes water. I’ve been near paper plants with more pleasant smells. Good Christ, pop a Mentos!
As the funeral procession of the damned waned on, they were slowly getting closer to my number. I was hot, sweaty, and pissed off about the carnival of errors unfolding before my very eyes. Twenty numbers away from mine, I got up stand by the counter. I wanted to be ready to spring into action as soon as they called sweet number 88. Some people gave up over the course of the day and left. At this point, they were sailing through numbers, skipping over the no shows.
A new crop of fucktards populated the waiting area. As soon as I saw the douche wearing a wife beater, I KNEW he was going to fuck something up. With the captivating scent of Marlboro and Wild Turkey, he stood there jawing with another member of God’s forsaken. He was loud. He was smelly. He was a dick. His voice boomed throughout the room, obscuring the voices of the clerks. Number 85 rolled around. This was it! I’m three numbers away from ending this bullshit. 85 was no where to be found. Neither was 86. Well, wife beater douche thought it was hilarious that the clerks were skipping numbers. So, in the classiest of styles, he started shouting out the next numbers. For no fucking reason. He was so loud and obnoxious, he drowned out numbers being called by the clerks and proceeded to yell out, “87, 88, 89!” The problem was that either the clerks weren’t paying attention or they we confused by this tool bag. Whatever it was, those assholes picked up where he left off and started from 90. Wait? What the hell!? They skipped my fucking number completely!
To this day, I’m surprised I didn’t completely lose my shit. I went to the chick handing out the forms and told her what happened. The security guard reassured me and said he would take care of it. Why the security guard was involved in the first place, I don’t know. He was the only employee there that actually gave a shit. The man actually handed water out to people earlier. Somehow, the state hadn’t crushed his soul.
So, there I was, waiting. Again. At least I knew I was next. There was an opening at the counter and the guard waved me to it. OK, great. Finally, someone was helpful. he told me to sit tight and the clerk would be right there. Oh she was right there, alright. Right there and bitchy.
With the eye of Satan and the attitude of a state worker on crack, she asked me what I was doing there. I told her my sob story about being skipped. Oh no, that wasn’t good enough. She couldn’t believe that such a thing happened. I must not have been paying attention. I’m the asshole. Who said I could sit in front of her desk, anyway? She has important papers there. I could have rooted through them and stolen social security numbers. This shit was really happening?
Trying to be the good guy, I explained myself for a fourth time. I told her the guard sat me here and told me to stay. Oh, that unleashed a shit storm of cataclysmic proportions. She then launched into this tirade about how the guard isn’t in charge. He doesn’t call the shots. Who does he think he is? Why would I do what he said? This turbo-bitch was on a Sherman’s March to the Sea type roll.
To show me who was REALLY in charge, she called the guard over and gave him a load of demeaning shit. This took five minutes. Five pain filled minutes. For a person who goes all out not to be noticed, this was hell for me. This shit was drawing attention. After the spirited debate [read: pissing contest], the security guard won a hollow victory. I say hollow, because she was mumbling about putting him in his place. Being that I was involved in the guard’s insubordination, I quickly became the focal point of her wet pants pissiness.
I waited in line (more or less) for seven hours, braved harsh odors, and sweaty numbnuts just to be cock blocked at the very end. The only way I can describe this is by using the phrase, “paperwork rape.” Don’t bitch that I’m making light of actual rape. It’s the only term that comes close to doing justice to the sorry experience this colon puncher put me through. She violently threw form after form at me while snarling, “Sign this!’ There was nothing I could do. I was guilty by association. All that time invested for five minutes of a Doctor Mengele– style review.
I felt like the lone survivor of an A-Bomb attack. I staggered to exit with a mix of Irish car bomb rage and car accident victim. I had to go to, yet, ANOTHER office to wait in line. This branch of the department of labor is responsible for making sure I am properly oriented to my jobless situation. Properly oriented? Assholes, I’m already in the program and have been sitting with my unemployed thumb up my ass for MONTHS. None of this shit was new. Alas, I had to go through the motions just to go through the motions. I was ordered to create an account on the state’s job site, even though I already had one open. That one didn’t count. I had to open another one, because those were the rules. I wasted my time and tax payer money to re-do everything I did eons ago. WTF?
As if to make sure the sting from the state’s ball tagging was felt long after I left, there was a mandatory orientation to sit though. Why in the hell were they putting me through a “welcome to unemployment” presentation so far after the fact? I asked, but the only answers I got sounded a lot like the responses at the Nuremberg Trials.
We filed in the small room with no light and a running PowerPoint presentation. Alright, it’s always possible that there is something to learn. Maybe, I’ll be able to get some useful information. I’ve had the luck of a one-armed paper hanger in the job market. Perhaps, there is a nugget of information waiting to be mined.
It was 15 minutes of a job hunter special ed class. Ten of those bile filled minutes were spent on explaining the technological innovation that is the computer. I’m dead serious. Most of the presentation revolved around basic computer skills. It was designed for people who have never graduated to audio CDs, let alone realized that punch cards were phased out.
This is what our tax dollars are paying for; hours of wasted time, useless resources, and state employee blood feuds. As I said, I believe the majority of unemployment is going to the career-fuckedified. These people don’t want to be on it, they were shit canned due to no fault of their own, and have the sad privilege of being a statistic for pro and anti government spending advocates. Sure, I was up to my eyeballs in the vo-tech class at every high school. I was also in the mix with former high ranking execs that were bounced out of their companies after 20 years of service. Despite all our difference- wife beaters, misspelled tattoos, the smell of homemade alcohol- we all shared one thing. We are are being boned by the recession/not a recession/kind of a recession/recession- rebound/ boarder line 1930’s depression. It’s awesome being used as a data point in a debate! Rest assured this whole thing is going to be written about and philosophized to death in future history books.
Not that our kids are going to be able to attend college to read them. I’ll still be paying off my ridiculous student loans ten years after they put me in the ground. I seriously questioned the quality of my education and its expense when my alma mater decided it was better to pass a clusterfuck tragedy of a student, because they didn’t want to deal with him anymore.
Gene Gene the Roode Machine-
Alright, auto companies, I’m on to you. Decade after decade you churn the same shit boxes on four wheels out for a drooling public with more credit than brains. Each one has some bell or whistle that is slightly different than the bell or whistle the other guy has. Maybe next season the Ford Explorer will have air conditioning in the seat so you can cool that sweaty taint of yours after a long day at the beach. They can call it the “taint blaster.” No more will Ford owners have to worry about their wet taints on the drive home. That’s fucking progress!
I understand the appeal of certain car names; Mustang, Charger, Bronco. That shit makes you want to wrangle up a herd of stampeding cattle or single handedly win World War II. A bad ass who quips one liners while he stomps another asshole where the bad guy’s face used to be always drives sex on wheels. Take Jaguar, for instance. JAGUAR. The name, alone, hammers images of eight cylinder justice and constant super model boning in your head. These names don’t disappoint. Jaguar is as impressive to drive as it is to say. You just know the vehicle is going to be awesome when it’s named for a carnivorous killing machine or a wild, rampaging horse. Quick! What comes to mine when you hear the word “Yugo?”
Man is, by nature, a stupid and gullible creature. Marketing firms and car companies know this. They invest so much time in the product placement and brand name that there’s little left over for the actual car mechanics. Or, they just pull the name out of their asses ten minutes before they make the commercial. Either way, someone is fucking the pooch here. Car names no longer instill boner raging masculinity. For fuck’s sake, there’s nothing sexier than a smoking hot blonde behind the wheel of a Mustang. Put that hot blonde behind the wheel of a Volarie and.. shit. Nevermind. Chances are that guys wouldn’t notice the car at all. So that’s just a shitty example.
Regardless of the calibre of hot blonde behind the wheel or on the hood, you’ll still be stuck with a car that sounds like a third grader’s super secret fort. It’s hard to narrow down the list of banana sandwich goofy car names. So, this list is pretty much a random assortment of marketing retardation. Sometimes there is a story behind a name. Other times it’s just made up bullshit.
1. Studebaker Dictator: – 1927-1937
It was a more simple time in the early 20th century. People played jacks, hop scotched.. shit with kicking cans or marbles. Whatever. I don’t really know. It was a barbaric age before iphones and internet porn. But, there was no excuse for phoning in the name for one of the earliest cars ever made. If anything, you want its name to rock harder than a metal band playing in the crater of an active volcano. Studebaker decided to go a different route. It was meant to refer to how they “dictated the standard” for automobiles. Instead, it sounded more like a car that was hell-bent on staying in power and eliminating its enemies.
2. Nissan Armada: 2004-Present
Obviously someone remembered a random word from their high school history class. I’m not sure if the name is supposed to conjure up images of something gigantic or impressive. Maybe it’s supposed to suggest it can fend off the British Navy while conquering territory. Come on, there are plenty of other words from school Nissan could have used instead of “Armada.” How about the Nissan Galleon? The Whaler? The Nissan Small Pox sounds catchy.
3. Ford Probe: 1989-1997
Quick! What comes to mind when you hear the word “probe?” Is it the worst performing car of 1997? Does a Mazda GD platform rip off stuck in 4 cylinder hell flash in your head?
Exactly, who thought this name was a good idea? Nothing about the word “probe” sounds enticing. Who said, “PROBE! That’s GREAT,” during a board meeting? That’s what we want in a car name. Who wouldn’t want to fork over some cash for a car with a name associated with some of the most horrific alien abduction stories known to man? Was the “Ford Rape” taken? Take advantage of society’s desensitization to porn and slap on a label with some gravitas. I would be proud to be the owner of a Ford Rim Job or a Ford Donkey Punch.
4. Toyota Sequoia: 2000-Present
Well, shit. No word in the English language embodies speed like the name of a big ass plant. Yeah, I get it. A sequoia is supposed to symbolize the hugeness that is this SUV. It also symbolized a gigantic immobile-fucking-object. Forget “lightning” or “cheetah.” Toyota is happy to compare their vehicles to a fucking tree.
5. Dodge Coronet: 1949-1976
This thing either sounds like a musical instrument you were stuck with in middle school, because all the saxophones were taken or a type of toilet paper.
The predecessor for the aircraft carrier sized Dodge Diplomat, the Coronet was Dodge’s first go at a post-war design. Some of its generations looked downright awesome.
But, as soon as you say “Yeah, this is my Dodge Coronet,” you’ve castrated yourself. There’s no good way to say it. Fucker might as well be called the Dodge “Small Dick Premature Ejaculation.” Any self-respecting guy would have ripped that name badge off with a screw driver and hammer.
6. Toyota Tacoma: 1996-Present
Toyota makes our list for a second time. Aside from the fact that the Tacoma is designed for the yup-fuck crowd who like to drive SUVs with the cargo section roof missing and pretend it’s a pick-up, it’s named for one of the shittiest holes in Washington. Nice going, Japan. You’ve forever associated this wannabe truck with gang violence and the putrid smell of one of the world’s chunk blowingest pulp plants.
7. Renault Le Car: 1972-1996
Those fucking French. “Le” has no business being in front of “car”. These fuckers weren’t even trying. OK, it was officially called the Renault 5. But, in Canada and the US, it was marketed as Le Car. What the fuck kind of effort went into this translation? Just because a bunch of cheese eating surrender monkeys dubbed it “The Car” in French doesn’t make it chic. The only thing more asinine is the fact that this piece of shit was one of the first super minis. This shit has no place in Canada. I saw one of these atrocities in Calgary when I was a kid. I bet the pretentious son-of-a-bitch that bought it thought he was on the cutting edge of the international car scene. I went back in the winter and saw that fucker completely buried under snow. Nice buy, dipshit. Way to keep the Albertan winter wonderland in mind while car shopping.
8. Toyota Yaris: 1999-Present
At this point in the list, I’m forced to assume that Toyota just doesn’t care. This poor bastard tried to get a straight answer from them. Essentially, as their marketing lore goes, the inspiration came from the Greek Goddess, Charis; a symbol of all that is beauty and elegance. Then, for reasons only known to their corporate marketing monkeys and Satan, they crammed Ya in front of the name to represent the German word for “Yes.” Yeah, that explanation is real. So, here you have a car which is almost obscenely a hatchback, the misspelling of a German word, and the Japanese pissing all over Ancient Greek traditions. I, for one, can’t wait for the Honda Pontius Pilate to roll out.
9. Chevy Avalanche: 2002-Present
I’m not sure likening a vehicle to a natural disaster is good for your image. In my experiences, people RUN AWAY from avalanches, not towards them. Is this Chevy’s ham fisted way of conveying the “surrounded with comfort” feeling. Is the comfort in the cabin of one of these yuppie trucks that jammed packed? Is the driver virtually smothered by mp3 ports, plush upholstery, and cup holders? Claustrophobia must be a big thing in the auto industry. But, how wise is it to cater to the small pro-smothering demographic? And will Chevy be tapping other niche demographics in the future? I’m sure their over paid marketing geniuses could crank out names that would appeal to tiny demos that are into anal fisting, water sports, or S&M. Damn it, the television ads practically write themselves! The 2011 Chevy Fister would definitely turn some heads.
10. Kia Soul: 2008-Present
Is this way Kia is trying to give the white man soul (Read: music)? Or, are they attempting to give us a four-wheel spiritual essence (Read: spirit)? I see a lot of things when I look at this car and none of them is “soul.” I wonder if this is, yet another, case of random words floating around the minds of the company’s marketers. Someone had to have watched a bit of Soul Train late the night before while contemplating suicide.
Why stop at soul? As with the other cars on this list, there are hundreds of random words a company can half- assedidly stamp on the back of a car. If we’re talking intangible things that relate to the human condition, how about the “Kia Conscious” or “Kia Hootzbaugh?” If ever you find that your soul is more connected with your car than with humanity, drive your mobile soul into the nearest body of water.
I know there are dozens more goofy, groin-grabbingly good examples of an auto manufacturer taking a marketing dump on its products. But, the more I think about the idiocy, the more aggravated I get. The Gremlin, The Judge, Pinto, this list is fucking endless. There’s only one way to derail this hate train.
Son-of-a-bitch! Another celebrity favorite of mine bit the dust. Gary Coleman was my personal Jesus. OK, he wasn’t. Still, I liked the dude. There’s something about a guy that can play a 10 year old at the tender age of 25. But, shit, he was more than Arnold Jackson, damn it! I think. I don’t know. Fuck it.
Just imagine being stuck at 4 foot nothing forever. Sucks doesn’t it? Damn right it does. Poor bastard couldn’t get a break. Not only was he type-cast as “perma-kid” he had to work with Conrad Bain. This guy has been 70 for over 40 years.
Stupid cracka, thinking he can solve the problems of the black man by adopting Arnold and Willis. I guess I have to step back for a second. Bain is from Lethbridge, Alberta. Alberta is pretty much the Norman Rockwell painting of good old fashioned whiteness. I should know. I friggin lived 300 miles north of that shit hole. You try growing up with your parents constantly comparing you with Conrad Bain.
Who else are they going to measure a kid against in Alberta? Fucking Nickleback? Those posers are from the province. That’s just embarrassing to type. God, how I fucking hate Nickleback. Thanks, assholes. Alberta will forever be synonymous with musical suck.
Indisputable, scientific proof that every Nickelback song is every other Nickelback song and the vast majority of their fans are dumber than a bag of hammers.
Where was I before my hatred for Conrad Bain and Lethbridge consumed me? Oh, yeah; Gary Coleman. It wasn’t bad enough that NBC painted him into the child actor corner. Oh, no. Those money whores at ABC made a carbon copy of Arnold Jackson. They followed this tried, but true television rip off formula:
- drop the older brother
- keep the lopsidedly white cast
- Keep the dead parents
- Lose the big sister
- Add an extra ultra-white rich parent
Move that shit to Chicago instead of New York City and viola! You have a heaping pile of Webster. That little bastard Emmanuel Lewis stormed in with his little feet and grabbed the little adopted black kid spotlight. The little clone even got a god-damned series of Burger King commercials. Where the fuck was Gary Coleman’s fast food ad campaign? Shit no! The writers shafted Gary and only gave him a pedophile for his troubles.
Few knew Gary Coleman, the politician, the Simpson’s guest star, the Tony award parody, and the Hannah Barbara cartoon character. Wait, forget that last one. Being in a Hannah Barbara cartoon is nothing to be proud of.
Here’s some food for thought. Coleman placed 8th in a that race out of 135 candidates. Fucking 8th!
Gary Coleman is more than a bad grammar ridden catch phrase.
His guest appearance on The Simpsons was ass-kickingly Oscar worthy!
Well, it’s better than anything a bloated Steven Seagal has done.
Sure, we could spend hours talking about his disorderly conduct charges, car wrecks, financial lawsuits and that little thing about punching a woman while he was a security guard.
Or, his appearance on Divorce Court
That’s not how we want to remember him, damn it! Well, chances are that his legal circus of horrors is what we will remember the most. No, fuck that. There has to be something out there we can celebrate Gary Coleman for other than court appearances, and a shitty 80’s sitcom.
Friends, I come to you as a prophet. Maybe I’m an oracle. No, what’s the word for a guy that shows his people the way and leads them to a better place? Moses? OK. Let’s just call it that.
Look around you. Right now! Do it! What do you see? I’ll tell you what you see. Chaos! Chaos everywhere! Look in your closet; that’s right. CHAOS! The world is in turmoil. Economies are collapsing. Governments are imploding. American Idol is in its 9th season. This shit is real! Even our country, the great Republic of the United States is feeling this global bitch slap. Fine, the US may or may not be the cause of some of it. We’re not here to point fingers. Well, except at China. I’m watching you. Damn panda loving sons-a-bitches.
Unemployment in the US is hovering around 81.29%. Health care literally doesn’t care. Politicians are dicks. [NOTE: the previous sentences may be fact, except that we made them up. Well, not the politician thing. They really are dicks- science has proven it (citation needed)]
Who can we trust? Everyone running for office has a personal agenda. Shit, Arlen Specter switched parties so he can get elected for another century.
[NOTE] We chose Arlen Specter, because the senate election going on in Pennsylvania makes us laugh. Don’t get us wrong. We’re no fans of Sestak or any of the other ham-fisted suckos running for office either. In fact, it’s a good bet that NO ONE at the FWTC would waste our vote for any of these ass clowns.
You have to give Specter a little lebensraum. Remember: Specter SWITCHED parties. He took his Republican jersey off and put on his Democrat jersey. Understand? Arlen didn’t. There’s a good chance he doesn’t know which party he’s with, today.
The midterm elections are cramming their rhetoric down your throat every time you turn on the TV. Candidate A is for children and air. Candidate B eats children, but loves puppies. It’s only going to get worse with the presidential election. Obama did or didn’t do what he said. His opponent will do whatever it is Obama hasn’t or won’t. Obama is too much like Bush or not enough. Blah blah blah blah blah! You can use any name you want, it’s the same crap handed down to us for generations. I blame Millard Filmore, but what do I know?
All we hear in every shuck and jive campaign ad is that we must move forward! Keep looking ahead, Mary and Bobby Gotsnojob! Today is the present. Don’t stay in the present. Look to the future! WRONG! We’ve been looking in the wrong direction for a good 100 years. Look to the past! The past is like an old pair of bedroom slippers; it’s warm, comfortable, you know it well. That’s right, the past will take all that worry away. I, Tresckow, am here to lead you to the past!
Tresckow’s drunk again. I hear you saying that in front of your monitors. NO! I am not drunk yet! I do have a bottle of Johnny Walker Red in the freezer, but that’s for a completely unrelated article. People! It doesn’t matter WHO we elect or don’t elect. It will always be the wrong person.
Let’s not forget the members of the “Last Name Club.” The club is famous for desperately holding onto their respective legacies, using them anyway they can to win another term, a first term, secure funds for their pet projects, and a metric shit ton of other things most of us can’t even fathom. Our last names aren’t even influential enough to get a pothole the size of a mortar crater filled before more kids fall into it, never to return
We are boned! Ask not for who the bone bones. It bones for thee. NO. We’re taking it back. Stand up and be counted. There is a man our nation can trust, implicitly. A man that has done it all. A giant of a man both in stature and intellect who has gone through wars and waged one as commander and chief, himself. A pillar of strength, a scholar, and ass kicker extraordinaire. While the rest of the country is stuck with their Bidens, Palins, and Clintons we’re going to be ahead of the curve! Who am I talking about? Was the title of this article too cryptic? Abraham-f’n-Lincoln!
Lincoln broke more constitutional amendments than any other president in history. Instead of being a wuss and keeping his infractions a secret, Abe smashed them to smithereens in plain view of the public! Talking smack about Abe in your newspaper? He’s going to shut that shit down and throw you in jail. Looking for your right to a speedy trial? Eat it! Abe doesn’t care for your… rights. Lincoln is here to get shit done and he doesn’t care whose girly toes he steps on!
With Lincoln there would be no controversy at Gitmo. He would roll up his sleeves and waterboard enemies of the state personally on friggin pay-per-view! Define “enemies of the state?” Anyone who happens to piss him off that day. And we’ll thank him for it.
There’s no guesswork. We already know how great Lincoln is. He kicked some Confederate ass and dropped the Emancipation Proclamation like an anvil on Wiley Coyote’s head. He had a file folder as thick as a New York City phone book filled with death threats. Lincoln wasn’t phased. Know what he said?
You wanna go, shit sack? Bring it.
Look at the guy he picked as his Vice President. No, not that moonshine drunk, Andrew Johnson. I’m talking about Hannibal Hamlin. We don’t know jack about him, nor did he really do anything memorable. But, his name kicks as much ass as Chuck Norris in a room full of uranium!
Immigration problem? Lincoln would personally stand on the US-Mexico border with his arms crossed. The drug cartels would get a poop chute full of Abe’s size 16. What are they going to do? Kill him again? That’s right. He’s undead. I should have mentioned that.
Hey, Iran and North Korea! You gotta problem? Tsk, tsk; it looks like someone is playing with nuclear weapons after they agreed not to. Lincoln wouldn’t stand for that shit. After challenging and winning a wrestling match with Ahmadinejad, he’ll ball tag Kim Jong with a railroad spike. Just when you think it’s over, he’ll go to New York and, personally, pimp slap the entire UN for being a bunch of weak willed panty-waists.
Look, with every round of elections getting more and more like a kick in the junk, isn’t it time we vote for someone we already know is a winner? Come on, he won two terms already! There’s nothing in the constitution about a dead man getting re-elected for a third term. Read it. I defy you to find a mention of it ANYWHERE.
It’s time for a change by completely reverting back to the past. We can’t lose! He already has his own memorial and an ass load of schools, libraries, and music houses named after him. Abe is incorruptible. He won’t cater to big business. As soon as the royalties from all those pennies and 5 dollar bills start rolling in, Mr. Abe-tastic will be the richest man in the world. Bill Gates? Eat it!
Mark it on your calendar. FWTC is officially endorsing Abraham Lincoln for the 2012 presidential election. That’s right, we took a side. We’re talking an all out campaign here. You want in?