Painting A Pretty Portrait

       Rob's mom visited the living space of Rob, also known as her basement.  "What are you doing there, son?"
     "Painting a pretty portrait."
     "Really?  And who is the portrait of?"
     "God!"
     "Oh my, that is quite a task I must say.  Good to finally see you setting goals."
     "I know it's hard but somebody's got to do it or we're all gonna die."
     "Never thought of it that way, but Rob honey, isn't that a mirror you're using for God's portrait?"
     "I know.  I want God to look like me."
     "That's fine, honey, but do you really think God has a zit right there?"
     "Yes!  And if I get another fucking zit, God's getting one too! Oh, hey - can you hand me that candy bar there?"
     "Oh Rob, you know better than this!  Why do you have to paint a picture of God that looks just like you?"
     "Because it suits me!  I'm not stupid, OK?  I'm not going to paint a God that hates me.  Jesus, Mom, what kind of idiot loser does that?"
     "Well, I just don't understand how you can be so sure God is just like you."
    "I got laid, didn't I?  How much more proof do I need God loves me?"
     "But that's like saying everyone should paint God in their own likeness!"
     "If they have a brain in their head they will."
     "But what if the objective truth is God is nothing like you at all?"
     "There's no such thing as objective truth!  Grow up, Mom, will you please?  I don't do pie-in-the-sky, made-up philosophy - I do what makes me feel good.  You should too!  What do you want me to do?  Feel bad??"
     "Of course not, dear, I want to you to feel only wonderful things! But it strikes me that anyone who paints God in his own image is a fucking moron and setting himself up for an irrevocable disaster.  I know if I were God I'd think you were a self-serving loser punk without a future - and the price of that would be to lose all your nooky!"
     "Shut up, Mom!  You're a traitor!  You're trying to get me killed!  Don't listen to her, God, she's just making things up to suit herself!"
     "Rob, dear boy, I can't save you from yourself.  If you want to see the true traitor, look in the mirror."
     Rob's mother left the room, leaving Rob vexed and outraged by her betrayal.  With arms crossed and lips pouted, he sulked and stared into the mirror.  Until suddenly, a smile came across his face.  "Oh, I get it!  God is the traitor!"
Epilogue: Rob died and went to Heaven only to find God was a large black woman with no teeth. Rob was appalled. "You're not God! God hates black people! You're not anything at all like me. Get me outta here!" "Suit yourself," replied God, who pulled the lever to oblige him downwards. And thus poor Rob - self-serving to the end - disinherited himself.

Rob's mom:


-----------------------------------------------
DVD extras!!!
The Critics Rave!:
Peter Travers, Rolling Stone: "I'm a media whore! I loved it!"
Kurosawa: "It's the new Rashomon!"
Godard: "I liked it but it needed more pretension and an uninterrupted 15 minute tracking shot of a traffic jam."
Fellini: "Films are recorded dreams.  He dreams well but does not live well."
PRODUCTION NOTES:
The producer states this film was inspired by an Open Salon comment made to him. "This guy tells me that if I tell him not to meddle in my life, then that is meddling in his life! I'd never heard of anything so convoluted and self-serving before. So I decided to get in this guy's head and see where it led me: to his mother's basement. I mean, come on, how does someone like that expect to have a future in reality? Also, it was a classic example of the Peter Principle."
The following is an exclusive interview with the director, the esteemed Mr. Harry Homeless:
"Tell me, sir, how does it feel to be officially named an auteur?"
"It's fucking awesome, dude! About time you buttmunches recognized my greatness. Michael Phelps is coming over later for a bong party to celebrate."
"Did you have many problems getting your fellow homeless colleagues agreeing to cooperate in this venture?"
"Oh, fuck no. It's that or stay in a cardboard box all day. What would you do?"
"Indeed. Also, in your previous twenty-four films, those too had the setting of a basement. Is there some reason behind this or does the breath of genius simply guide you there each time?"
"I'm fucking homeless, you moron! What am I gonna do, rent out Paramount?"
"Can you tell us about any of your upcoming releases?"
"I dunno. I'll probably whack off again before the end of the day. Why do you care?"
"I was thinking more along the lines of a film release."
"Dude, I'm not gonna film that! Unless...you think I'd make money off it?"
"Let me put it this way, are you making any more films?"
"Fucking A, I am! I got this idea about a homeless guy, see, who shits in a park, and then flies land it. I'm thinking people are really gonna eat that up."
"Truly, you are an auteur, sir, a visionary. I thank you for this most illuminating interview and wish you all the luck on your upcoming film."
"No problem, man. Oh hey, in the sequel, the dude shits indoors. Blockbuster, baby!"

Neo Blade Runner: Republicant Hunter

Molten lava monster comes dripping down the road, leaving potholes of steam and footprints of disaster. His bowler hat was flaming, his bulging eyes were aiming, and his burning lips were blaming. With snarling flame he greeted a passerby.
"Well," blushed the passing woman, "Hello, Mr. Mayor."
And then he ate her.
--------------------------------------
"That's the problem with Republicants: they look like humans, but they aren't. Republicants can act like a human and actually hold down human jobs. Hell, some don't even know they're not human. Those are the scariest. Laughing, crying, singing along with the rest of us - if you're not careful you might forget they're not human too. Until they take over your society and you're left with nothing but ruins and tales of a once glorious past."


"I'm a Neo Blade Runner, hunting down Republicants, shining a light on them - then watching them hiss and scurry like guilty cockroaches. Republicants hate the light - just like they hate the humans. In order to imitate the humans, Republicants must carry a piece of humanity within them to carry out the deception. But the Humanity Piece tortures them, weighs on them and remains in constant warfare for the duration of the Republicant's life. When they speak of an 'enemy that must be crushed', rest assured, it's an enemy within."


"The most important thing for Republicant infiltration, obviously, is not be seen for what they are. They must demonstrate themselves as caretakers and saviors of a society. The best time for infiltration is when good things start going bad. And, boy, have things been going bad lately. Like the bugs they are, Republicants come crawling out of the woodwork with promises to make it all good again - with one simple catch: make the Republicant king. But once a King Unit takes hold, wholesale devestation follows."


"Not all Republicants actively penetrate, some merely follow in the miners' footsteps. Like support beams in a mine shaft, they shore up inroads already burrowed. It sounds like mindless work because it is. These units are Disconnects, having disconnected the brain mechanism from receiving messages of reality. King Units love the Disconnects for their blind obedience and cheerful ignorance. They mockingly call them 'useful' for their gleeful willingness to sacrifice their - and everyone else's - welfare for the greater good of Republicants - not that there is any greater good. Of course, these units are only gleeful of their demise because of the disconnected brain."


"On the surface, it may seem difficult to spot a Republicant from a human - especially since they have the Human Piece to avoid being exposed as the parasites they are. But really it's just a matter of looking. Republicants don't have feelings - so they are silent when others suffer and loud when quiet is solemn. When a Republicant leaves a room, the room is always angrier than when he entered. You see, no matter how hard they try, they just can't quite master the human touch. Instead, they leave a grating, searing mark on the human souls they encounter. That's when Republicants turn around and slyly whisper: 'Don't you feel stupid for being human? It's smarter to be like we are.'"

--------------------------------------
The angel calls the demon a "demon" because that's what the demon is. The demon calls the angel a "demon" - because that's what the demon is. The words are the same. It's up to you to decide who's lying.

Paddling The Jobless

"The truth should never be taken for an insult." - Asian proverb
-------------------------------------------------

"Keep you doped with religion and sex and TV,"
"And you think you're so clever and classless and free,"
"But you're still fucking slaves as far as I can see."- John Lennon, Working Class Hero

The line into the detention center snaked for miles.

"Get them in here - get them in here now! That's right you worthless worms, feel the sting of my righteous paddle! I'm going to tan your little hineys and you're going to like it! Do you understand?"

"Yes, sir! Thank you, sir!"

"Do you know what I am? I'm rich! That means I matter and you unemployed eunuchs do not! Tell me what it is you contribute, sponging off the hard work of others, breathing your unearned air - you're totally useless! You losers are fucking things up for everyone else!"

"Yes, sir! We know, sir!"

"Excellent, do as I the rich man say or you'll never amount to anything! You there - the cute one! I shall spank you first and excite my little weenie! Now bare your buttocks!"


"Oh, that was most satisfying! I hope you learned my lesson, young lady! Who's next? I want to find a really big loser...ah, the father with four children - excellent! You shall answer my questions as you assume the most submissive of positions! First, tell me why you're shit!"

"I have no job, sir!"

"And that means you don't deserve to eat, right?"

"Yes, sir!"

"And your expendable offspring deserve no food, either. Right?"

"That is correct, sir!"

"Exactly! And none of your feculent family deserves to live indoors!"

"Not a one, sir! They all depend on me, sir!"

"And who are you?"

"I'm a worthless soul, sir! Thank you for belittling me!"

"Oh, how my avarice loves to hear that! Did you not see the Good People toiling at two and three jobs on your way here? They work from sunup to sundown with never a hope to their future or their health. They will die with nothing because I was meant to have everything. These are what I call Good Citizens. Don't you wish you could be them - or better yet, me?"


"Yes, sir, I want to be you, sir. My life has no meaning if yours has no meaning, sir!"

"Excellent answer! At least you and your miserable lot will die right. Now get out to the street where you belong!"

"Thank you for letting me die, sir!"

Outside, eager investigative reporters (eager to keep their jobs, that is) swarmed onto those thrown into the cold, wintry weather. A breathless girl with camera in tow tackled the ejected father with four children.

"Sir, sir! Are you angry that you live on the street now?"

"Oh, yes, we're angry! Damn right, we're angry! I'm fucking angry!"

"Well, what do you plan to do about it?"

"Die, like a good citizen should. Please understand, we don't want to change anything! That would be selfish and self-serving of us to ask that and me and my daughters is good people, you can count on that! We'll always have my pride." His dirty-faced children nodded in defiant agreement.

"But, sir, we really need a scandal if we're going to sell papers. Isn't the rich man who victimized you the source of all our problems?"

"Oh, hell no! I'd do the same thing too if I could, yes ma'am I surely would."

"But he forced you to bend over and be paddled!"

"Whadda you mean, "forced"? We all volunteered for that so we could show how much we want to keep everything just like it is now! It's OK if we all die just so long as people think good things about us."

With that, the reporter turned to the camera with a deadpan look and spoke in a matter-of-fact voice. "Well, there you have it, folks. We're fucked."

-------------------------------------------------

"We must learn to live together as brothers or we will certainly die together as fools."
-Martin Luther King

Being Saved Means [War Criminals] Never Have To Say They're Sorry

All alone
At the end of the night,
Twisted dreams
Fade into fright...

He sits in a castle-prison, the strings of power ripped from his clutching hands, his day in the sun passed. The Thousand Year Reich failed yet again to materialize for a madman's dashed hopes, leaving a trail of destruction for his time and times to come. But the ghosts of evening come calling now and no army can he summon to fight this terror. The ghosts of Soldiers Past and Families Present and Babies Future wail into his ears from a place no press release can reach. How shattering to realize he's back where it all began: the drunkard's dilemma - both hating himself and failing himself.

And so he grabs the musty, stale crutch out of his closet and voicelessly slumps into the cripple's pose. No longer can the daylight vampire feed upon the lives of others, laughing as he watched unsuspecting villagers drink from the well he poisoned in the night. He'd been their leader and god to hold above all criticism and like needy children, they could not bear the thought of their god destroyed. He knew this and loathed their patheticness as he loathed his own. "I poison you and you worms revere me. Pardon me while I smirk as you die!" But such joyous times are gone now with the wind.

Looking back, it's all to obvious a disaster. The little boy blowing frogs to bits with firecrackers was a soul destined never to be loved. Love became his enemy and he raged enviously on the sidelines of life as gods flowered while he decayed. There would be many drugs in this boy's life but none would surpass approval. As failures mounted, his suburban nightmare engulfed him in choking despair, invariably cutting him off from approval's relief. His abuse incarnated with drink and drugs, lost in the vague hazy hope of drowning his sorrows and drowning himself.

"One of the heads of the beast seemed to have a fatal wound,
but the fatal wound had been healed.
The whole world was astonished and followed the beast." - Revelation 13:3
Vultures spotted this prize specimen of rancid soul though, and licked their beaks at the thought of finding one so dumb, a Loser Who Would Believe Anything. They would parade him around in silver boots and fancy lies, knowing this illusion many would buy. Preachers of profit proposed to save him from his living hell with secret rituals that promised a lifetime of undeserved praise and worldly reward. "You're saved now!" officially proclaimed the ordained witches. "In God's eyes you are holy. No longer must you worry about right and wrong." Nor did he.


At the height of the Mayan empire, the emperor would engage in ritualistic masochism in order to divine a vision for the path the empire should follow. The answer was always the same: war. As the Loser gained confidence in his treachery, war lust besieged him also. War legalized the rape and pillage his burning heart desired. Innocents would be slaughtered and lives ripped to pieces - just as he'd done to his - and a populace of Popes would cheer the beast of war with three of every four.

For a short, glorious time, the nightmare dream came true. The Competent Man was the new bad guy - he's not one of the people! Lying was good for the country and only its enemies spoke truth. Cowards were heroes, saving themselves while ordering the deaths of true heroes. He'd made the world a perfect place for such as he and his ilk - he'd made the world his frog.


But those times are never to return. Secretly he was crushed to return to his smelly old crutch but he knew with every fiber of his being that never again must he face a sober moment. The unthinkablity of having been wrong along, of being a butcher and not a savior, that his future lay not in heaven but in hell - these thoughts made his old crutch of emotional drunkenness palatable. The final days for the [anti-Christ 43rd President] will be in his prison of denied conscience, trapped by worldly goods in a snake pit of poisonous lies slithering across his body and biting his writhing flesh, too scared to ever leave, too scared to ever breathe - his death to be not grieved.

Homeless Tip #82: Finding Cash

I read this story and puked:

MOUNT COMFORT, Ind. – Three state highway workers cleaning up litter picked up an abandoned tire — and found about $100,000 inside.

Indiana state police suspect the cash, in denominations of $5 to $100, — may be drug money. State Police spokesman Mike Burns says a drug-sniffing dog found the scent of drugs on the bills.

Police said the workers found the tire Friday in a ditch along Interstate 70 just east of Indianapolis.

Police say the tire appeared to be from a large truck. It isn't clear how long it was in the ditch.

Detective Sgt. Keith O'Donnell commended the workers for their "honesty and professionalism" in contacting police.

-----------------------------

OK, folks, let me clue you in when you find money in a tire: don't fucking report it! First off, any money you turn in will turn up "positive" for drugs, that's an old police trick for confiscating cash. The cop congratulates the guys for being naive morons so others will fall for the same trick.

Another tip is if it's a bank bag you happen to find, be sure to cut off all the bands because those can be used to legally identify the money. Also be sure to go through all the cash to check for transponders and then move the money to your own bag.

Laundering is difficult because large cash purchases are reported and the old standbys of casinos and other high cash volume places are tight as a drum now. Best to make systematic deposits as if they were paychecks (this is illegal, btw) and make everything look routine.

The usual caveat applies if you think the money belongs to a single (non-criminal) person: give it back or you'll hate yourself for the rest of your life.

P.S. Yes, I've given a lot of thought to finding money - my life has purpose.

Ware Tada Shiru Taru (A Zen Proverb)

She was genuinely enthused and excited by what she read. "I've read your words and they are amazing. You're obviously extremely intelligent and have a unique perspective. I think it would be a grand thing to share these with everyone. You need to go out and get these published!"

"No," he groaned, hoping that would be the end of it.

"Why not?" she relentless pressed. "Don't sell yourself short -"

"Can't you understand? I don't want to." Pain swept across his face.

"I don't care if you want to or not! It's what you should do. It could change your life. Maybe you should open up and listen to someone for a change. You haven't been doing so hot, you know. You don't know everything!"

"I know what I want. I'm not here to publish writing."

"But you're so good at it! How can you say such a thing?

Pain - pain that dogged his heels year after year - sought him out like no other. Any soul of happenstance felt free to state what was best for him! Starved for attention, he allowed the meddling to happen but the pain, the pain it brought - the pain of continual explanation, the pain of no adequate answer, the pain of the break it always forced.

"Look, lady, just fuck off, OK?"

She stabbed him with verbal knives as she departed. She who professed to only want to help, to make the world a better place fixing one person at a time. Vincent writhed under her words as she departed for he had no protection. He had to stay true to what made him feel alive while imprisoned on a planet of the worldly and their "practical" ways, where only he could see what he saw and to whom no one could he justify his life. All life was an act of faith for Vincent.

Van Gogh's letters were indeed published one day - but only because of his true art. Ware Tada Shiru Taru is a Zen proverb I translate as "I alone know what I am content with". As a fellow fan of the Japans and its culture, I hope Vincent would approve of my applying it to him - and I ask all others to remember it to apply it to me also. Wakarimas ka? Domo!

Top Ten Homeless Pick Up Lines

How come no one ever thinks of a homeless guy with a boner? Oftentimes I like to saddle up next to a hott honey on the sidewalk and whisper these sweet nothings in her ear.


10. Hey, lady, your alley or mine?
9. Bet you've never seen anyone who can burp like I can! (demonstrate)
8. Can I at least have sex with your car?


7. Ever wanna do it in a cardboard box?
6. I know the BEST public restrooms!
5. Yuppies make me horny!


4. I've lived indoors before, oh yeah.
3. You know, I could be a secret millionaire...
2. Showering - it's way overrated.
1. Hey, baby, I'm ready to pop. You wouldn't believe the last time I came!

The Peter Principle (Or Why You're A Fucking Moron)

There's a funny tragic thing about the truth - you can tell it and it still won't always be known. This is because people believe what they wish. Once you learn the self-serving nature of people you can then manipulate them into doing what you want. And the bad news about that is only an asshole would want to do that, ergo our self-serving nature allows us to be manipulated by assholes. One example is America of 2000-2008 - an era which now speaks for itself.

The world lives in a state of cognitive dissonance. These two statements are ones I hear over and over: "Most people are basically good and decent" followed by "The world is going to hell!" If we were to use the logic of the great Lewis Carroll, we could then deduce the world is going to hell because it's full of good and decent people. So clearly, either it's a fact that being good and decent has no bearing on our planet's fate or it's a fact we are not good and decent after all. One thing is for sure, cognitive dissonance is ultimately a temporary state but it allows an untruth to seem as a truth until that time.

Suppose only men with a 12 inch dick could have sex and I told everyone that's exactly what I have. The shorter males would be furious at the fact they are barred from women and would attempt to discredit me. In an attempt to discredit their claims, I would then make my proof visible for all to see, yet it has no effect. "I don't care what he's got, I'm not going to believe it." Why? Because believing the truth makes them feel inadequate, that they have no future and they'd be forever unable to like themselves. So we disconnect and set up alternate belief systems in a hopeless effort to feel good.

That is what I call the Peter Principle.

Evil, evil Peter!
Soon, you get a whole gang of like-minded short dicks (Peters) together - dicks with an insatiable desire to be believed - who scream so loudly to be heard they won't stop until their point-of-view is made mainstream. The Peters claim injury and prejudice when the simple truth is spoken and outside false moralists chide us not to hurt the feelings of Peters. Again, I go to the era of America of 2000-2008, when we believed we had to believe in our President Evil, regardless of reality. To believe otherwise simply didn't make us feel good! We were a nation of Peters. This kind of thought process gives rise to the what is called the Big Lie - used by the both the American President of that era and the Germanic/Jewish madman of the 30s who wrote this description of it:

"All this was inspired by the principle - which is quite true in itself - that in the Big Lie there is always a certain force of credibility; because the broad masses of a nation are always more easily corrupted in the deeper strata of their emotional nature than consciously or voluntarily; and thus in the primitive simplicity of their minds they more readily fall victims to the Big Lie than the small lie, since they themselves often tell small lies in little matters but would be ashamed to resort to large-scale falsehoods. It would never come into their heads to fabricate colossal untruths, and they would not believe that others could have the impudence to distort the truth so infamously. Even though the facts which prove this to be so may be brought clearly to their minds, they will still doubt and waver and will continue to think that there may be some other explanation. For the grossly impudent lie always leaves traces behind it, even after it has been nailed down, a fact which is known to all expert liars in this world and to all who conspire together in the art of lying."

How funny the author knew he could share this gem of knowledge with his victims and fear no recourse! So what are we to do with all the Peters of the world? Does it make you feel good to think greed is good? Does it make you feel good to think we won't have to pay for our war crimes? Does it make you feel good to think we have a future with pollution? All I can say is, sally forth Peters of the world! You sealed your fate when you disconnected from reality.

P.S. One final bitter irony: Truth was, anyone could have had a 12 inch dick, they needed only to ask - and that would have made them feel good.

How To Be An Othello Bastard!

Gather 'round kiddos and I'lls tell ya how life was on interent back in my day! Ah, how I miss the beeps of my 56k modem and flashing LEDs...but I digress. Back in the day we had what was called The Zone where you could do all sorts of gaming (it's still there but MSN has trashed it) and my favorite game was Othello, or as they called it "Reversi". Folks from all over the world would come: from the Japans and England and even the old Soveit bloc. Wild times that! And that's how I met some of the mostest bestest players in the world!

Now, I ain't no master at the game but I's sure is an expertise, yessur! So I learned me lots playing against them world class players and they taught me a trick or two. I heard a man say once that wars on the outside came from our wars on the inside, that the whole world was just us pushing our own little world on other folks. I reckon that's so cuz there ain't nothin' I enjoy more than giving folks false hope in a game - and then crushing it! Does a soul good.

Othello is a real simple board game with two sided discs of black and white. Whoever got the most of his color at the end, wins! Game starts like this:

Black puts a piece at say, C4, which traps the white piece between what he puts down and what's already there and boom, that white becomes his and it turns to black, leaving just one whitey on the board. Then white does the same to him and so on till the whole board gets full. To learn more, clicks here. What a lot of folks don't know is strategy stuff. You don't want lots of your own color to starts with. Take very few and what happens is your enemy won't have no moves left but what you give him. Looky here:


White has done won that game! You can't flip no piece once it gets in the corner. Here's what da computer say the end will be:


Funny, huh? But only a dum ol' newbie would get in a position like black did there. You wants someone who got at least some idear how to play - so they can feel it when ya crush them! The three best moves to do that with is: the Stoner, Boscov Maneuver and what I calls a Two-Step Wedge which is waaay sneaky. Here's how ya trick 'em. Like I said, them corners can be real important but guess what? We's gonna give 'em one! I can almost feel their eyes lightin' up on the other end of that computer. But it's sort of like takin' bait from a bear trap.

Here's a stoner, we is black:


White says woohoo! I can gets the corner. He moves to F4 and takes our black guys but then we does this:


Yup, white still gets his corner but I done get a better one! If he tries to stop me by movin' at A7 why then I gets both corners! Funny how the game always stops when I do this and they starts scratching their heads. Some folks just plain up and leave! Here's how that Stoner game ends up:


Yup, whitey got his corner - but not much else! Sucker!!!!

Boscov is a pretty rare thing, fer sure. It works because wedges is real powerful in Othello: this right here is suicide for black:


White can wedge in at A5, take both corners and win easy like. Any average player knows that and would never play that, but here's where you gets to use psycher-ology on them again. We takes what looks like a wedge only to get them all frustrated like cuz they can't get in there!


They never think you gonna leave a gap like that on the edge cuz they don't stops to think can they get in there! Black wipes 'em out easy from this point. But my fave-oh-rite play is the Two-Step Wedge. It's tricky but I'll splain best I can. Here's what looks like a crazy play for white cuz they just moved at G7 and white can't do no stoner cuz ain't no black piece next to it.


But then I does this at H6 - but black still think he got me most times!


BFD says black but then I's wedges in like this after he takes the corner, which is step one of the wedge:



Black is still prolly laffin and callin' me dumb ass and shit cuz he think he got easy win - till I does step two at H3!


Black is screwed now boy! He can't stop me from takin' the whole side and the corner too! They usually stares at this a bit afore they realize what all happened. They ALWAYS think I just luck into it. This how games ends with perfect play on both sides, a 35-29 win for white:


They most always storms off and leaves when I does a trick play on them. Boy, how I love it! There's a couple other tricks I got on openings and such but they lots harder to show. Heck, most people prolly not get what I show already!

My Innovation: The Dickhead Detector

"Insert rectally"
Barney Frank said the reason he didn't vote for Iraq war was because he "knew they were lying." Simple as that. But so few others did. Why is that? Why did we put the first great anti-Christ of the 21st century into office - twice? Certainly not because we are a nation of integrity! Even now many are deceived as to the true nature of the Sith Lord President who appears bumbling and benign, and who, doggonit, just happened to keep getting bad advice. Even our incoming President said he "always thought [the anti-Christ 43rd President] was a good guy. I mean, I think personally he is a good man who loves his family and loves his country." Clearly, we are at a crisis point in this country and letting dickheads roam free can no longer be tolerated. It literally gives them a license to kill.

But I have a solution to all that: the Dickhead Detector!

Dickhead detection is vital to the future of this country. Not just in government but in all phases of life. Test that mechanic before handing over your car. Or, "Oh my God, my girlfriend tested 78% Sarah Palin! No wonder she wanted to shoot my pets!" Or even test potential employers - all the dickhead managers will be fired because no one will work for them (but, hey, I hear Lexus is a great place to work!). The possibilities are endless (feel free to share your own ideas) and trust me, I wouldn't be sharing this with you were I not already the patent holder. Yup, won't be long before I knock Bill Gates off that Forbes 400 list.

The further right the indicator, the more severe action required
"Dickheadedness" is a condition caused by a stiff neck, a closed mind and a detachment from reality. I have found a way to measure this condition because certainly not all dickheads are deformed alike. The categories are as follows:

Dickhead (typical moron, think Joe the Plumber)
Conservative (those who make their dickheadedness policy)
War Profiteer (Those who kill for their dickheadedness)
GWB (Those who order others to kill for their dickheadedness)


For those convicted of chronic dickheadedness, we would send to "Love camps" where they would have nightly sing-alongs, holding hands around campfires followed by extended tree hugging. "Be one with the tree! Let nature flow through you!" Many courses would be offered such as "Life after greed", "Sharing 101" and "Why Jesus hates dickheads". Much time would also be spent on sending individual notes of apology to all those they wronged. (Yes, for some that's a life sentence.) Those who reform will graduate with a flower ceremony, dressed in tie-died shirts and rose petals in their hair. For most, it will be the highpoint of their life.

The payoffs would be enormous! Imagine a return to civil discourse! Imagine trust no longer made a liability. Imagine a brotherhood of man with no cretins to poison the well. Imagine everything! The shackles of injustice removed, a society made of dreams and the healing of our planet all made possible. It would be an explosion of life and art never seen before. So let's get rid of the dickheads. Get rid of the dickheads now!

The Moral Despair

Marrying women
Do always love their marriage -
Sometimes their husbands.
Her mansion was no mere house but the Museum of Perfection, a fortress of imagery in the material world. Here, cleanliness was not next to God, it was God. Her roving eye forever sought the sin of any blemish and mercilessly eradicated it. In her mind specs of dust were as roaches and a misplaced item brought the chaos of hell. Her abode was a place of worship, a place to worship. She liked to call it the House of Inarguable Success. Its official motto: Life is what you make it.

Once satisfied all was in order, she'd have her fix. It was wrong - she knew it was wrong - but how wrong was it really? What did it matter to the world if she indulged herself in little moments like these? Melting into the couch, she dreamed once more of days of old, the Homecoming Queen admired by all. She had Dreams back then, beautiful dreams everyone admired. She was the cheerleader no one hated. Her jury of peers called her perfect without envy. Yes, I still am that person. Everyone loves Debby. And her eyes shut as she continued to mainline thoughts of perfection.

I want to be perfect. The foe of Languishing Doubts came to do battle but she was so perfect she let them win. Her nemesis, the Party Girl - fearlessly doing what she wanted - came mocking her inadequacies. She saw pictures of them kissing on stage, topless and without shame. How can anyone do that? She'd forsaken her own desires while heroes lived out theirs. Debby was such a liar, a bad girl! She craved to be the humiliated slut in a Steven Seagal movie. Be a man! Tell me I'm shit! She climaxed her thoughts with an orgasm of secret truth.


The real hell started when her nose fell off. It was during her morning makeup one day when boom! her nose fell right to the floor. Panicked and horrified, her trembling hands put it back in place but it would never be the same again. "If this shows, I'm dead. Everyone will see I'm falling apart." And her fraud life would be exposed (as if she could prevent that!). But the problem did not go away. Her thin head kept gradually swelling and swelling with no way to stop it. She never got over the inner shudder she felt when the little boy at the supermarket called her "Pumpkinhead!"

It's a little secret, just the Robinsons' affair.
Most of all you've got to hide it from the kids.
Miles away at the corporate headquarters of National Bank, Steve was mired in a meeting, his soul crying for escape. How much longer can I keep this up? His weighted soul had a dirty secret but one he must take to his grave. Yes, he knew he could be a banker and yes he knew he could make a fortune at it. What he never confessed was that he couldn't do it forever. Sooner or later it would drive him out of his mind to prostitute his imagination for dry numbers and dead figures. But promises were made and with a family at stake, there was no backing out now. Stomach pains caused him to shift in his chair...

Debby too wondered how long she could keep it up, waking from a daymare, her jaw sore from the clenching. He was back. The Boy With Fiery Dreams invaded her own dreams in irrepressible fashion. His words were always the same: "My dreams died because you lied." No! That can't be! You're making it up! You don't need me! Ages ago, a couple years after she married, she met the Fiery Boy and she was his fantasy. Meeting her, he said, changed his life forever. He'd waited his whole life to meet her. He knew her dreams of life without her ever speaking them. She blushed with a smile and covered her face when he told her he loved her - but she stayed true to her savior: silence.


Golden silence! - the one ring to bind them, the one ring to rule them all. If you just keep quiet, complain about only the insignificant or things outside your control, the illusion begets reality. She couldn't do anything real for herself now anyway, not with the kids. No way could she face the guilt of abandoning her motherly duties. Out of my hands! she replied to the voice of Boy With Fiery Dreams. Nothing comes between me and my children! fumed Debby in moral outrage.

Defiantly, she went to the mirror to adjust her nose. Not so bad after all. But terror struck again when she brushed back her hair. "My ear is loose!" She crumpled into a ball of shame and tears. "It never stops! It never stops! They'll call me a freak." To Debby, no worse fate existed. Broken, hysterical with fear, she repented. She said Yes to the Boy With Fiery Dreams - only he wasn't there to hear.

See the gods in their sunglasses,
For with their sex they are so classless.
She'd stripped herself of her choices, jailed by her silence. What to do now, now that it's too late? The catatonic creature that was Debby knew not. Slowly, she picked herself off the floor, her hand gripping a table of family photos. A thought struck her and Debby seized her latest portrait. Has it changed? Do they know? She examined her smile from all angles and to her great relief found it quite convincing. Maybe there's hope after all...

Coda: Years later, after endlessly keeping on "keeping on", the oldest child of Steve and Debby committed suicide. After the shock and the outrage passed, everyone asked why because they already knew. The boy believed he could never match the perfection of his parents' lies and thus they would never love him. In the note that ended the unbearable pain, he said he knew he was Unacceptable - and that he feared the reaper.

"God damn, life is hard."

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His Immoral Affair

"Some people never come clean,
"I think you know what I mean."
- Eagles, "Victim of love"

"What's the matter, Steve, afraid to take what you want?"


In reality, her clothes never violated the bank's very proper dress code and yet every stitch still steamed with sexiness. As she leaned across his desk to pick up a pen she conveniently forgot to bring in, her soft, luscious hair and intoxicating perfume were an irresistible feast for his senses. He was back in school again secretly watching cheerleader practice - only this time the cheerleader noticed him.

"Oh, no," Steve protested. "I know which project I want to take. I mean I can start right away on redesigning the risk algorithm. No one else will want to take that on but I will."

The vibrant beauty congratulated him. "You're a smart boy, Steve. You know what Marilyn Monroe said about Einstein don't you?"

"No, what!?" panted Steve.

"There's nothing sexier than intelligence."

"Really?" Steve adjusted his collar as the room temperature went up another ten degrees. "I always thought girls like that just wanted football players, or guys like that."

"She wasn't a girl, Steve. She was a woman."

"Yes," he agreed. "Yes, she was." And then Steve wondered if he deserved a woman.

His wife was no woman, that much he knew. She'd been called the "good girl" all her life; mocked for it as a child, praised for it by dying adults. He wanted so much more but that was the story of his life: not to lose everything by doing what he wanted. This struggle against the forces of nature left him with a growing pride for his will. So often voices had called him away to lead him away to a different path. He never forgot his skipped youthful rendezvous with the dreamily pretty Sherri so he wouldn't miss handbell practice for church. He still wondered of her.

But a little voice told him his time had come. He found himself excited but with no explanation for it. His sleeping wife - who kept her private thoughts private - was certainly not one to share his newfound joy. If only he had a good buddy he could tell anything to. Wait a minute, wasn't that what Father Tim was supposed to be? Nah, he'd never understand this - and probably wouldn't approve anyway. No, there was only one person he could share this joy with: her.

Feeling like he was starring in a second rate melodrama on the Lifetime channel, Steve paid cash at the hotel front desk and carried in his fake baggage. The surreal trip up the elevator and down the hallway was forever etched in his mind. Two businessman rode on the elevator with him and Steve recognized himself in their demeanor - and thought them losers. They were stuck here doing dreary business - he was the one doing life. The role reversal was delicious after so many aching years spent watching enviously on the sidelines. Now Steve was the bold soul saying, "What the fuck!"


The winner walked into the hotel room where history was to be made. Never before had he done anything without an eye to increasing his moral standing - and never before had he felt as good about what he was doing. Torturous childhood insecurities would finally be laid to rest. Steve didn't know what, but there was something on the horizon - something good and full of light - waiting for him. Was this fantasy for real?

His answer came with a knock on the door and heaven walked into the room. She was smiling and her glow of life radiated onto the generic hotel furniture. Everything she did sparkled. Every graceful moment of removing her clothes to the way her body spoke to him in perfect pleasure thrilled Steve as he'd never been before - and she knew it. She laid across the bed, relishing the joy of anticipation on Steve's face. She came to bring a priceless gift - and the giving of that gift would be her own reward.

It would be a moment to change his life.

His long suppressed teenage fantasy was laid out before him in silky smooth skin. Redemption at last! pounded Steve's heart. What a glorious - and dangerous - feeling to believe in himself. Never before had any soul accepted his naked desires. The universe was at his fingertips. Anything was possible! Had he wildly shortchanged his life all these years? Without realizing it, he whispered a realization, "God loves me."

But other voices spoke too.

Mom and Dad wanted to know what in the heck was he doing. Father Tim too. And his wife's parents at the Bible college, what would they say at the sight of this towering erection for life? Have you been lying to us, Steve? Why aren't you at home? No more Steve the Good Boy who lived for others, but rather he'd be labeled Steve the Selfish Bastard. You can't just do what you want! People will see you for what you really are!

"I can't do this," he deflated. "It's wrong."

"What? Are you kidding me? Look at you! Tell me you don't want me!"

"It's dishonest to do this."

"It's dishonest not to do this."

"I have to be strong. I can't give in."

"Giving in is strong. Doing what you want is strong. Do you want to die a little boy?"

He replied with a quote meant to please ears not his own. "Lead me not into temptation but deliver me from Christ." Steve did not notice his Freudian slip.

A shocked seductress was stunned by the stupidity. People like this still exist? Haven't they all died off yet? If not, they sure as hell will.

"You know what? I'm an idiot. I was a fucking moron to believe in you!" She dressed as she steamed. She stood face to face with him on her way out. "You know what? You blew it. You had your chance and you fucking blew it. Go home to your sniveling wife and your sniveling life, boy. You're beyond hope. You're fucking pathetic."

"I resisted temptation," he meekly protested to the slamming hotel door. And the room went dark.


In his car on the way home, the propaganda campaign swung into full force. See? I knew a woman like that would never want me. I did right. I know I did. I can confess this! Maybe I'll even be a hero. Father Tim will congratulate me. They'll be mad because I was weak - but I came through in the end! This proves my love is true. Yes, yes it does. What was that joke that pained me so much? Oh yeah: "What do you call Pharaoh's wife after she repents? Divorced!" God that one hurt - but I beat it now. Who can contest my faithfulness? Man, I feel like total shit right now, this is horrible. But all I need is one person to say I did good and life will have meaning again.

But it was an empty house he was driving home to. His wife, hoping to break her lifelong addiction to approval, had moved out and moved on. It had gotten to the point where simply having a body next to her at night was not enough. For wasted years she fed at the trough of companionship, ignoring its increasingly bitter taste. Until one day she found nothing left and asked herself why. That voice - that voice that hounded her for years, the one she demonized in the night - she finally let overtake her and fearfully listened to its horrible truth: marriage has no benefit if you're with the wrong person - in fact, it's a liability. No longer could she feign the role of the happy prostitute.

To the end, the self-professed moral man held tight to his lies of holiness - and he cried till the end of time.

Trust me.

So Lord, Won't You Buy Me A Lexus SUV?

[This is my entry for an essay contest sponsored by Lexus at Open Salon (They refused to let Lexus see it)]
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I see this is some sort of oh-fish-ill contest so I'll guess I'll have lay off the dirty words like shit, fuck and Republicunt. Just let me spit out my cigarette, tuck in me shirt and straighten me back so I can writes me a proper essay out here on the sidewalk! There, that's better. Now all I have to do is figure out what the fuck heck a "sustainability issue" is. For me, it's how long can I sustain this 40 oz bottle before I have to hike down to the 7-11 for another. I can tell you one thing though, I sure would be sustained a whole lot better if I made that trip in a Lexus!

Hey Lexus, how many aluminum cans does it take to make a car payment? I wonder if they'll accept the Homeless Alternative Financing Plan??

Ah well, I guess I better get my mind off carjacking and on to figgering what is The Top Priority For The Country! (Li'l ol' me gonna do all that!) Believe it or not, there's actually lots of talk in the day labor queue about what all needs to be done. Most think Obama is just as full of shit bull as the rest of 'em only Obama don't even know it! But most of the ideas I hear ain't exactly in the vein of Kennedy's "What can you do for your country?" It's more like, "Oh, hell, we're going down the toilet, grab what you can." I know that's where my money is.

But it seems to me right obvious what we ought to do. I mean, it scares me ya even gotta ask! When you go off half-cocked and shoot the neighbor's kid dead just 'cause ya want what he's got inside his house, well Lord a-Mighty, I think ya oughts to at least make an apology. Tell your neighbor you's sorry and how some evil voice lead you astray and you been half outta your mind and you don't know what got in ya but you for sure won't let it happen again and you'll work the rest of your life to heal your neighbor's abode. Is that not the decent thing to do after a resource war?


I guess no one takes the Good Book serious. I mean, if ya don't got your head right with ball, don't matter how much ya worth cuz you gonna screw it up come crunch time. But most folks think diff'rent. They think we can fool the Big Guy in the sky if we makes up lies like saying the neighbor had a gun and was gonna shoot us - or that maybe the neighbor didn't have no right to live at all! I didn't know we was that smart. Yup, the Good Book says to come clean but all I hear is how we oughtta do it again which I guess is our way of sayin' we done nothing wrong the first time. Actually - now I think about it - what I hears most is silence.

I know I's dumb and ornery and my main hankering in life is to crawl into my next bottle of beer, so I guess that's why I'm so outta step with you folks in your fine homes and fine cars. I mean, you got all the stuff so you must be way smarter than me. Seems ever'one but me thinks you can break faith with the truth and still have a future. Oh heck, what do I know - a guy passing by in a fancy SUV just shot me the bird (fyi, it was an Acura). And I had me shirt tucked in and everything.