Tuesday, September 30, 2008

Sacrificial Bash

Dear Campbell,

I tried to kill Chris last Thursday at the Dog & Duck pub. I failed, but I think my failure was in my method: mind control. It was more of a persuasion of deadness from my mind to his. I’m sorry, Campbell, but I had to stop after several attempts because my vision started dimming and my fingertips got cold. I did make him pee though, twice. I’ll keep trying.

Your Servant,

C

Sunday, September 28, 2008

Hanoi Hilton IX

Well I met with that lawyer boy as scheduled, and even though all my friends keep telling me that I did well, I can’t help but feel that it was a complete disaster. I tried backing out at the last minute because one of Pinko’s idiot colleagues had hosted a New Age Indian dinner party in Sedona, and after eating markedly un-American food, my stomach was making questionable sounds that lasted from Wednesday well into Saturday. I actually broke a sweat trying to hold back my bodily fluids. And, in addition to standing in a perpetual cloud of gastrital farts, I was forced to avoid looking at the man during our entire debate because when I first got to my podium, some prankster had printed all my prearranged notes over this image:

The man’s physical resemblance to the Muppet “Beaker” was so sudden and profound that I was afraid if I looked at him, I’d burst out laughing and simultaneously fill my pants with half-digested Indian lentils. Cindy would have killed me because all my jockeys were dirty, and I was wearing a pair of her favorite “change of life” dainties. It was a very stressful 90 minutes.
Pinko thinks I was avoiding eye contact because of the stupid yarn he’d spun about how in today’s politics, direct eye contact with a Negroman is a sign of aggression, and as reparation, I could legally be assaulted after the debate but only with a quarter foot of “black myth.” What a liar.

Thursday, September 25, 2008

Campbell, I'm on bended knee.

Dear Campbell,

I’ve been thinking about the condition of our love, and since you haven’t responded to my last correspondence (is it still called correspondence when you’re not writing back?), I say congratulations to you. You’ve called my bluff and will be pleased to know that I’m taking you back sans conditions.

As a show of allegiance and for both calling you a MILF and suggesting that you thought you were too good for me, I intend on removing Chris’ head and dissolving his brain with a ceremonial Egyptian formula for mummification, known to my family since the time of the Moorish conquest of Iberia. You know what I mean, baby.
I’m sorry for threatening your kid too.

Endlessly,

C

Tuesday, September 23, 2008

Hanoi Hilton VIII

Yesterday was the first day of fall, and I gotta say, it couldn't have come sooner. It's been what I call a "jungle summer" in the A.Z., and no, Alan Colmes of Fox's Hannity and Colmes, "jungle summer" has nothing to do with the negroes. At my buddy Joe's advisement, I've gone to great lengths to jettison the term "colored" from my vocab. He's a jew. It's been hard though because grandaddy McSchickelgruber used it a lot in reference to the American cultural invasion, and I can't help but enjoy a fond reminiscence when the word rolls off my tongue. "Cuh-lerd." Beautiful!
I'm going to have to explain some of the things I've been talking about to some negro lawyer this Friday. When an advisor told me that, I was like, "Lawyer?! Am I in trouble or what?" and immediately fell on my catch-all POW story. He explained to me that the colored guy, who wants my job, is a lawyer from Harvard and that he hoped I'd been reading the prep emails about the fundamentals of our economy because the man is a minority, and our women are at stake. Christ, I'm more worried now about having one of my increasingly frequent "senior moments" and calling him colored, than I am about not really knowing why I have to be there. Pinko suggests I drink a cup of regular instead of decaf coffee and skip the Viagra as I had originally planned.
I told Sarah that I think I'll do okay as long as I know she's in the audience somewhere, cheerleading for me. She was sitting Indian style on the kitchen floor, covering her left hand with an equally distributed layer of mayonnaise and didn't hear me. I said it again, but she was very focused, so I just stared at her a minute and then reminded her not to eat her hand.
Two more days until Friday.

Saturday, September 20, 2008

I Am

I suffered a horrible moment of self truth today: I am not an existentialist. I’m reading Jean-Paul Sartre’s Existentialism Is a Humanism and while so much of it affirms my terrible sense of despair and abandonment (despite Sartre’s defense that those two things are not necessarily negative perspectives (how horrible to have a life perspective called ‘despair’)), I can’t accept the fundamental doctrine of “existence preceding essence” in regards to human nature. Sartre says that if there is human nature than there is a predetermined guideline over human action and essence precedes existence in the same way the function of a kitchen knife is conceived before it is created. If the knife cuts someone, it is because a knife is sharp and used to cut. That is its nature, so to speak. But “man,” Sartre says, “first exists: he materializes in the world, encounters himself, and only afterward defines himself. If man...cannot be defined, it is because to begin with he is nothing. He will not be anything until later, and then he will be what he makes of himself. Thus, there is no human nature since there is no God to conceive of it.” While I agree that God is not the designer of humanity or its nature, I still can’t shake my understanding of biology. Genetically, if mother and father have blue eyes, baby probably will too. That is neither human nature nor essence preceding existence, but if we apply the same mechanics to genetic variation, we can assign certain behavior to specific genes and actually know what this person’s personality could potentially be like, like separated twins with the same mannerisms. Is that not predefined, at least biologically? So much of my despicable behavior, I’ve happily excused as the dominant cocktail of animalisms from my mother and father, but I’ve also held firmly to the understanding that intrinsic good or bad is my choice. In so many ways, I am man, I am beast, but in so many more, I simply am.
The more I reflect on this, counter-argue myself, and discover new questions, I can’t help but know, as I am alive, that there is no solution; I’m left alone to watch from the windows of my personal train wreck and know that I steered it there for lack of guidance and understanding of the human condition. We are alone, and humanity is doomed to always bloody its fingers, scratching at the high walls of hope.
Existentialism: “it has been blamed for encouraging people to remain in a state of quietism and despair. For if all solutions are barred, we have to regard any action in this world as futile.”
It's painful, but it embodies my quietism and despair. I guess I’m existential after all.

Existentialism Is a Humanism pp. 1-7
Jean-Paul Sartre
Existentialsim

Wednesday, September 17, 2008

Goodbye To Cambell Brown

Dear Campbell,

We’re through. After finally accepting the fact that you let another man put not only his weiner but a whole baby in you, I just can’t handle it. I don’t think the kid will ever be safe around me. I’m like a gerbil. I’ll eat the pink bastard. It all started last Friday, when my friend called you a “MILF.” At the time, I thought, “Ha! She is indeed a MILF, Chris,” but then I started to consider the terms of MILFdom. You see, for me, MILF has become interchangeable with the equally sexy “Cougar,” but as you know, that is oh so wrong.

So, we're through.

I know this is difficult for you, so I’ll offer you this solution: drown your boy; forget your old life; and become subservient to me. Think of how much more rewarding a life of semi-sexual servitude/slavery will be than a career! I’ll even allow a memento of your son, a finger bone perhaps, but that is all.

I hope you’ll give my offer serious consideration.

Always,

C

Tuesday, September 16, 2008

Hanoi Hilton VII

Pinko finally got is neck brace off. I honestly don’t think he needed it because Sarah had stepped mostly on his face with the pointy heel of her stiletto on his neck. He told me I didn’t know the first thing about doctorism and that I should stick to baby killing because that’s what I’m good at. I let it go. Commie. Speaking of, my Captain America shield finally arrived in the mail yesterday! It’s a hard plastic, not the adamantium-vibranium alloy I had hoped for, but at least it won’t break when I throw it at things. I wore it on my back all day yesterday, and I’ve been in the backyard for hours today, throwing it against the side of the house. Cindy forced me to come inside and eat a Cheese Whiz sandwich and glass of milk before I could go back out. I was really sweaty but I wouldn’t take off my suit and tie. “Cap’ wears a uniform,” I explained to Cindy. “So must I.” Sarah’s really good at long distance accuracy. Better than me in fact, and she and Pinko put aside their difference in a bi-partisan show of patriotism while the three of us played WWII. At one point, stupid Pinko almost lost it over the fence, but since it was Sarah’s turn to retrieve, she was already there and she stage dived off one of the desert landscape boulders that borders our fence and caught it in her “mantis mandibles” as Pinko calls them. I saw the whole thing in slow motion and what I remember most was the American flag pin on her lapel shining heroically in the sun. I think I’ll make her my Bucky.

Monday, September 15, 2008

I, Infidel

I enjoyed theses comments on atheism if you follow the link at the end, you can follow other links to the individual people. My favorite is the G.K. Chesterton one.

The worst moment for the atheist is when he is really thankful and has nobody to thank.
Dante Gabriel Rossetti (1828 - 1882)

I always admired atheists. I think it takes a lot of faith.
Diane Frolov and Andrew Schneider, Northern Exposure, Seoul Mates, 1991

The opposite of the religious fanatic is not the fanatical atheist but the gentle cynic who cares not whether there is a god or not.
Eric Hoffer (1902 - 1983)

I believe in God, only I spell it Nature.
Frank Lloyd Wright (1869 - 1959)

If there were no God, there would be no Atheists.
G. K. Chesterton (1874 - 1936)

I have too much respect for the idea of God to make it responsible for such an absurd world.
Georges Duhamel (1884 - 1966)

I'm a born-again atheist.
Gore Vidal (1925 - )

I once wanted to become an atheist, but I gave up - they have no holidays.
Henny Youngman (1906 - 1998)

Nobody talks so constantly about God as those who insist that there is no God.
Heywood Broun (1888 - 1939)

An atheist is a man who has no invisible means of support.
John Buchan (1875 - 1940)

I don't know if God exists, but it would be better for His reputation if He didn't.
Jules Renard (1864 - 1910)

I’m the world’s least happy atheist. I miss having religious faith, but trying to have it seems like trying to be in love with someone that you’re not in love with.
Lisa Williams, Learning the Lessons of Nixon, 03-29-08

I am an atheist, myself. A simple faith, but a great comfort to me, in these last days.
Lois McMaster Bujold

I'm still an atheist, thank God.
Luis Bunuel (1900 - 1983)

It is the final proof of God's omnipotence that he need not exist in order to save us.
Peter De Vries, "The Mackerel Plaza," 1958

When I told the people of Northern Ireland that I was an atheist, a woman in the audience stood up and said, "Yes, but is it the God of the Catholics or the God of the Protestants in whom you don't believe?"
Quentin Crisp

Religion is about turning untested belief into unshakeable truth through the power of institutions and the passage of time.
Richard Dawkins (1941 - ), "The Root of All Evil", Channel 4 UK, 2006

We are all atheists about most of the gods that societies have ever believed in. Some of us just go one god further.
Richard Dawkins (1941 - ), "The Root of All Evil", UK Channel 4, 2006

You've got your phenomenon on one hand. Concrete and knowable. On the other hand you've got the incomprehensible. You call it God, but to me, God or no, it remains just that, the unknowable.
Robin Green and Mitchell Burgess, Northern Exposure, A Wing and a Prayer, 1994

Ask a deeply religious Christian if he’d rather live next to a bearded Muslim that may or may not be plotting a terror attack, or an atheist that may or may not show him how to set up a wireless network in his house. On the scale of prejudice, atheists don’t seem so bad lately.
Scott Adams (1957 - ), The Dilbert Blog: Atheists: The New Gays, 11-19-06

Shake off all the fears of servile prejudices, under which weak minds are servilely crouched. Fix reason firmly in her seat, and call on her tribunal for every fact, every opinion. Question with boldness even the existence of a God; because, if there be one, he must more approve of the homage of reason than that of blindfolded fear.
Thomas Jefferson (1743 - 1826)

If God did not exist, it would be necessary to invent him.
Voltaire (1694 - 1778)

How can I believe in God when just last week I got my tongue caught in the roller of an electric typewriter?
Woody Allen (1935 - )

If it turns out that there is a God, I don't think that he's evil. But the worst that you can say about him is that basically he's an underachiever.
Woody Allen

To you I'm an atheist; to God, I'm the Loyal Opposition.
Woody Allen

Atheisim Quotes

Friday, September 12, 2008

Hanoi Hilton VI

I was having my 3am BM last night when I heard Sarah whimpering at the door again. Thanks to a nightly spoonful of Perdiem, I’m pretty regular these days. I initially hated waking in the middle of the night because it usually takes Cindy about three to five calls to wake up and untie me, and I generally have to go pretty badly the instant I open my eyes; however, the necessity to contain my waste has been a great muscle flexer for my sphincter, and Dr. Gutt even attested during my last “Man Smear,” as I call it, (he’s qualified) that my rectum has the gripping power of a three-year-old child. The other day, I spent a private 45 minutes trying to lift a quarter off our Spanish bathroom tiles with it, but I couldn’t. In Saigon, I saw a lady of the night pick up a Thai 10 baht coin with her vagina, but she had youth on her side as she was only about 13. Big difference. I think I’d need a thumb down there or something.
Anyway, Sarah was at the door the full 38 minutes I was on the john, and no amount of shooing would allow me any privacy. But when I realized I was out of toilet paper, Sarah came to my rescue with a small stack of coffee filters that she slid under the door. Her fingers were actually within two of the cones and she repeated a “come here” gesture with them until I realized she meant for me to use their shape to scoop instead of merely wipe. She’s amazing. I don’t believe I’ll ever go back to regular TP.

Wednesday, September 10, 2008

Mistress Anchorlady

Dear Campbell,

I was watching your show, “Campbell Brown’s Election Center” and decided mid-way through that I wasn’t physically worthy of your graces, so I started doing pushups. Admittedly, it’s been a long while since I did anything more than swim for a few minutes at a time at Barton Springs Pool (a place I’ll take you to some time), so I had to do a series of “girl pushups” in order to warm my muscles up enough for man ones. I was still glad to be getting exercise, however small, and repeatedly looked toward the TV for inspiration. I’m sorry to say that more often than not, I was met with the porky image of Roland Martin, sandwiched in a panel between Bay Buchanan and Jeffrey Toobin, and I finally stopped. Doesn’t Roland remind you of a caterpillar? He reminds me of a caterpillar.

Affectionately,

C

Tuesday, September 9, 2008

The End is Near...

Though this has nothing to do with what I've been writing on my blog, I thought I'd share it anyway.
This is the best article I've seen on the new super collider in Switzerland. Starting tomorrow, international scientists will begin speeding subatomic particles to eventual lightspeed, smash 'em together and create a mini big bang. All this is an attempt to understand the origins of everything. It's pretty exciting, but this is also the first article I've read that plays down the fact that no one really knows what the effects will be. Many theorize the little bang will create a bunch of tiny black holes and swallow up the earth and are trying to sue CERN into stopping until more research can be done. I guess we'll see.

Monday, September 8, 2008

Hanoi Hilton V

Pinko was in my room again and I know he was going through my collector issues of Oui. I’m sure of it this time, for three reasons:
1) The footlocker with all my CCR stickers on it was unlocked and my old POW boxer trunks, the ones that still smell like Lao, looked as though they’d been moved but carefully replaced.
2) I found crumb traces of his animal crackers on my side of the bed.
3) When I turned on the television set, the station was showing a reality show on VH1. Cindy and I stopped watching VH1 when the “I Love the 80s” program slanderized the boy actor Scotty Schwartz, of The Toy, for participating in a porno movie. The Toy was a damn hard act to follow. The man tried. VH1 should have stayed out of his business.
I didn’t wait for Pinko to offer an explanation when he and Cindy returned from Pineapple Express. I just went at him with my arms out. The whole ordeal was a little humiliating at first because I couldn’t catch him, and he even ran backward, taunting me by singing the theme song to “The Munsters.” Cindy was whining at me to stop, and over all the commotion, I kept shouting, “Stay out of my stuff!” I was on the verge of frustrated tears and my left arm was starting to tingle when Sarah popped up from behind one of our Italian sofas and foot-swept Pinko onto his back. I was so surprised that I stopped shuffling toward him and just stared. Sarah had stepped on his neck and bared her teeth down at him. She looked at me and put her thumb sideways like an executioner. Cindy fainted onto the polar bear-skin rug that the Palins had given us as a gift and I raised both my thumbs as high as my arms would allow. She stepped off Pinko, straightened her pantyhose, and walked back into our pretend Oval Office. After about ten seconds I could hear my old word processor tapping away.
Pinko sat up Indian-style and held his throat with two hands. I mumbled another curse at him and nudged Cindy’s high heels until she groaned and I went in my room.

Altruism versus Competition

I was arguing with a woman at work today (for the second time) about the nature of humanity. She's Peruvian and holds a doctorate in sociology. I'm just observant.
On one side, the argument was that humans are naturally predisposed to peace, generosity and altruism. On the other side, humans, as animals, are in constant social and biological competition, a condition that lends itself to violence.
She called my opinion "very American," and I almost choked her. I thought I'd be less pissed blogging about it. I'm not.

Thursday, September 4, 2008

Hanoi Hilton IV

I was swimming with Sarah at the Baltimore mansion yesterday when I noticed something I hadn’t seen before. Cindy had left two hours before because she had a scheduled hair tonic treatment, and even though we had a aide there mixing mojitos, at the pool bar, I could tell Cindy didn’t want to leave me alone with her. I don’t blame her. Sarah’s a proven child-bearer, a good ole “Missus,” and she’s always showing Pinko how well she handles kitchen cutlery. She’s the original homemaker. A man’s dream! She has great spontaneity too. She’s like a younger me with lady parts. A Maverickette. When she arrived at the house, she hadn’t planned on swimming and didn’t pack a swimming jumper, so she just set her Blackberry on Cindy’s lounge chair and jumped into the pool, wearing her skirt, suit jacket and high heels! She looked so happy, dog-paddling in the deep end with her shoulder pads puffing around her smile. It’s natural that Cindy’s jealous.
Anyway, what I noticed yesterday is that Sarah’s always giving me this strange insect-type look, like she's seeing into my brain. I can actually feel it on the back of my head sometimes, the way you can feel you're not the only man in dark prison hole. I'm pretty sure it’s a “jump my bones” sort of look, but she has these big dark eyes, and to be honest, it’s a little unsettling when she stares at me like that.
I confided my bug-sex-theory to Doctor Pinko, and he called her a praying mantis and said she’s more likely to gnaw on my bones than to jump them. He keeps telling me that “Sarah looks crazy” and that I’d better hire a food taster if she’s going to be around after November 4th. “You should know, Commie,” I said. Check one off for the Mav.

Wednesday, September 3, 2008

Oh Campbell

Dear Campbell,

I wrote a poem for you while I was at work today. Here it is:

Brown hair like baby poo,
White teeth like Elmer’s glue,
Fancy clothes and makeup too,
Oh Campbell, I love you.


It's a complex
aaaa quatrain, and I'm pretty much done with it, but I might add more and regift it to you on Valentine’s Day or your birthday or something. I still want to mention your big eyes and skin tone, and I really want to get the word “screw” in there somewhere.

Love,

C

Monday, September 1, 2008

Hanoi Hilton III

I finally picked me up a campaign broad! She’s a looker too, brown hair and black frame glasses. Cindy went apey when she found out I signed on a young brunette who can reach things for me instead of her. This gal’s 44. A good 11 years younger than the ole ball and chain. She lives in Alaska too. I love that country. “She can keep an eye on those low-down Ruskies from way up there,” I had told Cindy, but I was really watching Pinko to see if I got a rise of him. He was playing “The Number of the Beast” on Guitar Hero, and didn’t take his eyes off Cindy’s LCD, but I still think he heard me because he messed up. Thank God too. He almost beat my high score.
I don’t know what it is about this girl, Sarah, but I feel 60 years old when we’re together. Maybe it’s because she’s a little dumber than Cindy, and I don’t have to hear continuous back-talk from her. I love that. She understands me too. On the plane to Minneapolis, an aide pissed me off (for the second time) when he lectured me on my use of the word, “colored.” I was furious and would have boxed his ears if Sarah hadn’t brought me a warm bottle of Saigon Export and softly hummed my favorite Connie Francis tune, “Where the Boys Are,” until I fell asleep.
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