Monday, May 22, 2006

I Totally Fell

It’s not often that I write about my personal life on the ol’ blog. In fact, you’re more likely to see a chupacabra butt-fucking Bigfoot on the side of the extraterrestrial highway than to read anything about my personal life on this blog. If I wanted people to ask me how my day was when I got home from work, I’d get married, let my wife’s sister move in, and beat the shit out of both of them for asking stupid questions every night.

Anyway, over the weekend I did what many uninformed people would consider pathetic. I, however, strive for greatness in everything I do; so I was quite proud when I got so drunk, I fell down and hurt myself.

Let me just preface this by saying I barely remember anything that happened. I remember doing my absolute best to drink enough alcohol to black out a blue whale, and I remember mental snapshots of what it looked like to fall over while being drunk enough to make Ted Kennedy look like a straight-edge kid.

Thankfully, a buddy of mine was there to try and help me stand up. I mean, I think he was. I guess I can’t really be sure. For all I know it could have been a raccoon. I must again state that I was drunk enough to have the belligerent balls to challenge an entire country to a fight—I’m talking to you, Venezuela.

The point is, I like to drink. And I damn near outdid myself over the weekend. Of course, by “outdid” I mean nearly killed myself. It began with Steel Reserve and ended with the better part of a sixty-four-ounce bottle of Early Times whiskey. I don’t say it often, but, dude, I kick ass.

At what point did I realize I was too drunk to smoke a cigarette and stand at the same time? About the same time I hit the ground and nearly broke every bone on the right side of my body. I’m not even joking when I say the entire right side of my body is black and blue. This includes the side of my head, which, very possibly, was quite concussed the night in question. I could have had a car battery attached to my left nut, shocking the hell out of me, and I still wouldn’t have been able to stay awake. Fuck, I was practically embalmed.

I wasn’t the only casualty of excessive drinking that night. When I fell, I broke a chair. From what I remember, it was pretty funny. I certainly remember laughing. I think my friend tried several times to help me off the ground before finally succeeding. I can’t be sure, though. I’m lucky I remember my own name.

Writing this (Editor’s Note: 5-21-06), I’m still pretty drunk. I look like Dante’s hell, left-over, frozen, thawed, and microwaved. Do I regret it? Fuck, no! I only wish I would have been sober enough to use my breathalyzer to see just how drunk I was. I think I would have short-circuited the damn thing.

It’s rare that I get that drunk even though I drink all the time, and I’m quite proud of it. Even though I’m in pain—everything from my ankle to my earlobe is cut and scabby—I’m pretty proud of myself. I know I only fell over, even though it looks more like I ran, jumped, and then slid on the ground for twenty feet. “Achieving greatness in drinking” is probably what my tombstone will say. Then again, I’ll probably just be cremated. God knows I won’t have a difficult time burning.

To the People of New Orleans:

Congratulations, you stupid, butt-fucking retards. You re-elected one of the most incompetent jackasses in history. Do you morons want to die? You deserve whatever happens to you from now on. And I, for one, will not donate one cent to save you from whatever disaster Nagin does nothing to protect you ingrates from. Enjoy your chocolate city. Fuck you.


Morbid Misanthrope

Wednesday, May 17, 2006

The Da Vinci Code

The Da Vinci Code isn’t even out in theaters yet, but religious types—Catholics in particular—are already pissed off about it. Many Catholic leaders in silly outfits are urging their respective flocks to avoid the blasphemous (or heretical depending on who you ask) movie like the French avoid bathing and manners.

Speaking of the French, they’re hardly raving about The Da Vinci Code at the Cannes Film Festival. Most of the Frenchies who saw the movie were blasé about the film at best. Clearly, the French are not impressed. The movie must not have contained any mimes or anti-American snootiness.

While all the brouhaha the movie is generating is mildly irritating, I am more irritated by the dumb-fucks out there who believe all the claims the book/movie makes. Yeah, it’s kind of an interesting idea, but it’s a fictional story for fuck’s sake. It’s a made-up story based on stuff that kinda’ sorta’ happened but not really. And, of course, the rest is purely conjecture, or as I call it in this case, fiction.

I remember when the book first came out. Many of the brainless simpletons I had to go to college with were saying stupid shit like, “Ohmygod! I can’t believe this. Jesus was married and had a kid!” and “Well, I knew all along that the Catholic Church was hiding shit from the rest of us.” If you’re referring to pedophilia, you’re right. If, on the other hand, you’re referring to a bloodline started with Jesus and Mary Magdalene, you’re probably nuttier than Elton John’s breath.

A lot of the stuff in the book is bullshit. For example, The Dossiers Secrets, which supposedly contain a genealogy of Merovingian royalty and a whole mess of secret information about the Priory of Sion, are phonier than a Bill Clinton apology. Pierre Plantard, an anti-semitic, French wingnut who believed he was the true king of France, made it all up (with the documented help of a few other people). The Dossiers Secrets was a major source of information for the book Holy Blood, Holy Grail, which, in turn, was one of Dan Brown’s sources when he wrote The Da Vinci Code.

Don’t even get me started on Da Vinci’s The Last Supper. Mary Magdalene is not in the painting. Anyone who has taken even a remedial art history class can tell you the figure in the painting is John; he is often portrayed looking more feminine than Boy George on heavy doses of estrogen (see Fra Angelico's The Last Supper). And all that claptrap about the “V” or “sacred feminine” between Jesus and “Mary Magdalene” in the painting is rubbish only female scholars desperate to validate their silly feminist views through “strong women” in history would blather about.

I appreciate conspiracy theories as much as if not more than the next guy, but I’ve read about alien abductions and Chupacabra attacks with more credible evidence than The Da Vinci Code. It’s a work of fiction. There’s no mystery about it.

And while there is plenty of evidence to prove this, many people—probably because they’re jackasses—still hold on to the idea that The Da Vinci Code reveals some great secret that has been covered up by the Catholic Church for thousands of years. All in all, The Da Vinci Code holds about as much water as a broken dime-store quirtgun.

But for all the doubting Thomases out there that still think The Da Vinci Code is more than a work of fiction, I went to the source and asked Jesus if He married and conceieved a child with Mary Magdalene. Here’s what He had to say:

Thursday, May 04, 2006

Abu Musab al-Zarqawi is a Pussy

A video has just been released that features the confused, bearded bitch, Abu Musab al-Zarqawi, trying—and failing—to properly operate a gun. The video also shows Zarqawi wearing “American tennis shoes.” Apparently we’re decadent Western infidels that deserve to die, but our tennis shoes are good enough for cowardly terrorists who know more about making stupid little videos than firing guns. Zarqawi is such a pussy.

Anyway, I’ve seen the video a few times, but I couldn’t understand a word Zarqawi was saying. It’s obvious he couldn’t fire his gun without the help of one of his butt buddies, but I wanted to know exactly what was being said. So, in the interest of good journalism, I tracked down a transcript of the video.

Video Transcript
Zarqawi: You sinful American pig-dogs will face my wrath! Through me, Allah will express his mighty vengeance! You will feel my righteous indignation with each bullet that rips through your infidel flesh!

Gun: BANG…click…click…click, click, click…

Zarqawi: What the…which one of you mask-wearing camel fuckers touched this gun? Huh? Which one of you?

Others: (Silent)

Zarqawi: Somebody better speak up otherwise I’ll chastise all of you! That’s right; you better be scared. I will strip you all naked and whip your bare asses with piss-soaked palm leaves while tickling your nuts with my beard! Well, not you, Amir; don’t think I haven’t seen the way you look at Tariq when he’s cleaning his gun.

Amir: (loosens his burgundy-colored ascot nervously)

Zarqawi: Okay, look, whatever, guys. Forget it. We’re trying to make video gold here. Allah, help us. We must focus. You (points), Jamal Hakeem al-Jafar, come over here and fix this thing!

Terrorist: (confused) Are you talking to me?

Zarqawi: No, I’m talking to Mohammad’s nine-year-old wife, Aisha. Of course I’m talking to you!

Terrorist: I am not Jamal Hakeem al-Jafar. I am Haroud Hazi al-Bin.

Zarqawi: (surprised) No shit? Then who in the infidel’s hell is Jamal Hakeem al-Jafar?

Terrorist: (waves) That would be me.

Zarqawi: I thought you were Iago Aghoul al-Ayam.

Terrorist: No, we killed him last week. I can’t remember why. Did he piss the name of god into the desert sand? No. Maybe he wiped his ass with his right hand. Is that sin punishable by death? I can never remember.

Zarqawi: Shut up! Shut up, all of you! This is too confusing. Does everyone here have al- in their names?

Terrorists: (all nod)

Zarqawi: (sigh) Here’s what we’re going to do: I’m going to call all of you al. If you’re the al I’m referring to, I will point at you. Does everyone understand? Okay, good. Now, someone get the fuck over here and help me fix this gun!

Terrorist: (fixes the gun) Dude, have you ever even fired one of these things before?

Zarqawi: For the sake of this video I’m going to ignore that little comment, Jamal.

Terrorist: I’m Haroud, sir.

Zarqawi: Shut up.

(Zarqawi fires gun, yells a bunch of unintelligible gibberish about infidels, Allah, Jihad, etc. You know the drill. They finish up the video and begin walking away.)

Terrorist: Whoa, Zarqawi! Those sneakers are tits, man!

Zarqawi: I know. With these radical kicks, I will surely score with eighty virgins when they see me in paradise!

Terrorist: You know you have to be a martyr before you can enter paradise, right?

Zarqawi: I know, I know. I’m building up to it. Now come on! For tonight, we eat couscous and dirt!