When STRONG means something else.

   I don't remember New Yorkers creating a backlash every time a picture of Osama Bin Laden graced the cover of a magazine when talking about 9/11. The current situation between Bostonians and Rolling Stone magazine is akin to muslims being outraged over images of their prophet being portrayed in a Danish cartoon. That's the Muhammad guy to all you Christians.

   Remember making fun of other cultures because they got so angry over a simple cartoon?

       Heeeeeere's the pitch....

Dinner with Stephen

     I am officially swearing off Stephen King for his latest tirade that will most certainly convince his lesser self-thinking fans into believing bad math. The government he ridicules for not taxing more is the same government misspending the dollars they already extort from us. Make them feel noble for taking more than they need from those who worked hard to get what they have. I'm sick of these fucking hippies with their t-shirts, sports coats, and dad jeans deciding what to do with my money. You're not cool. Go fuck yourself.

      I apologize if it seems a little harsh to bash a bestselling author so directly. Perhaps the Coke bottle lenses have betrayed him. Perhaps it was just an instance of the Maine public school system's world renowned math program rearing it's empty head. I'm from Maine, so I can say that. Before my classmates race to our home state's defense, I would like to remind them of the year we were taught geometry by people's moms and the fucking bus drivers. Go ahead. Try me.

      Here's some math I learned by reading books (assumably not written in Maine;most assuredly not written by Stephen King):

      Let's say the standard tax is 10% for everybody. It's not. Anyone lucky enough to get a raise should know well the pain of the government's dick burrowing further in your ass as a hearty congratulation for leaping into a new tax bracket. If you were unaware of different tax brackets, don't let me interrupt your JERSEY SHORE marathon.

      Anyways…10% tax. That means for every dollar you make, you pay a dime to the government. Make ten dollars, you pay a dollar. Hundred bucks means you pay ten bucks, and so on. All the way up to that guy making a million bucks. He'd be paying the same tax you were. 10 cents for every dollar earned. Seems fair.

      But not according to Stephen King or Obama. Listen close to any speech about taxes, and over and over again, Barack will say the wealthy should pay what's fair. Should pay a LARGER percentage of their earning because they make a LARGER amount of money. It made complete sense to a friend of mine when we had this talk.

      "Of course the rich should pay more. They make more money."

      When I threw out the 10% example, his eyes dulled a bit. No surprise. We went to the same school. The discussion slowly dissolved into a ping pong match about the government, and it always does. The United States (even the world) faces problems so deeply rooted into the ground, the air, the very nature of our existence, sometimes people start blaming some of the limbs for not providing enough shade, using too much water, hogging too much sunlight. But nobody wants to cut the fucking tree down, Because then nobody has the tree and we can't imagine living without it. Life without the tree would be like life without Hot Pockets. Hell on Earth.

      When Stephen King bitches about not paying enough taxes, the natural response is to tell him he's more than welcome to throw in as much extra dough as will make him feel better. Apparently that Band-Aid is not enough to cover Stevie's boo boo. He wants everybody to pay, no, to WANT to pay as much as he WANTS to pay. King's idea of self-betterment is for everyone to give until it hurts. Too bad most of the pain threshold is being preoccupied with the aforementioned cock to the ass.

      It's like going to dinner with that asshole who orders the 2000 Bordeaux to go along with his veal medallions while you and your friends get burgers and shakes. The bill comes and the asshole is the first to suggest you split the check evenly. You try to tell him that he's the one that ordered the expensive shit because he wanted it, but he balks because obviously true friends don't bicker over pennies. Everyone begrudgingly pays more because one person decided he needed to show off.

     Fuck you and your veal medallions, King. I'm not paying for anything more than I need too. Hell, to take this analogy further, I'm being FORCED to pay for a hamburger deluxe at Uncle Sam's Bar and Grill whether I wanted the fucking thing or not. Very likely, I'll never even see the food I paid for because some asshole didn't bring any burger money, but looked hungry and probably needed it more than I did. I'll be lucky if I get a french fry.

      That's okay, I tell myself. I've gained a couple pounds and don't need the hamburger anyways. My digestive system would only turn it to poop and then I'd have to figure out how to get it past that IRS penis I have lodged in my lower intestines.

Unoccupied Hands are the Devil's Protest Sign Holders

OCCUPY WALL STREET seems to be the trend these days. I'm sure Martin Luther King Jr dreamed of a day when illegals and white kids with dreadlocks could coexist peacefully in a public park shantytown. Starbucks and Goya products united.

I understand the concept of protest. As an American, if something has wronged you, offended you, oppressed you, you have every right to assemble with like-minded folk and let your protests be heard. Usually you should have a reason to protest and perhaps a reasonable goal. But this isn't required, so don't pack up your tents yet.

As near as I can tell, people are mad about other rich folk having more money than them. It's not fair, some say, that they should have so little while the rich have so much. I keep hearing the term ONE PERCENT. Assuming that anyone who'll mess with percentages has a strong grasp of math so I'd like to make a suggestion.

OCCUPY JOB

Work more. If you get paid $8 an hour and at the end of a twenty hour workweek, you're not happy with the $160 fruit of your labor (before taxes), try working 30. A magical thing happens. All of the sudden, that $160 check transforms itself into a $240 check. Witchcraft? Hell, naw, baby! That's math!

Not satisfied with that?

OCCUPY SECOND JOB

I've heard of this elusive creature called a SECOND job! The possibilities are endless. But then I'll never have time for fun, you say. Here I thought all the unhappiness stemmed from money. Perhaps protest a maternity ward. Those little fucks have a whole life ahead of them. Certainly they could spare a couple years.

Justin Bieber smells

There's a huge Justin Bieber cologne/perfume display at Macy's. Scientifically formulated to attract bubble-headed teenage girls. I may have to buy some if the cotton candy vodka stops working.

Banana Malfunction

Maybe those emails are right...

The Ballad of Phuong Ly Qui

I love recycling day. Not because I'm an Earth nut or anything. I heard a rumor that they bring all your rinsed organic almond flax seed butter containers to the same landfill used rubbers go. They don't recycle those. At least not in my neighborhood.

I moved to a city where little old Asian women scour the landscape like carpenter ants on trash day, ripping open garbage bags looking for aluminum cans with a 5 cent deposit. 20 of those babies is a buck. A full stolen shopping cart renders...I don't fucking know. I never played the HOW MANY GUMBALLS game, and I could care less about GUESS CHAN'S CANS (I put the over/under on Bs. Broads are way flat.)

The fun started when the city got rid of the designated plastic/glass/paper green buckets. One day, a gigantic flip top bucket showed up. No more sorting, they say. The recycling bin poses a problem for the average four foot bottle snagger. It wasn't unusual to see a pair of two dollar sandals wiggling out of the trash.

When the 'no-sort' policy hit, the recycling dude's productivity went through the roof. All he had to do was drive up to the curb to utilize a forklift device, catapulting the contents into a large flatbed. Suddenly, the ants are on a time crunch. It's amazing to see how fast ants can sort when a recycling truck's on their ass.

Reminds me of JOHN HENRY.

Bumwrites

Did anybody else know Rufus the Stunt Bum wrote a book?


I was in a BORDERS bookstore during a store closing sale (funny how even after discounts, it was one of the most expensive joints around), and I caught those unmistakable knuckle tats on the cover out of the corner of my eye. I hadn't thought about BUMFIGHTS in years. I downloaded the whole thing from Napster. After downloading a few gay porn red herrings. Napster was like a box of chocolates back then, Forrest. People loved to mislabel shit and the best thing you could hope for is that the dehabilitating viruses stayed on the screen, not on your hard drive.

Though I only read the excerpt, Rufus' memoir almost ruins the memories I had of BUMFIGHTS. You can check it out on the LOOK INSIDE feature on Amazon where he talks about this incident:



The only thing I can compare it to is when I found out Santa and FACES OF DEATH weren't real. I felt bad for enjoying it as much as I did. The shame is almost enough to keep me from accepting a copy of BUMFIGHTS from anyone who may have it laying around.

hint hint