I wonder if this is a movie about eating hot dogs?
Writer’s Note: Today’s blog contains language some readers may find objectionable. However, if you’ve been reading my stuff regularly, this will probably seem like just another routine post.
It was an accident.
I swear. An accident.
While sitting in my hotel room alone late at night with the remote control in hand, I must have punched the wrong number.
It can happen to anyone, right?
Instead of watching “Nazi UFO Conspiracy” a riveting one-hour documentary that I’d been anxiously staying up for most of the night, rather than hitting channel “282,” I mistakenly pressed “582.” I found it odd that The History Channel would be running a show titled, “She Can Take 13 Inches.” For some odd reason, I don’t think this show was about a ruler.
I must admit, the graphics were jaw dropping. Oops. Maybe that’s a bad visual. Never mind.
I mean seriously, who writes this stuff? Did someone actually go to college, work their ass off, earn a degree in English literature, and then end up in a career writing plot descriptions for porn movies?
Curiosity piqued, I really want to know — does the writer for Direct TV actually watch all these porno movies first, and then craft his clever narrative? I would think in this case, the writer could wing the narrative, just a little. How about a one-size-fits-all movie description, a sort of Huggie blanket for porn aficionados — “People fucking.” That would pretty much cover all the bases, wouldn’t it?
ALERT! Be advised the following items, consumer products, programs, and personalities are NOT permitted at the Dalla residence. Any guest who shows up with any of these items will be denied entry. For further explanations, see “footnotes” below:
1. Merlot (wine)
2. Light beer (of any kind)
3. Any broadcast, likeness, or product endorsed by ANY one of the following — Britney Spears, Lindsey Lohan, Jennifer Lopez, Jessica Simpson, or any member of the Kardashian family
5. Any product manufactured or branded by Dell Computers
6. Any item connected in any way (hats, t-shirts, bags, etc.) to either Full Tilt Poker or Ultimate Bet.
7. Soft drinks of any kind (Coke, Pepsi, etc.)
9. Anything written or published by Washington Post columnist Charles Krauthammer
When it comes to political chastity, the Republican Party has no business wearing a white gown.
Oh sure, last week they put on a beautiful wedding. It was lovely. The bride resembled a flower of innocence. She escorted the perfectly-pressed Mitt Romney down the aisle, all the way up to the altar of their party’s presidential nomination.
But before reluctantly tying this uneasy knot and finally settling on the class nerd, the couple went through an ugly courtship period. While dating Mitt, these same Republicans pretty much screwed the entire football team on the side.
Indeed — before being forced to tie the bonds of politial matrimony, these same Republicans slept with just about every living and breathing soul — both in and out of their class. They sucked every cock. Every hole was luciously filled. Their pre-convention gang bang included men and women, Blacks and Whites. Call it an orgy of desperation.
Let’s go back and look at this bride’s recent past, shall we? A warning — it’s not pretty.
LOVE INTEREST #1 — Before the Republican Primaries began last summer, party faithful courted none other than Donald Trump. Incredibly, the party classroom was so void of a real charmer, they had to look way down the hall where they found an egotistical rich kid, who was only too happy to enjoy a quick romp with the cheerleader. After Trump had his way and milked a few months of cheap publicity out of the relationship, he pretty much spurned her further advances and went back to being the class jerk.
In case you missed the news, a sick fuck named Sun Myung Moon died today.
Moon was best known not only as the creator of the Unification Church, but for claiming to the entire world that he is/was the messiah.
People, I am not making this up.
That’s right — some crazy fuck living over in South Korea actually woke up one day when he was in his 20s and thought he was on par with Moses, Jesus, Mohammed, and Donald Trump. Seems this Korean guy was pretty powerful, or at least was persuasive as hell, since he ended up with so many adoring followers. Estimates are that Moon had about seven million believers in his line of bullshit.
Moon’s millions of fantatics became better known as “Moonies,” an appropriate sticker since just about all of them might as well have been living on the moon. The accounts of what this beast did to his devotees are well-publicized, so I won’t launch into a lengthy tirade here — as appetizing at that propsect might be. However, all one must do to measure the degree of brainwashing that this deranged man had on disciples is to recall the horrific mass marriages that he and his church arranged.
That’s right — arranged.
In a ritual right out of the Middle Ages, the Unification Church held mass “weddings” with stadiums full of followers, joined in matrimony by a sick fuck standing at the podium. Many of the young people who came to the ritual to be married at the instruction of this wacko church had never met the person they were about to marry. You can imagine the pain and misery of such a medieval practice. Again, this is all documented.
A few years ago, this man wed 360,000 couples in one mass ceremony. That’s not a typo. 360,000! Imagine getting stuck with that fucking bill. What did they do for a wedding cake — invade fucking China?
How’d you like to be the guy who owns the tux rental shop down the street from the stadium? That guy must have made a killing!
So, might there be any possibility that this self-described “messiah” really was who he says? You know — the Korean commoner born when his nation was under Japanese rule, the man burned through two wives, the man who evaded his taxes, the man who served time in prison, the man with a child out of wedlock, and the man who is alleged to have built his vast empire by getting his followers to fork over all their money to the church? Out of six billion people on the planet, this was God’s “chosen one?”
If Moon is who he claims to be, then I’m in some serious trouble. Or, at least my soul is in serious trouble. It’s going to end up looking like a charred sirloin at the Outback Steakhouse. But hey, I’ll take my chances. Make mine medium-rare, Rev. Moon.
If all this sounds mean spirted, I do not mean it to be so. But when some joker claims to be “God” and then wrecks the lives of millions of susceptible people with his preposterous teachings about the world and who he is, such a death does not desere respect nor sanctity. Instead, this deranged fuck’s life and mass charade should be exposed for what it is.
Rev. Sun Myung Moon, may you not rest in peace. May all the lies you have propagated upon millions be buried forever.
Just when I was convinced Las Vegas had pretty much become like everywhere else, I was reminded once again that this city is a very unique place.
Yesterday, I renewed my car registration. In Nevada, all vehicles must be smog checked once per year. This means, you drive your car to local station where they run a series of diagnostic tests. Sort of like Medicare, only it’s your car that gets a government-mandated check up, instead of you.
The cars are hooked up to a machine with a bunch of wires and switches and tested for emissions. What this really means is — the state and the auto merchants get to shake you down for $20 a pop, per car, each and every year.
On the west side of Las Vegas, I pulled into what’s called a “smog station.” Inside a small kiosk was a man who looked pretty much like you would imagine when I say the words “auto mechanic.”
“Need a smog check, today?” the man barked out as rolled down my window.
“Absolutely,” I replied.
As I passed my car keys over to the auto technician (that’s what they’re called now – “auto technicians”) I couldn’t help but notice a white sign plastered above the entrance.